Glastonbury 2002

Thursday 27th June

I wake bright and early with a mild hangover and try my best to ignore
it in the hope that it will get fed up with the lack of attention and
go away. This works until I reach Paddington station, although I think
its the smell of unwashed hippie hair (the station is overrun with
them) rather than the alcohol which causes me to rush to the toilet to
be sick. Fighting back the rising bile whilst fumbling in ones wallet
for 20p for the turnstile is no fun.

F2 turns up to meet me, only half an hour late and I enjoy a cold can
of Stella trying to convince myself that "hair of the dog" is the only
way forward. We board our train and I choose a window seat
strategically at least five rows away in either direction from a set of
motheaten dredlocks. Just I am settling down comfortably with an Indian
recipe book and another Stella, a security alert calls for the
evacuation of the station. My own cunning plan to hide in the train
toilet thwarted by a female conductor with more facial hair than
Rasputin. Outside the station nobody wants to move far away from the
entrance, so we can bomb back in and get a decent seat. By the grace of
God I reclaim mine.

After rumbling Westward for an hour and a half we reach Castle Cary,
then are to the Festival site in an ancient bus driven by an even more
ancient bus driver with a genuine "I've got a brand new combine
harvester" accent.

Smaning smugly, I walk past gaggles of "Glasto Virgins" trying to
pitch their brand new tents far too near the toilets, and mumbling
instructions like "insert pole 'D' into flap 'C' holding perpendicular
to right edge of panel 'A' making sure that peg loops are on the
outside" I meet up with Mark and Marc and erect my proud canvas in a
record six and a half minutes.

The first night I get drunk. Gloriously dunk on a Taylors Vintage port
by a blazing fire. Life is good I think as I slip underneath my
sleeping bag and many blankets.

Friday 28th June

I wake the campsite up with bacon and egg rolls, with extra lard, which
looks like it dripped from the hair of the unshaven scouser who served
them before wiping his hands on an equally grease covered rag of an
apron.

INSTRUCTIONS: How to use a festival toilet

1. Open door and check the suitability of the latrine from a distance
of at least 2 metres. Reject cubicle if any of the following features
are noted.

- Used Syringes

- Anaconda like turds on the floor/ toilet seat/walls

- An unconcious hippie

- Human waste of all varieties piled above the level of the seat

2. Once a suitable cubile is found reverse in whilst holding
breath.

3. Remove/ move clothing and sit in mid air some 6 inches above the
toilet seat. (skiers have an advantage here)

4. Do what has to be done as quickly as possible employing every body
muscle to achieve this.

5. Exit

6. Breathe again

Coldplay were most excellent but Faithless rocked the show, Maxi Jazz
bouncing around the stage like a crazed psychotic as though he had
never broken that hip in a car accident.

Saturday 29th

I am awoken by the Krisna Conscious movement's Chants of Hare Hare,
Rama Rama. Didn't anyone tell them George Harrison is dead? They are
giving out free food which looks like the mix I used to feed my Guinea
Pigs. I Wander around the greenfields hecklng the Greenpeace
volunteers. This is the hippie hangout although thanks to the security
fence there are less freeloaders here than usual. Part time hippies -
they probably have removable dredlocks for when they go to their day
jobs as insurance brokers.

Orbital Rock the evening and I decide against sleep and sit by the
fires in the stone circle talking
Gibberish to complete strangers . Some die hard naturists are insisting
on showing their old, withered and sagging flesh to unwilling eyes. I
turn my back.

Sunday 30th

I Perform on the open mike slot in the Poetry tent. I am impressed by
the level of applause generated by such a wasted audience

I get wasted myself. Now what was it that happened next?