I first went to Glastonbury in 1989 and it was an experience that lead to an unconditional love for the festival. For one glorious long weekend each June it’s truly the best place on the planet and I haven’t missed my annual pilgrimage to Pilton since. Except this year I’m not going, not through choice but by unfortunate circumstance. And I’m fuming about it. The only thing that brings me any relief from the near constant anger is the knowledge that I won’t be forced to encounter some of the annoying muppets that are increasingly clogging up the festival. Muppets like these:
Everyone entering the festival gets given a free bag of bollocks that usually contains stuff like a programme, condoms, charity leaflets – none of it is much use and just creates another thing to carry and more litter. Among these trinkets is a little pocket guide produced by the Guardian and housed in a plastic wallet on a lanyard. It’s supposed to be worn round the neck and used to orientate yourself round the massive site and let you know what time the bands are on. But any veteran Glasto-goer knows two things – 1. you have more fun when you haven’t got a clue where you are and 2. the bands are the single least important aspect of the festival. Consequently, if you either wear the guide round your neck or stand around on corners leafing through it, trying to work out how long you’ve got till Keane are on the Talentless Arseholes stage you are simply displaying that you are a clueless twat of the type that probably spends your weekends laboriously hand washing your car and worrying that you don’t have enough ISA’s. Bin the guide and go get lost in the green fields, tosspot.
There are a growing number of Glasto attendees who think that a suitable way to experience the festival is to take a folding chair and a cooler box and plonk themselves in front of the main stage all day long. Christ, I hate these bastards. They sit through every act, only standing when a band plays a song they recognise from the radio at which point they whoop, do a pitiful jig and then sit back down to drink warm Strongbow. Usually they line up, six in a row and plant 25 foot high flags so that if any of their poxy crew goes for a piss they can find their way back. Never mind that their ‘wacky’ 70’s chocolate bar themed flag is obstructing the view of 80,000 other punters as long as they can uneventfully navigate their undeserving arse back into their scum pew. These fuckers are selfish, tasteless vibe thieves.
The London Bastards
Most people arrive at Worthy Farm on Wednesday or Thursday and start partying immediately. This means that by Friday morning the festival is well into its swing and there’s a real feeling of companionship among the wasted, grooving, grinning punters. Then Saturday comes. Saturday is the day when all the bastards from London turn up. The site is suddenly twice as difficult to walk around because it’s jammed with arseholes with expensive (and clean) clothes, bellowing shit into fully-charged mobile phones and stopping random strangers to ask them for a light/ which way the Brothers bar is / where they can score an E. They all work for design agencies or in PR, got their tickets for free from someone who works at EMI and try and look knowledgeable about music by loudly lamenting the decline of Hard-Fi while sat in circles at the entrance of the bars. They then all go ruin the Saturday night headline band by complaining out loud about the set list, walk round the stone circle snorting from laughing gas bottles and then fuck off on Sunday leaving the festival much happier for their absence. Tools.
Chill ‘n’ Charge Chumps
You’re at the greatest festival on earth; you have 72 hours to cram with as much hedonism as possible. Yet some chumps choose to spend 4, 5 or 6 hours at a time queuing at the upsettingly corporate Orange ‘Chill N Charge’ tent to repower their mobile phone. At any time of the day there is a vast snaking line of idiots forsaking the sybaritic delights on offer all around them so they can get enough life in their phone to Whatsapp a picture of them stood in front of the Pyramid stage wearing a druid’s hat.
The Unexpectedly Unprepared
The kind of idiots I actually like. This year a whole new raft of Glastonbury virgins will be wandering the site looking like the walking dead. Thousands of first timers take advice on ‘the Glasto experience’ from lifestyle magazines or T4 or any one of the ill-informed Sunday paper staffers ordered to file 500 words on Glastonbury. They duly trot off to Millets and buy a pop-up tent, a gas stove and battery operated hair tongs and then get to the festival only to discover that the mildest of gusts will float their tent over a hedge and away, the gas stove takes 4 hours to boil a kettle and their battery operated tongs do nothing except burn a hole in their sleeping bag when they thought the knob was in the off position. You see them first thing in the morning, shivering in their Kate Moss-like micro shorts with their Wedge Wellies giving their feet multiple blisters and their calves burning because they’ve already walked 42 miles and they didn’t bother wearing them in. The look of shock on their faces as they realise they have to queue for 3 hours to brush their teeth at a standpipe because they used all of their bottled water to wash their hair is priceless. By Sunday they’ve usually given up and wander round looking like an especially bedraggled Bob Geldof imitating Michael Foot in a mud-caked Pixies T-shirt and miniskirt.
Time was the average ground footprint of a Glasto goer was about 6 foot square. You had your tent and that was about it. Then Macro started selling collapsible gazebos for £10 a pop and every fucker started taking up 3 times as much room. Groups of 12 now turn up and lay claim to half a fucking field by laying out absurdly massive tents and gazebos and roping everything off with miles of plastic tape. Fairly innocuous, you may think, but it means that all of the camping areas are now infinitely more spread out and impossible to nimbly navigate. The simple act of nipping back to your tent for a jumper means a 3 hour trek to somewhere near Berkshire and endless vertical leg lifts to traverse the guy ropes and taped off mini-camps. Worst of all, instead of wandering out and investigating the festival, interacting with your fellow man and discovering the wonders out there in the fields these brain-dead punters actually sit under their gazebo all day, drinking cans, eating Monster Munch and only venturing forth 10 minutes before their favourite act is about to take the stage. The band Evil Gazebo may well have been named after these bollock-brains.
If you’re at Glasto this year and you see any of the character types listed above please punch them as hard as you can in the face. I know it’s supposed to be a peace and love festival but my absence there this year is made more bearable by the thought that because of my words someone in a field in Somerset is in great physical pain.
Click here for more Music stories.
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Twitter
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Facebook