Glasto to be a washout this year. I've never been the pop festival type. Calling it a pop festival is your first clue. The most outside rock I've ever done is the Fleadh. One year bright sunshine, the next year knee-deep in beery mud in a humid tent watching a dour John Martyn (a gig I forgot to list).
Uncomfortable feelings, the fear of trenchfoot, and here we are in the middle of London. I left halfway through headliner Neil Young as I was so cold. My Gap kagoul let in the water. What sort of kagoul is that? At least a day at the Milton Keyenes Bowl remained warm and sunny.
So no trips to Glastonbury for me, no matter who's on. I have visited the town, which is all brightly painted veggie cafes and crystal shops (even now) and you really wouldn't want to live there. My borther went to the festival once and someone shat on the side of their tent. That was thoughtful. The very idea of using one of those loos that turn into giant dungheaps horrifies me. Perhaps the person who shat on the tent felt more comfortable doing it there than in the oversubscribed latrine. Who can blame them?
No, if I ever was to go to one the 400,000 festivals that now litter the land, it's the local Hilton for me nor I'm not going. Unless I could go backstage and take full advantage of the hospitality that is.
So good luck at the mudbath this weekend, Glasto-goers. Rather you than me.
