Leeds 2011 Day 4: Na Na Na (Na Na Na, Na Na Na, Na Na Na)

Leeds 2006

As we wandered out into the Sunday morning sunshine, reflecting happily on the previous day's fun and digesting the canteen's oddly tasteles porridge, I thought back once more to Leeds 2006. Annoyingly in retrospect, I could have seen My Chemical Romance live for the first time (first time for me that is) at Leeds 2006. It was very shortly after this I really got into them. 

At the time, however, they hadn’t really registered on my radar. As was famously the case, they had to play after Slayer, on the “hard rock” day of the festival. I seem to remember Mastodon were the opening act, followed by Killswitch Engage – after that, it was all just noise to me. (Just checked: the others were Bullet for My Valentine, Less Than Jake, and Taking Back Sunday).

With the exception of Slayer, who were on at the end of our shift; we’d got the 12-6pm on the Friday. I seem to remember thinking “Hey, these guys can actually play!”. I’m old-fashioned; I like my music to have identifiable tunes and words. So did most of the team, and the aural battering we took over the course of the shift, combined with huge queues, malfunctioning MDUs, and a manager who seemed hellbent on off everyone on the bar, and it was one of the least fun shifts I’ve ever done in six years volunteering for the Workers Beer Company. (I seem to remember Killswitch Engage’s frontman yelling “You guys fucking suck!” at the crowd, and thinking “Yeah, we’re thinking that right back at you”.) 

As the end of the shift approached, we sidled to the back of the bar, ready to make a quick exit, and bumped into the team coming on shift. They were staring at the front of the bar, eyes wide in shock.  

We turned to see what they were looking at, and realised that the queues of, black-clad, dirty, tattooed metallers were about ten deep, and they were still coming. When you’re at the front of the bar, you don’t see this. You just appear in front of one customer, get the order, give them the drinks, get the money, go tot the next customer, same thing again, lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum. At the back of the bar, though, the oncoming hordes were clearly visible. It was like being in Shaun of the Dead without a cricket bat. 

I’d liked to say we muttered some comforting words and patted their shoulders. In reality, it was more like we grinned evilly, muttered “See ya! Wouldn’t wanna be ya!”, grabbed a six-pint holder of cider each (this was before the WBC really cracked down on servers helping themselves to free booze – these days you’d get fired for it, and technically back then we weren’t supposed to do it, but after that shift, I was really not inclined to stop my guys helping themselves to drinks, not least because I badly needed one myself), and scarpered as fast as we could.

We paused briefly to ask each other “Do we want to stay in the main arena?”. The answer was “Nope, can’t take any more of this racket”, and we skittled off in search of the NME tent and better music. And that is the tale of How I Didn’t See My Chemical Romance At Leeds 2006.

Day 6 and Day 7: “She Stars in Her Own Private Movie”

Sunday, Day 6, 3pm, Come On Eng-ur-land
3pm found me trying to cram myself into an entirely over-occupied bar so that I could see a tiny corner of a fuzzy screen displaying the England vs. Germany match. It was so full any more people would have had to swing from the rafters, and the fire safety signs should more accurately have read “IF THERE IS A FIRE, THIS IS WHERE PEOPLE WILL BE TRAMPLED UNDERFOOT IN THE STAMPEDE”. I realised that I was basically being a lemming, and headed off in search of something more fun to do, like have a sit-down and a cider.


Monday, Day 7, 4pm, on the coach
A Team Leader’s role is never done. Not until everyone steps off the coach or the train in Newcastle. Admittedly, this time around I wasn’t really a team leader, since my “team” consisted of me and N, who was more than capable of looking after himself. Indeed, I think the reason I enjoyed this year’s festival so much was because I wasn’t having to look after people for once. Co-ordinating six people to turn up to their shifts at the Glastonbury festival, all of whom want to run off and do their own thing, is not unakin to herding cats (although in fairness, I have a beautiful beaded purse at home that last year’s Glastonbury team bought me as a thank-you for doing all the organising). 

Still, of the five of us I was the only one who had been to Glastonbury and volunteered with the Workers Beer Company before, and old habits die hard. Like many people on the coach, our epic journey home would not end with our stepping off the WBC coach in Leeds; that was just the end of stage 1. Had the coach left at 12noon as scheduled, we’d have been late home in Newcastle, but we’d still have had plenty of time to get up to Leeds Railway Station and get the train home. As it was, we were seriously beginning to wonder if we’d make the connection.

I busied myself on my phone, contacting National Rail Enquiries to check the times of the last trains home, and ringing my brother to let him know that there might be people he didn’t know crashing on the floor of our parents’ house. (My family lives near Leeds.) I didn’t really think that we’d need to do that, but being insanely helpful and over-prepared is one of my characteristics, and I was if I was going to stop now. After that, I leaned my head against the window, sighed, and tried to fall asleep. 


Sunday, Day 6, 4.45pm, inside the Avalon Tent – “There Are People In Here!”

My crowd-slipping-into skills got a workout, as I made my way inside the Avalon Tent to hear Keane play. It was so full there were people standing outside. I suspect this is not surprising, since if you picture Keane’s fans and England football fans, there probably isn’t a massive overlap, although as we stood there shifting our weight from foot to foot and waiting for the band to come on, quite a few people were checking their phones and putting them away with exclamations of disgust. (England were roundly beaten by Germany.) The band were late coming on. I wish I’d gone with my inner raconteur and yelled “Come on, stop watching the footie!” at the stage. 

Eventually the band walked out, led by Tom Chaplin who started at the sight of the tent and exclaimed with seemingly genuine surprise: “Fuck me, there are people in here! We thought we’d be playing to an empty tent”. They were clearly thrilled at the sight of the crowd, all of whom were definitely in the mood for a happy sing-a-long in the sunshine, and joined in the choruses of “Somewhere Only We Know” and “Everybody’s Changing” with great gusto. The band covered “With Or Without You” as a tribute to U2, and it was a very happy gig. You can always tell when a band is having a good time on stage, and Keane were clearly enjoying themselves, so much so that the NME reported afterwards in their write-up of the Sunday: “Either we’re having delusions, or Keane have just persuaded several hundred people that they’re one of Britain’s best-loved bands”.

It turned out that I was wrong about them being delayed by watching the footie. As they left the stage, Tom Chaplin paused and called out: “Hang on, what was the score? 4-1 to Germany? Oh well, it’s just as well that I don’t give a fuck then, isn’t it?” We all laughed. It was great to be so close to the band; the last time I saw them live (2005), they were several hundred feet away on the Pyramid Stage. Definitely one of my highlights of the festival.


Monday, Day 7, 5pm, Service Station
The coach paused for the driver to have a break. The overheated,grumpy inhabitants decanted themselves into the service station in search of rehydration and, in some cases, a quick fag. 

My bedraggled team glumly checked the National Rail Enquiries hotline to discover whether we could actually get home that evening. Answer: yes, if we got to Leeds in time to get the train to York, that connected with the final train to Newcastle of the day. Oh joy.

Whilst lying about on the grass near the coach waiting for the driver to return, we caught up with our foul-mouthed friend from the journey down (remember him?) who let us in on the fact that the coach had actually been stuck in the car park at noon, but without a pass it couldn’t enter the site to pick us up. (Access to Glastonbury is really, really strict.) Why exactly no-one had suggested we simply walked up to meet it is a mystery for the ages. 


Sunday, Day 6, 6pm, Glastonbury
I went for a final wander around, aware this was the last time I’d be seeing the festival in daylight since our shift would finish long after the sun had set. 


Monday, Day 7, 8pm, Outside Leeds Bus Station
8pm, hours after we’d expected to get home to Newcastle. It was chucking it down. We hailed a taxi and crammed ourselves plus our luggage into it, then hastened to the railway station. 

Sunday, Day 6, 8pm, Glastonbury – “Everyone Danced”

And we were back in the bar again, for our final shift. Heads down to get it over with… It’s not much fun spending your final evening at the festival behind the bar, particularly since by this point we’re usually running out of both change and the most popular drinks, but someone has to. We arrived ten minutes late due to the crowds, but got away with it. 

Fortunately for me, the Sunday headliner was Stevie Wonder. Let it not be said that I don’t like Stevie Wonder. Nobody doesn’t like Stevie Wonder. Yet, at the same time, given the choice… he was the headliner I would have been prepared to miss.

So we settled in behind the bar on a sunny evening. And to quote a popular slogan, “Possibly the best live bar background music in the world”. We had Shakira… and then we had Stevie Wonder.

You can tell when the headline act is good, because the bar goes quiet. This went quiet. Then it went noisy, because everyone knows the words, and everyone joins in. By the time we got to “Superstition”, all the punters were dancing. The people in the field beyond were dancing. The person next to me was dancing. I looked around, and realised: every single person in the bar and outside it, from the station supervisors to the manager, was dancing to Stevie Wonder singing “Superstition”. And yes, I was dancing too.

  

Monday, Day 7, 9pm, Leeds Railway Station
We glumly contemplated the timetable. Our only chance was to go to York, then change for Newcastle. We’d be getting the last trains all the way, so here went nothing, hoping hard that we wouldn’t get stranded.

Sunday Day 6 / Monday, Day 7, 2am, Glastonbury – Shall We Wander?

And the shift finally finished. N and I decided to go explore the festival. This is a perfectly rational decision to make at 2am on the final day of the Glastonbury festival, as it never really stops. (I’ve read that each year Michael Eavis has to round up about a dozen people who haven’t accepted – or possibly haven’t realised – that the festival is over, and put them on the next train home). We stopped off for some pancakes, then wandered around staring at interesting things. There was a lot going on, despite the fact it was pitch black and cold, despite the day’s weather. (As the NME commented on a photo they took at the Stone Circle: “If you look closely, you can see that these people are wearing every stitch of clothing they’ve brought with them. Seriously, the Sahara Desert by day, the fucking Ice Age by night.”)

We stopped in a tent for a drink, then a woman in a turquoise taffeta ballgown wandered onstage and started singing Britney Spears’ “Toxic” in the style of George Formby whilst accompanying herself on the ukelele, so we stayed for a bit longer.

After this, we strolled around to take in any bits of the festival we hadn’t seen yet. We made it to Trash City, which I’ve always wanted to see at night – it’s really a bit pointless seeing it in daytime. It was lively, but not our scene, so we strolled slowly back down the old railroad path to the WBC village, dodging happy drunks and people falling about in costumes in the glare of the overhead floodlights. Eventually, we ended back in the WBC Village bar, where the traditional end-of-festival WBC workers’ party was in progress. People were jumping around and drinking large amounts of cheap booze. N and I settled down with C (T and L were off partying somewhere else), had a few drinks and reminisced about the past week.

As it got round to 3.30am and the first hint of dawn began to appear in the sky, we began to talk about turning in for the night. I strolled out of the tent…

And then the thought occurred to me. I’ve always wanted to see the sun rise over Glastonbury from the Stone Circle, but events and tiredness have prevented.

And the thought occurred: “Why not now?”

True, it was early in the morning, I was tired and I’d have to retrace my footsteps all the way along the railroad track and up to the top of the hill on my own. I’d also get about three hours’ sleep before we were off in the morning.

But I’d have time to sleep on the coach.

Why not now?

I slipped quietly out of the WBC village, leaving N and C to finish their drinks, passed the security guard, and headed out along the path.

Monday, Day 7, 10.30pm, York Railway Station

We hung grimly around York Railway Station, propping ourselves up on our luggage, and waiting for the last train of the night to Newcastle. Museli bars, chocolate and Coke were all that was keeping us going.

Sunday Day 6 / Monday, Day 7, 4.30am, Glastonbury – Sun It Will Rise

Light-headed, I climbed slowly through the morning mists and towards the top of the site and the Stone Circle. Any number of people were shambling about, drunk or tired or euphoric. I shambled a bit too, to fit in. All around me, people were watching the sun rise and lighting sky lanterns, the small lights rising slowly into the sky. I climbed to the top and flattened myself against the security wall, watching the sun rise slowly into the sky, thinking, finally, five years after I first came here, I’ve done it.

Tuesday, Day 8, 0.30am, Newcastle Central Station

“Farewell then.”

 “Farewell.”

And here we were at the end. Seven days after we departed Newcastle, nine hours after we left the festival, we were back home and staggering into taxis to get back to our homes. We said farewell, promised to meet again, and left each other there and then.

I reached for my money pouch around my waist containing my driver’s license and credit card.

It wasn’t there.

Motherfuck.

But it hadn’t been a bad 24 hours. I thought back to meeting N at Central Station, L, C and T at Leeds. To hearing “Melancholy Hill” for the first time, to Muse on the Saturday night, to the entire bar dancing to Stevie Wonder. And to 6am on Monday. Morning.

  

Sunday Day 6 / Monday, Day 6, 6am, Glastonbury – She Stars In Her Own Private Movie

As the morning began, I made my way slowly back down to the WBC campsite through the remains of the festival. I didn’t really know where I was going, but I have a good sense of the festival’s layout and which direction to head in, and wandered past the sign, past the tower of ribbons, down to the WBC village. As I walked through Avalon, a few bars and stalls were still heroically open, ra-ra, Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine…

I went through the Avalon gate, past the cows, and back home, humming “She Has A Halo”, she stars in her own private movie…

“You look happy” said the security guard on the gate as I danced slowly past him.

“I am.”

 Epilogue

•  I didn’t ever locate my missing waistbelt, but managed to cancel my cards and get a replacement driving licence in the weeks after.
• We sent a strongly worded letter to the Workers Beer Company about the coach fiasco. Things were much better the year after.
• Myself and N returned to the festivals in 2011.  
• C married his fiancee the following year.

Glastonbury 2010, Day 6 and Day 7, Part the First: "Where's The Coach?"

Monday, Day 7, 10.15am – WBC campsite, Canteen Tent:

“Thank god, no more peculiar scrambled eggs.”



Sunday, Day 6, 10.15am – WBC campsite, Canteen Tent:

“Um, guess what?”

We were sitting around the table eating breakfast. Which, in my opinion, was far better than some of the breakfasts we’ve previously been served in the WBC village, although the others were not entirely keen on the scrambled egg.

The speaker was C. “Me and my missus are engaged.”

Loud cheers filled the tent. We congratulated C on his engagement, whilst he sat there looking as pleased as punch.



Monday, Day 7, 11am – WBC campsite:

“Think the coach to Leeds will be here soon?”

“They said it would be 12noon.”

“It’s far too late.”

“I know, I’m really sorry for misleading you. Every year other than this, it’s left at 7am on the Monday. They shouldn’t have made that change without asking us first. I’m going to complain afterwards. Are we all packed?”

“Yeah. Can’t wait to get home and see the missus-to-be. What time do you reckon?”

“Maybe 8pm, 9pm?”



Sunday, Day 6, 11am – WBC campsite:

Overheard in the WBC Village campsite:

C: “My feet keep overheating.”

Me: “You shouldn’t wear trainers, they’re no good in this weather. You need sandals. See, I have them. It’s like a shoe with built-in air conditioning. These sandals is made for walking.”

L: (deadpan) “And that is what they’ll do.”

Me: (deadpan) “One of these days these sandals is gonna walk all over you.”



Monday, Day 7, 11.45am – WBC campsite:

“This is a piss-take.”

“It should be here soon.”

“It’s baking hot, and we’re stuck in the sun. And I’m not going to go clean up the campsite. Other people get paid to do that.”

“I’m going to go help. Might as well. It’ll keep us busy. You will let us know when it gets here?”

“Should be any minute. Yeah.”



Sunday, Day 6, 11.45am – on the path out of the WBC campsite:

T: “Are you going to see England play? They’ve put the big screens up in the field so that people can watch.”

Me: “Hmm. No. The way I see it, if England win, I’ll get to see them play again, so it won’t matter that I’ve missed them this time. But if they lose and I go watch them, I’ll have wasted an afternoon at the Glastonbury festival which I can’t get back.”

N: “Fair enough.”

We strolled on down the path alongside the cow barns.

C: “I’ve got that many patches of sunburn, I look like a cow anyway.”

Me: “You want to be careful, L will get confused and start trying to milk you.”

C: “Wahey!”

T: “Give it a rest, you’re going to be a married man”.



Monday, Day 7, 12.15 – WBC campsite

“Hope this bus hurries up. I am roasting. People will get sunstroke.”

“We’ve got some money left from the tips. Shall wehave ice lollies?”

“Yeah!”

“I’ll go get them. Anyone want a festival review magazine?”



Sunday, Day 6, 12.15 – Inside the Festival

We’d all split off to do our own thing. I’d gone to see a couple of bands I fancied: Temper Trap and the Hold Steady. The Hold Steady are fronted by a cheerful plump man in glasses and a blue shirts who looks like the manager of the local Dixons, but bloody hell can they rock. They were on at the Other Stage, and I settled in with a cold cider to watch them, and jump up and down a bit.



Monday, Day 7, 1pm – WBC Campsite

“This is seriously a piss-take. I am not a happy bunny.”

We watched as several people moved a gazebo to cover someone in the waiting queue for the buses who was suffering badly with the effects of the heat. The bus was now an hour late. Or, from the perspective of those of us who until the previous day had expected it to be departing at 7am, six hours late. We’d been stuck in the sun since 11.30am, and we were not at all happy. Repeated enquiries to the WBC cabin elicited very little response other than “there’s nothing we can do about it”.


Sunday, Day 6, 1pm – The Other Stage

After the Temper Trap finished, I moseyed around a bit, ate a sandwich in the shade of a tent, checked to see if the King Blues were playing at any time when I was likely to be able to see them (they weren’t), then returned to the Other Stage to watch the Temper Trap’s melodies filling the air and mused on the fact that this year’s Festival Look was “patches of sunburn, with a straw hat on the top”. Better than the Mud Monster of previous years, I suppose.



Monday, Day 7, 2pm – WBC Campsite

“I don’t believe this.”

“It’s reaching new heights of incompetence.”

We were still waiting for the coach, although in a new location. There were rumours that it was stuck in the car park at the top of the festival. I’d finally suggested to the WBC management that we waited in the canteen tent. People were desperate not to miss their coaches, and only repeated reassurances that they would be fetched when the coach finally arrived got them inside. It was not noticeably cooler, but being there did at least get everyone out of the direct rays of the sun.

I popped back and forth between the canteen tent and the staffing cabin to keep an eye out for the coach, noticing on the way that I had added an interesting new patch of livid red sunburn to my increasingly patchwork appearance of pale skin, tanned skin, pink skin, dusty skin, and scratches.



Sunday, Day 6, 2pm – The Railway Track

I texted the others to say I wished England good luck, and refrained from adding on the end “they’ll need it”. It was time to make my steady way along the Railway Track to the Avalon Tent, where Keane were due to play at 4.20pm. The Railway Track is the main pathway through the festival, and is never quiet due to this fact.

Wander along it, and the festival divides in two before you; celebrities, drink, and the Pyramid stage on the left, peace, cider and hippies on the right. The right hand side holds the Green Fields, Healing Fields, people selling candle-powered boats, and just about everyone in the festival who likes to stare into their herbal tea and mutter sadly “It’s not what it used to be”.

It also holds the Alternative Worlds area, where people put up displays showcasing other ways to live without dependence on fossil fuels. These tend to work best in sunny weather, just like the weather we were getting, so I strayed off the beaten track.

The Alternative Worlds area is in a part of the festival with a lot of trees, so you wander around the path between the trees, stopping to look at people with biocomposting toilets and herbal gardens. I turned a corner and encountered a man cooking a pizza inside a cat, or at least inside a cat-shaped clay oven. He seemed busy, so I didn’t stop to chat. I had cider to drink and “Somewhere Only We Know” to sing along to.



Monday, Day 7, 3pm, on the coach

“About fucking time.”

The coach rolled slowly forwards, bumping over the ruts. The people inside it were too tired and fed up to do anything much but stare out of the window.

At 2.10pm, the news had arrived that the coach was stuck in the coach park at the top of the site. A lack of the correct pass to enter the site and come down to the village to pick us up had held it up there.

Some time earlier, we might have been able to pick up our weary selves and camping gear, and walk up the hill to meet it. In cooler weather, this might still have been an option. As it was, the decision was taken to wait until the coach could make its way down and pick up the bunch of weary, overheated, dehydrated and deeply grumpy volunteers.

Rarely have I ever been so glad to see a mechanical object. The only comparable instance was the 2007 mudbath when we were on the National Express coach, leaving from the coach park. It had rained pretty much solidly throughout the entire festival. Despite this, my team still managed to find moments of fun amidst the mud, but on a Monday morning with no beer, no music, nothing to look forward to, and a solid wall of rain beating down on you, we had but one thought in our heads: “get us the fuck out of here”.

We arrived to find a scene which I’ve read described elsewhere as “being like the end of the world”; masses of cold, confused, tired people wandering around beneath the grey skies, in the wind and rain and mud, being yelled at by people with megaphones. The coach park fills two fields and has about 26 different queues. We had no idea which one was for our coach, and nor did the hapless stewards.

Displaying that unique form of teamwork which only desperation can fuel, my team divided into pairs and combed the coach park until we found the National Express queues. I have never been so glad to see a grumpy coach driver wielding a roll of bin liners in my life. As the coach left the festival coach park, and I stared out of the window at the mass of forlorn humanity, some of whom had been TURNED AWAY from the coaches they had tickets for, due to being covered in mud (I am not making this up), I reflected that I might at that moment be wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of shorts (these being my only clothes not covered in mud), I might be going to spend the next three days removing mud from my belongings, but, thank God, I was going home to my warm, centrally heated house with its cosy bed and hot shower.

I hadn’t thought I’d be that glad to leave Glastonbury again, but it turned out I was wrong.

Quest for a New Home

Starts today. In the old days, I suppose this involved going out and chopping down a tree, then sawing it up into planks and joists, then making some bricks and building a wall, or something of that sort.

These days it just involves a visit to Rightmove, which I'm not complaining about.

I've also nearly finished my write-up of Glastonbury 2010, and there will be some more diving writing coming soon - watch this space! Happy Easter.

Not Happy When The Sea Is Closed

The sea was closed today. By which I do not mean it had hung a sign on its door saying "Closed, opening hours 9am - 5pm Monday to Friday", I mean that when I went in to get my tank filled at my local dive shop, I asked the instructor hanging around having a cuppa if he'd been diving.

"Yes."
"What was the vis like?"
"Crap. To use the technical diving term."
"Bugger. To use the technical diving term."

The alternative was Lake Ellerton. If you've read my blog before, you'll know my feelings about this. It's not actually that I hate Ellerton, or that I've taken a vow never to go there again. It's just that it's as far as Catterick, and I'd rather not drive all the way down the A1 (and pay for the petrol) to have a slightly worse dive that I would have in the sea - I'd rather save the money and do something else, like go to church or go to the gym or go for a walk.

Anyway, I'm off to the Farne Islands next weekend, so tune in then for tales of seals!