Tag: Glastonbury Festival

Don’t Impress Them Much, Online Rants at Glastonbury Line-Up!

Image: Czampal

I’m laughing, not at the Glasto lineup, but the incalculable comments of negativity it has encouraged in Facebookland. It should be said though, most disapproving remarks appear on shares of the post and not the original, and most of them were posted this morning when most ticketholders are likely at work, funding their forthcoming adventure to Pilton. Now they’re homebound, online anticipation and positivity has risen above the seething armchair critiques……

Then there is this ‘old photographs of Wiltshire’ Facebook group I recently joined, where a picture of the Barge at Honey Street was posted today with the caption, “The Barge at Honey Street, near Pewsey.” Some aging, caps-lock permanently stuck on gammon responded, “IT IS NOT PEWSEY IT IS HONEY STREET!”

If caps-lock usually implies angered shouting, and the nearest large village to Honey Street is Pewsey, perhaps it suggests how nonsensically negative and overreactive your average Facebooker has become, and how much it exists for aimlessly irritated and amateur critics to vent their general disgust over first world problems. It says more about them and the tenet of Facebook than the thing they’re mocking. This much ado about nothing is amusing though, that’s why I like this particular social media platform….

Glastonbury Festival released their main lineup poster today, and my gut reaction was similar to the priceless online onslaught of negativity in the comments. Being honest, it’s not inane, it’s not the best lineup we’ve seen, but I restrained myself from passing comment, considering it’s an age test; the older you get the less headliners you should expect to know at an event self-professed to be a festival of “contemporary” performing arts. No one online considered it might not be Glastonbury which has the problem!

And secondly, for the simple reason I’m not going anyway, and haven’t attended for twenty-four years. I wonder how many of those feeding negative comments to the pitchfork assembly are going themselves. I hope and pray it’s not many, for Glastonbury is not the place for decomposing strident and pessimistic cynics…. like me, for example!

Glastonbury is and will always be an experience, you go to Glastonbury for going to Glastonbury, not whoever happens to be on a stage you’re passing. Yeah, it’s held some massive names in the past, pre-broken Brexit Britain, but does anyone commenting have an inkling how much and how hard it is to organise something on this scale? How much work goes on behind the scenes? Far more than typing your grievance in a text box, rest assured.

I can now count the acts I’ve heard of on the annual Glastonbury poster on my fingers, even less ones I’d actually like to see, this lessens with every year Father Time takes from me, it’s an old dog new tricks scenario; I’m content with shit happens. Most of the names I’ve heard of are through my daughter’s playlist, with a sprinkling of classics like Cyndi Lauper, to whet the appetite of grumpy old bastards who might yet turn up; it’ll all come off in the wash!

I shouldn’t scratch my Uncle Albert beard and tediously spin a yarn of how I once failed to see the Mad Professor at the dance tent because of my genius navigation past the Pyramid Stage while Pulp was playing. A band who, being I was a ‘raver’ and they were ‘indie’ I wouldn’t usually beeline, but finding myself unable to gorge further through the masses, was forced to watch them, and forever became a fan through unexpected circumstance. But if I did, it would surely serve a purpose to illustrate a tale of the unexpected. Digest new things, you never know till you try. To moan this act doesn’t suit your whim is to misunderstand the concept of Glastonbury, or festivals in general. You need to open your eyes and ears to new things not just relish in the nostalgic era of your individual youth. But more importantly, the arts and entertainment industry at its knees, need you to do this more than ever before.

Yet, in this ocean of boiling ageist whimpering which is the comment section on Glastonbury’s Facebook lineup post, which one could summarise as a multitude of disgruntled whingers unlikely to even attend, who cannot accept they’re past it and are whinging for the sake of whinging, one gen-z’s unintentionally amusing comment reversed the status quo, by calling the lineup, “a load of old dinosaurs!” (Assuming they meant the acts listed and not the other commenters!) They win the internet today for standing against the grain, still bleating bollocks, but for precisely the opposite reason to everyone else, thus proving if you can’t satisfy everyone, why bother trying with anyone? Who the heck is SZA and how did they get listed above PJ Harvey? I might have to sacrifice a cute furry pet over this atrocity!

Though, in this, you should note the universal appeal Glastonbury promotes and always has. I recall the nineties when attendees foamed from the mouth at the thought Robbie Williams got up there to do his thing; youth today would hail this classic, as they would’ve done for Led Zeppelin. Because should a change of tide wipe you out or this upset you, there’s a billion retro festivals, eighties nights, tribute acts, et al, which are more niche, and likely kinder on your wallet too. Maybe take some time to research them rather than jump a bandwagon?

Yep, if Shania Twain is the calibre of Elton John or Springsteen now, a tear will undoubtedly trickle down my wrinkled cheek, but it is not my cheek Glastonbury needs to appease, neither is it the witch hunt of unsatisfied grumpy old keyboard warriors. Key here is the simple notion; Glastonbury is so much more than a main stage and congested campsite. Don’t fuss over mainstream or contemporary things if they’re only going to engulf you in flames of irritation, think of your blood pressure.

No buddy, saunter them there Somerset fields and find the bizarre, outlandish, the upcoming, the amateur, the underground, then, and only then will you understand the true ethos of Glastonbury.

Or simply retire, watch it on the telebox; you can fast forward. With a cardboard cup of Lidl cider, and undercooked hotdog. Stay home where you can take a piss behind the sofa without queuing, and maybe start a blog where, like me, you can hypocritically rant your niggles without spoiling a Facebook post! What have we becomeeeee?!

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Dulcet Tones Rock Back to Bassett!

You’re a teenage Tom Cruise, at least you wish you were, but stay with me on this! Your parents are away, you’re home alone with…

Top Tips to Survive a Muddy Glastonbury Festival

Don’t hold your breath, I’m having an Uncle Albert moment…back  in my day, which wasn’t as long ago as you whippersnappers, with your lime vapes and Taylor Shift Spottyfly playlists, might imagine, media coverage of Glastonbury was far less. TV was left up to Katie Puckrik in pigtails on Channel 4, until a couple of off years when it pissed it down…..

Bad weather has become synonymous with the world’s legendary festival, and the press rub their hands together when it happens; a golden opportunity to sensationalise a negative stereotype of counterculture and youthfulness; double-whammy.

Every media outlet known to man jumped on the bandwagon to show selective imagery of a handful of intoxicated nutjobs WWF mud wrestling in a negative light, and tarnished every reveller with the same anti-bac j-cloth. 90,000 attended Glastonbury in 1997, officially, the first year it rained for a decade, if you saw x-amount of them on the telebox and assumed everyone was at it you just marginalised thousands with a miniscule percentage, and fell hook, line and sinker for their intentional misconception.

The further rightwing their sway, the more negative they were, “look at those filthy hippies rolling in their own faeces like swine,” and misguided Daily Mail bullshit akin. The truth is, once you’re in there is no going back, and try as you might to stay clean and dry, there comes a breaking point whereby even the fussiest among us realise they’re beaten. Rarely is it up to choice, as the media might portray.

But it put the festival in the media spotlight and television upped their game to show the festival in a positive light. The festival itself prevented the travellers attending and commercialised the experience into what it is today. It was do or die. Similar to our hero desperately trying to keep dry, the Evis family had no choice.

From 89 onwards I did twelve Glastonburys and the sun had his hat on every year until 97. It had rained the week leading up to the fateful day. I put my hefty work boots by my front door while I packed the rest in my car, as I didn’t want to drive in them, and forgot them!

I was left with a pair of designer pumps with all the grip of a Spiny Softshell Turtle, and by the time I arrived at the gate I was Elvis Costello; couldn’t stand up for falling down. My first job was to aim myself, best I could, towards a stall selling wellies. The stallowner was busy and in his element; delighted to rip half my Glastonbury budget off me and a multitude of other disorganised wallies, for a pair, while the guy next door flogging sunscreen considered selling his children to medical science.

My first top tip for a muddy Glastonbury then is rather obvious and perhaps a bit mumsie, but based on a bad experience.

A stout pair of walking boots is essential, and maybe plastic carrier bags as liners. If you forget the rest make sure you don’t be like me, Torvil or Dean. The boots were gone by the time I returned home; in fairness though, they were quality Doc Martins and I did live in Swindon.

The other footwear tip is no matter how drunk you get, to take your boots off before you get inside your tent. I would imagine the once quite common nakedness at Glasto is less trendy these days as millennials tend to be prudish. So spare clothes are your friends, but don’t overpack because you have to carry that shit. But most of all, never tell your friends about your other friends, the dry clothes in your backpack, I shouldn’t have to explain why. If word gets out, one dry sock is equal to seven hundred blaggers befriending you.

Clothing in general is common sense really, a fluffy bra or propellerhead hat can be fun when the weather is on your side, but at a wet one the catwalk is swapped for survival of the fittest, practical is the new fashion. Glitter is out, pac-a-macs are in! Waterproof trozzers will make you the envy of all, even if at a sunnier Glasto you’d be laughed off the site for wearing.

If you’re the driver, take a pair of scissors and leave them in the glovebox. I did this in 98, your jeans will be caked with mud, get ’em off when you reach the car, cut them into shorts, it is easier to drive home. Otherwise you’re driving home in your undercrackers, and as a service station supply top up will be a deffo, psychologically scarring small children for life is never looked upon as a clever thing by their parents. A grade A soccer mum Karen whinging at you in the Leigh Delamere carpark while you stand in your four day old pants and a headful of post-festival blues is never welcomed.

Plastic bags have many uses, see photographic evidence of a much younger me; because at first I was afraid, I was petrified, Kept thinking I could never survive without a plastic bag by my side, but I survived and lived to tell the tale through Gloria Gaynor parodies.

Walking the site is tiring when dry, sludging through ankle-high mud is a million times worse and you need to take breaks. If no seating is available, you can’t just plonk down on the grass, you need your bag like Arthur Dent needs his towel.

Honestly, one muddy year I crowned a guy “the genius of Glastonbury,” as he duck-taped an inflatable chair, when inflatable chairs were a thing, to his torso, so wherever he went he could sit in comfort at will. I’m not advising you to do similar, merely pointing out forward thinking, for it was not without its drawbacks discovered over time, like reflating and navigation, though for altications from sharp bramble, he had a bicycle repair kit on his person, further confirming his genius.

But a genius you don’t need to be to survive a muddy Glastonbury, just common sense. Like consuming laxatives, Mexican food or baked beans prior, and ensuring you have a big clearout in the loo before you depart. Do not eat anything which might stimulate your bowels while there. Going to the loo is an experience best avoided at Glastonbury whatever the weather, at a muddy one you take your life in your own hands. You will see things you’d rather have not, things defying medical research, and you could be emotionally scarred for life. If you must go, and if possible, take a licensed therapist with you to the loo as well as a toilet roll and weapons suitable for a zombie apocalypse, and never, I repeat, never, use port-a-loos.

Timing is of the essence when deciding to poo. The later you leave it the worse it will get, a simple motto. Hedgerows and ditches can be your friends at a sunny Glasto, but avoid them like typhoid if wet, unless you happen to welcome typhoid. They are below hell itself as the last place you would want to slip into. Horrifically, I have seen it happen, observed folk laughing too, and felt sorry for the individual, but too afraid to approach them to offer a hand. You’ll be Billy-no-mates if you slip into a ditch thirty thousand drunken hooligans have taken a shit in, no one will aid your escape.

Sign up anyone with a campervan bathroom or VIP access onto your bestie list, shower them with gifts and follow them wherever they go. But, gift buying, especially breakable objects is the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas, you are not at B&M. I’ve seen record stalls selling vinyl, glass blowing workshops and various other such insane shopping options. As much as you believe your gran would like a commemorative china plate of Glastonbury, remember you could be several days before you find your tent again, and/or have to pass the main stage area while Slipknot are playing. 

The rule for a muddy Glastonbury is simple, take only what you need, buy only what you forgot to bring or realise you might meet your maker if you don’t. No one wants a three tier Victoria sponge caked in mud polluted by 210,000 nutjobs all desperate for a poo.

Now I’ve said all this, it seems like the weather is going to be alright-ish anyway, so you can forget it all….for this year, and have enough fun there for me and you. Remember, final top tip for any weather; avoid TV cameras if you’re pulling a sicky from work; your boss will be watching.