In possibly one of the worst ever examples of pun-led posting, I thought I’d let you have my fourpenneth on Glastonbury…
I was all set to go a few years ago, because my squeeze at the time was very keen; she’d been several times, and described it as “amaaaaaaazing” - although to this day, I’m never sure whether she was using the word to cover a post-coital yawn or not. Thankfully, she had the good grace to ditch me before we got around to buying tickets.
What’s the point? You end up camping in a big field, cheek-by-jowl with all the same Islington-dwelling pricks who you normally labour to avoid like the plague, listening oh-so-post-modern-ironically to Shakin’ Stevens, plus a bunch of indie shite which you’ve never heard before and certainly never will again. You might as well spend the weekend sitting / sleeping in your garden day and night, irrespective of the weather, listening to a CD of John Peel’s shittest ever sessions at full blast. (For the fully authentic Glasto effect, make sure you leave your beer out of the fridge, invite your neighbours to take a piss on your marigolds and then spray the area in the foulest-smelling bleach you can find, and of course burn a tenner once an hour.)
Even if you’re not there, it’s a bunch of arse.It takes over the TV schedules for the entire weekend - something which only sport has the right to do (isn’t that right, girls?) It didn’t even have the good grace to piss it down with rain all weekend, despite a promising forecast. Bah.
(BTW, the headline act was apparently a break-dance chap of whom I’ve never heard called Jay Zed, or something. LZ - any relation?)