People who go to Glastonbury are mellow
souls. They need to be for the money they pay to get in. And there collecting it
all is farmer, Michael Eavis, that mellowest of men! How-de-do dude and those
mellow vibes of yours. See you at the mulled wine stall at Glastonbury. And no,
it’s definitely not made of those 4 litre plastic bombers you get at
Sainsbury’s for a couple of quid topped up with piss. The stuff’s genuine man!
You can taste the cardamom and cloves so see you at the big one man!
Okay, Glastonbury! Are you going this year?
Well better make sure your bird is taking her tampax because a leaky lady in a
small nylon tent is a recipe for, well, a perfect Glastonbury experience when it’s combined with deep
mud, having your tent robbed, buying a joint from a plain clothes policeman –
and there are large numbers on site for just that purpose who’ll take your
money then immediately arrest you for dealing, listening to the group you
really love and always wanted to hear live only something goes wrong with the
sound and can’t be fixed till tomorrow, eating vegetarian food that’s not
really veggie at all ‘cos it’s got maggots in it, oh yes and the toilets stink,
I mean really stink because the people supposed to be emptying the latrines
haven’t turned up and you’re literally sitting on shit only it’s someone
else’s. Well, ALL the above is quite okay and you don’t mind any of it because
you’re a Glastonbury person you see… and if you’re not, I mean you’re Michael
Gove with those glasses he wears these days trying hard to look like Clark Kent
in the Superman comics, well it doesn’t matter because you only go to places
like that once a year and it’s for the experience
of it really. I mean you’re only doing it once aren’t you so you can tell
your friends how much you loved it having somehow suppressed all those unsavory
memories!
And if you just happen to see Nigel Farage
there, which of course you won’t, just give him a wave and say Hi man, how yer
doing? And neither will you see Michael Gove! Nick Clegg on the other hand is a
much better possibility! You know, being Nick Clegg and showing how much he’s
in tune with everyone’s needs.That he’s easy going and mellow, and that
you can actually talk to him ‘cos that’s what he wants more than anything.
Showing people how much he likes them. That he’s not one of those Westminster
politicians after all but really and truly just like anyone else so if you run
into him maybe you can buy him a mulled wine or something very Liberal Democrat
like a salad with organic ‘leaves’ which reminds me… Exactly what kind of
people go to Glastonbury?
Well ask around. People who go there like
talking, especially if you tell them that you support the Green Party and
you’re very pro-Palestinian. No, better if you tell them you’re anti-Israel and
been busy supporting the Free the Occupied Territories Campaign! Yes, and that
you really hate UKIP and for good measure chuck in the Tories! People who go to
Glastonbury all have their definite likes and dislikes and you’ll find most are
the same. Quite a few have upmarket ambitions like doing something in IT or
that they’re already at university, most ‘doing’ politics, media studies,
psychology or something in the arts. Not many into engineering or the sciences.
Their aspirations go hand in hand with a mellow mentality and for now, for the
Glastonbury experience, they’ll tolerate the rough. Being unable to wash or
clean themselves up properly unless it’s a cold shower tap. Walking around with
crusty arses and eating shit overpriced food like stale humus that last saw a
fridge two weeks back. Everything nicely calculated to give them diarrhoea.
That’s why you need a cast iron stomach to get fifty feet of the portaloos but
then if you’re a Glastonbury type either you simply don’t mind or simply don’t
care, or alternatively you’ve somehow psychologically acclimatised yourself and
you feel all brave and heroic ten days after it’s over because you know you put
up with it all and from a distance in time and space you’re aware you’ve survived
what can best be described as a serious filth job!
Yes you’ve been there and done it! You’ve
been to Glastonbury and it wasn’t so bad after all, but of course, while you
were there the nature of your existence changed and you reached a new low. But
it wasn’t all that low really. Not really,
you tell yourself then. Anyway, you bought a necklace with a crystal on it with
points at both ends to make you at one with the generalised karma along with
one of those Glastonbury hats you saw everyone wearing and wanted to be at one
with the crowd. Besides, now you’re back home with a fridge full of food! What
kind of people go to Glastonbury? Well all-sorts. But some are Glastonbury
types more than others. They’re people who can deal with the toilets, the food,
the strange characters, the cold dirty nights in a tent, the deep mud that’s
more there than not because much of the site is basically an un-drained swamp.
It’s a place for people with easy, mellow views about everything. Nothing that’s
seriously thought out. Just something to be for the moment!
If they’re under 20 and they don’t like you
or something about you then you’re a dick, a dickhead, or nob. If they’re
adults, guys with beards and their ladies in floral dresses or shorts and
sandals, and it’s something similar then you are just unpleasant and troublesome!
I mean like letting it be known that you support the English Defence League and
are definitely anti-immigration! What I’m saying is that people who go to Glastonbury
are very predictable types more often than not with very definite social and
political views. It’s a place for generalised dissent where dissenters of
whatever kind will find kindred spirits and be mellow and at one with similar
views! As long that is, as it’s acceptable rather than nasty dissent! It’s
definitely not a place for hard-nosed Tories or Daily Mail readers. Neither is
it a place for the lower middle class generally speaking. You won’t find
thousands of adults from Essex there for example but maybe, just maybe a few of
their kids who’ve heard enough about garden patios to last them a lifetime and
want out once in a while! So they go to Glastonbury wanting to be mellow and
escape their semi-detached existence rather than having to endlessly listen to
their permanently uptight fathers!
You often meet the same people at
Glastonbury that you met the year before! Hi
man, what have you been doing. Long time since we saw you. Now they’re
definitely not likely to reply, Hi man,
long time no see. I joined the police since we met up! End of conversation!
That’s because the police represent authority rather than generalised mellow
and despite the silly faces they put on at Glastonbury pretending they’re cool
easy dudes, no-one would ask them to puff on their spliff, speaking of which
the Festival’s awash with drugs more often than not. Mostly weed of various
sorts but sometimes pills that are nasty along with dangerous powders. The
former often brought in by Afro-Caribbeans the latter by East Europeans.
The Festival though is mainly a place for
those young and white or middle-aged hippies still living the seventies. It’s
not one for Asians, especially Muslims. It’s too spaced out for the bearded
faithful or ladies in burkas. Wrong faith, too uptight. Men with beards need to
be mellow! In that respect compliance with a certain code or creed is also worthy
of note, namely to the faith of coolness. In order to enjoy the music and
atmosphere you are required only to worship at the altar of mellow, not on a
carpet unless it’s your birds!
Glastonbury’s a great place for a very
special experience. It’s the Glastonbury
Experience. Something outside normal life like having to work and pay
bills, having to listen to your arsehole of a supervisor or employer, or
hearing old people talk about the War and others going on about the Sixties.
You know, going on about the past all the time or talking about boring things.
No, for a few days once a year you can seriously chill, listen to the beat, wave
your arms around at the Main Stage Arena with tens of thousands of others
before you puke up the mulled wine you guzzled earlier on your way back to your
tent, if you can find it that is without mistakenly breaking in on an oldie
blowing her husband… whoops, wrong tent… then eventually finding your own and
looking up at the stars while Brenda pulls off her bra.
Ah, the joys of a Saturday night at
Glastonbury. Meanwhile you came across an old friend. One of the stallholders
selling those Gem trees of his. You bought one for your Mum last year and she
really loved it to pieces. Yes, they’re back again this year. That really nice
couple who make them and those little animals on marble they do. They’re old
timers. Part of the Glastonbury scene these days. Mind you, Brenda says the
guy’s full of shit. Doesn’t know how his wife puts up with him. Such a nice
lady too!
Well actually you’re talking about me you
sonova bitch blogger! One more remark like that and I’ll cut your dick off… Sorry mate, I thought what I was saying was
private… No worries man! It’s
Glastonbury! Loosen up! Chill out like all the rest of us!
That’s another more recent part of the
Glastonbury Scene. People taking their Tablets along. Tens of thousands of
people with Tablets and I don’t mean the ones that take you into another place
man. One of the best places these days is the Television Presenters’ Tent.
Channel Four and BBC2 have resident presenters on site these days, each
competing against one another to sound maxi-cool dude. That Krishnan Guru
Geezer being breezy with questions about why we go so we just tell him any old
shit. Put it on posh like we’re from Eton and tell him that Daddy’s someone
well in with Labour! It’s so easy, those people from Channel Four’ll believe
just about anything!
Well got to be going man. Mister Toastie’s
waiting for me at his mulled tea stall with his magic toast making machine.
Meanwhile it’s pissing with rain and someone’s making a fortune selling black
plastic bin liners a quid at a time. Nothing better to keep off the rain. As
for the mud. Tough shit! We’re all going Abbo now, dancing to the sound of a didgeridoo
in our bare feet. It’s really great man. You know, back to primitive nature and
all!
Talking about the types of people who go to
Glasto, as many of its aficionados call it, we mustn’t forget the traders. From
the food, drinks and clothes people to the jewellery and crystal crowd. For the
big rigs like food the set up prices are stunning. We’re talking thousands. And
for those who trade in such it’s not just the swingeing start prices but also the
cost of staff, electricity for refrigeration and then the cost of ingredients.
The jewellery, crystals and gifts stalls are very much smaller. A metal frame
and a few tables at best, therefore cheaper. Everything depends on size and
location. Pitches on A and B sites on the drag to the Main Stage are royal and
much coveted, rather like those on the drag up to the Green Fields, the place where
hopeless hippies hang out trying to make a shilling.
For the big timers the three days max is a serious
business. We’re talking finance capital here not industrial though the selling
of cooked foods, mainly burgers or pasta, or salads with pasta or rice is a
highly mechanized process very much on the lines of conveyor belt production.
In Glasto terms it’s the equivalent of big money with everything else the
province of small timers. Scuzzy dudes and their molls who finish at eight and give
themselves to the music. Most traders, big or small, sleep on the site of their
pitch in caravans, camper vans or tents The food and drinks boys stay open well
into the early hours mopping up the late night hungry who drift in from the
stages. Most others cover their rigs with plastic and have someone stay up all
night on guard duty because thieving at Glastonbury is serious business and the
police, eyes wide shut as ever, don’t give a monkey’s.
Few small traders stay open all night but
we did, Friday, Saturday and Sunday and it did make a difference. Mainly because
we were well lit with powerful spotlights, the whole of our rig shone out in
the dark so that late-nighters and insomniacs came to look and tell us their
life story. Sunday and Monday mornings they often came back to spend. Yes we
were there to make money so after packing up and leaving midday on Monday,
still taking money while stragglers where drifting out, we drove back to Bath,
made for the bank then spent the next three days sleeping it off.
Hard-nosed traders like ourselves and the
food, drinks and clothing mob were worlds apart from all the rest who took
little money, and the genuine music fans who often had little to spend most of
which went on food. Anything left over we worked hard to take and often did.
Most of them we liked, mellow as we were to take money from people, same as
George Osborne or any other self-respecting Tory Chancellor, Well actually you can
chuck in any of the Labour Creeps too. Especially Dark Gordon!
Large numbers of youths who go to Glasto
are simply plain skint. Any dosh they had mopped up by the price of admission
or paying to climb a strategically placed ladder on the security fence by
Caribbean get rich quick operators who quickly move to other sites once they’ve
been sussed by the security patrols. Such pickings are only lucrative for very
smart operators, ultra-fast on their feet who can smell a blue-bottle half a
mile distant! They’re also a part of the Glastonbury scene. It’s private
enterprise man! One minute they’re helping people bunk in, the next they’re
Chief Executive of an Energy Company or a banker working some filthy swindle or
other. Both so beloved by Liberal Democrats.
Glasto itself is full of artists. Whether
cooked food or veggie performers, the piss artists who perennially surround the
mulled wine and cider huts, those who strut the stages screeching out noise and
guitar twang that can barely be recognised which doesn’t matter at all for
audiences out of their skulls one way or another for whom the main thing is
being there to see their favorites play and finally the few genuinely creative
artists up on the Green Field Site who make things in wood or metal. That’s not
to discount the big handmade craft fraternity most of whom will soulfully tell you
how they struggle to make it themselves back home in their workshop when it’s
actually carried home in a rucksack from Nepal!
Yeah, we love you too baby. You and your
addiction and bullshit!
But then why be so cynical? None of these traders
and fans do any harm. One way or another they’re only there to enjoy. To escape
reality for a short while and after all, most of that reality is made up of
rotten cheap labour jobs or fast vanishing benefits with Top Tory Ian Duncan
Smith’s name written all over them, but then Glastonbury isn’t the kind of
place he’d be seen dead in. For someone like that it’s the equivalent of hell!
That being the case lighten up dude. Put a
little conical gold hat on your head then give us a twirl so that the white
pom-pom on top jiggles about! That way you’ll learn to chill. Learn to be merry
and smile!
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