Highlights of Glastonbury 2014

This post is based on the Guardian's "Best and Worst of the World Cup" interviews. My highlights of Glastonbury 2014:

Best Set at the Festival: I've been asked this a few times, and it's been really hard to choose between Metallica and Kasabian. Metallica probably, for sheer uniqueness - never before has a metal band headlined Glastonbury, and they were refreshingly grateful to be there. Also, giant beach balls!

Best Performer at the Festival: I'm tempted to go with Ed Sheeran, which is not something I would ever have said prior to Glastonbury. I just admire the sheer nerve it must have taken to stroll onto the Pyramid Stage, just one 21-year-old man and his guitar, in front of thousands of people who have just seen what will be the iconic performance of Glastonbury 2014 - Dolly Parton. If he was nervous, it didn't show one bit, and everyone had a great time.

Glastonbury Moment: Always a personal thing. For me, managing to sneak out of the bar on my lunchbreak, quickly purchase some magic muesli (£3.50 for a huge bowl of muesli, yoghurt and fruit, which would not be a bargain anywhere else, but the average price for lunch at the festival was £4-£5, so, winning!) and head to the Other Stage to catch White Lies' set. One of their songs, "Death", is one of my favourites. I got there in time to hear it live. It's those little moments when it all comes together that make things perfect.

Personal Highlight: See above, but also the way the team bonded. Fun was had by all. Also the Glade dance tent was awesome, I'd have stayed there all night jumping up and down if my feet had let me.

Biggest Disappointment: The coach containing one of my volunteers, which was due in at 1.30am, turning up at 3am, having taken a detour nearly to Wales due to their having a driver who had no idea where he was going, and who hadn't driven a coach in ten years. I was literally having to turn the mobile data on my phone, log onto the AA Route Planner, and text directions to the volunteer, who was battling the force of a nearly flat phone battery. I had brought a paperback, a snack and my warmest clothing, but having to sit there for an extra hour and a half listening to an unlucky guy who'd lost his festival ticket having the same argument with the festival security staff every ten minutes was not a lot of fun.

Non-music attraction of the festival: The hammocks just down from the festival sign. I'd have stayed up there, swaying gently in the breeze, for a lot longer if I'd been able to.

Trickiest moment: Trying to avert a walk-out due to a preventable injury to one of my team. I entirely sympathised with them, but walking out would have meant the end to our volunteering with the WBC, for good. We managed to work things out.

Innovation I'd like to see for 2015: That the git who kept the music system in the campsite tent blaring loudly until 3am is identified and prevented from going anywhere near it. After three repetitions of "I Wanna Be Sedated", the joke wore very thin.

Fondest memory: A special mention to James the Organiser, for getting my injured volunteer to see Dolly Parton in a buggy.

Back from Glasto

There it is in the background, being pointy.

Actually I've been back for a while, but it's taken til now to recover the energy to blog again. I still have muddy gear requiring clearing, but most of it's been done - one bit at a time.

The festival generally went well, apart one of my volunteers having a preventable accident, and the subsequent industrial relations issues that followed. Fortunately a full-scale mutiny was avoided.

Everything else went quite well. This year I accepted that I would need to repeat anything I said several times, and consequently (I hope) came across as less of an irascible bastard than I have in previous years. I happen to be one of those people whose default brain setting for "the purpose of speaking" is "convey necessary information". This is, as I've discovered over the years, not necessarily the default setting for the rest of the world. As the Killers once sang, smile like you mean it, and be happy.

I even managed to phrase the answer to the inevitable question more tactfully. Each year, I can guarantee I'll have a conversation like this:

"Is that the Pyramid Stage?"

"No, that's the Other Stage."

"How will I know when I've found the Pyramid Stage?"

This year's reply: "Well.... it's really big, and pointy."

(This year's reply, in my head: "It looks like a sodding great pyramid.")

Glastonbury, Day 2: Gan for a Wander

Glastonbury, day 2, Wednesday. It was warm, if not actually sunny, and we were at a slight loose end. The festival doesn't really kick off until Thursday afternoon, and we didn't have a bar shift for a while. We had heard the distant cheer as the car park gates were opened; the punters were arriving, and later we would be needed to sell them beer.

Not to worry. We decided to wander off in pairs. I took R to see the Green Fields, which are usually the bit of the festival that gets set up first - if you're there early, go to the Green Fields as there will be something happening. We wandered around, looked at things, sent postcards (yes, you can post postcards at Glastonbury) and enjoyed a bit of alternative therapy. I had a massage, which I needed, and then fulfilled a small Glastonbury tradition of mine, of going and sitting in a meditation tent for a bit. If you have read my post about arriving at Glastonbury, you will know why.

We found the bar, and I found out when and where one of my favourite bands, "Seize the Day" were playing on the Thursday, by the always-reliable method of checking the sides of the toilets (they always put stickers there). The bar shift came and went. The team were great. My teams always are.

One last thing; as we wandered around the Green Fields, we came across a music space, with a couple attempting to play folk music whilst their young son clawed at the front of Mummy's t-shirt. One of their songs was a rather nice rendition of "The Ghost of Tom Joad". I still fondly remember Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band playing that in 2009. It seemed fitting that it should be the first live song I heard at Glastonbury 2013.

Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the Second: Keeping Up the Proud Traditions of Arriving at Glastonbury

The coach limped into the service station and wheezed to a stop. We got off, got and settled onto the grassy verge to await the arrival of a coach with a non-broken battery. Fortunately it was quite a nice day.

One hour and several frantic messages to the people waiting in the Clowne Tesco’s car park later, the coach arrived, we loaded ourselves and our gear onto it, and set off to retrieve the Clowne people. I retrieved the Magic Piece of Paper (in whose powers I was rapidly losing face), and waited to tick people onto the coach.

One stop in Clowne and several apologies to the people who’d been forced to wait in the Tesco’s car park later, we were on our way! The coach rolled past the familiar landmarks, I explained some of the history of Glastonbury to the new guys on the team, and we tried to take photos of the Glastonbury signs out of the windows.

Soon, we were stuck in another Glastonbury landmark; the queue to get onsite. The coach drivers looked increasingly annoyed, as their hours of work were running out and they needed to get back to Leeds. Alas, things were not to get better, as the stewards at the festival had no idea where to send us. Despite my best explanations, and several frantic phone calls to the WBC staff, it took another hour before we were in the right place and had been given our wristbands by the management staff. I handed over the Magic Piece of Paper, and my work was done.

Now all I had to do was lead my team to the campsite, get our ID badges, and get the tents put up in the dark. Fortunately, I’m not unfamiliar with this, having had to do it a few times at Glastonbury, including one memorable occasion in 2009 when we arrived at the site at 2.30am. This time around things were better, because a) having learned from bitter experience, I’d insisted we eat something at the service station on the way down, and b) the bar was still open. Half an hour later, the tents were up and the beer was poured. We toasted our safe arrival, toasted the festival, and awaited our first day on site.

First, though, we had to get through the night…

Glastonbury 2013, Day One, Part the First: Coaches and Mayhem

There is an old saying that stress is what happens when your instincts shout "NO" and your mouth says "YES I'D BE GLAD TO". I should have remembered that when I agreed to count people onto the coach to the Glastonbury festival from Leeds.

Yet again, a troupe of trusty Newcastle volunteers were travelling south to volunteer for our union with the Workers Beer Company at the Glastonbury Festival. We'd got six places, I was one of them, and despite a minor hiccup over a railcard on the train, all was well. The sun was shining, and we were waiting on the grass near Mecca Bingo, over the road from Leeds Bus Station, listening to the alcoholics fighting.

I can only assume there's a wet hostel nearby, because they were there three years ago (possibly not the same people, but who knows), the last time I was waiting for a coach to Glastonbury from Leeds - next time we'll sit in the bus station. I'd already had to go in there and get first aid assistance for someone who'd collapsed. I get the feeling this may be a regular occurance, as the security guards took their time getting the first aid kit and wandering on out. By the time they'd got out there, the ambulance had arrived, unlike our coach, and half the people I was expecting to be on it.

At 1.30pm, we had a false positive as a coach drove past us without stopping. As it got round to 1.50pm, I started muttering words in my head that I wouldn't use in front of my mother*, told everyone I was off over the road to check if it was waiting for us in the coach station part of the bus station. It wasn't, but I did find all the other volunteers. Still not quite as many as I had listed on the magic piece of paper with the list of people I was supposed to count on, but it was a start.

Even better, as I started to lead the way over to the grass, the coach we'd seen 20 minutes earlier pulled in haphazardly at a bus stop outside the station. I waved frantically and ran over to ask the driver if this was the WBC coach to Glastonbury. It was. I signalled my volunteers and began counting people on.

I'd been assured that the magic piece of paper was up to date. I should have remembered that where festivals are involved, this can actually mean "four people decided at the last minute to drive down, and there are two people who aren't on the magic piece of paper". There was no way I was telling people they weren't going to Glastonbury, so I let the two people on, reassured them it would be fine, and prayed very hard that I hadn't just booked them a one-way ticket to the outside of the Glastonbury festival wall.

As the coach headed out of Leeds, I got a phone call back from the WBC to confirm that the two people were indeed registered volunteers, and would be allowed in. I leaned back in my seat, mentally thanked God that my team were all reliable, calm people who had loaded my gear on the coach for me, and exhaled for the first time in about two hours. We were running a bit late, so I texted the people we were due to meet in a Tesco's car park in Clowne (coach pick-up points are always such glamourous locations), and told them we'd be a bit late but not to worry.

It really shouldn't have surprised me when, 10 minutes later, the driver turned round and, in tones of deepest gloom, informed us: "Sorry, the coach is broken - we're going to have to stop at the next service station and wait for a replacement".


* mostly from the family of the word "Fuck".

Back From Glasto

 I returned from Glastonbury last week, having seen the Rolling Stones, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Vampire Weekend, and many more. I also caught a hideous cold that left me unable to speak or type for a week, hence absence of blogging.

Blogging will happen soon, but until there, here's a video of Mumford and Sons closing the festival to make up for it.

Chased by a Giant Banana

You know those dreams where you’re being chased by something in a random location?

Recently I was chased around the main hall of the Eldon Leisure Centre by a giant banana carrying a golf club caddy.

Well okay, it wasn’t an actual banana. It was a man in a banana suit and we were doing circuits round the hall.

If you’re wondering, it was his 50^th birthday. Apparently this chap is famous among the regular circuiteers for eating banana sandwiches in the sauna after a workout (…?), so for his birthday they insisted he wear a banana suit and carry a golf club caddy around whilst doing the circuits class. Later, they presented him with a cake in the shape of two women’s breasts, into which the instructor pushed his head whilst someone took a photo. Everyone kissed him on the cheek on the way out.

I understand that some people take drugs so that they can see weird things. Occasionally I wonder whether I can get some drugs that STOP me seeing weird things. Since I’ll be in Glastonbury next week for the festival, I may well need them. Back soon…

Festival Planning

Not much to report at present. I'm heading to Glastonbury next month. This may be my last time as a volunteer, or as the organiser. Then again, it may not. My going is dependent on whether or not I'm still in my current job. As a union member, I can organise my teams of bar volunteers to raise funds for the union at the festivals, which I've been doing since 2005 (my God, that's a long time). Were I employed somewhere else, or in a job where it wasn't possible for me to devote my time to organising the volunteers, this might not happen anymore, and it's not impossible for me to move jobs. That could happen next year, so I've decided to take advantage this year and enjoy Glastonbury.

Alas, I'm still doing the organising. See above t-shirt picture.

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.

Glastonbury Day 5: "There Are Eyeballs In A Tree"

Day 5 found we Glastonbury old hands lying about on our stomachs in our usual Space of Coolness near the toilets in the morning (along with a few usurpers), before peeling off in various directions to enjoy the festival. I was on the 5pm-10pm shift with N. C, L & T had a different shift which fortunately finished at 8pm, so all of us did the Dance of Going To See Muse Tonight, Yay, again in the interests of good luck, before heading off to the Pyramid Stage to see the Lightning Seeds. I seem to remember it was on this occasion that we learned more about each other’s sexual preferences than any of us ever needed to know (alcohol wasn’t involved at this time in the morning, so I know not why the conversation took a turn that involved the phrase “hair-pulling”), and also the following discussion as we passed the cow barns on the way in:

L: I think the cows are talking to me.
C: Really?
L: MOOOO.
Cow from inside the barn: MOOOOOOO!!!!
L: You see?
Me: You’re like the Cow Whisperer.

We settled ourselves in at a comfortable spot towards the back of the field. The great thing about the Pyramid Stage is that the visuals and audio are pretty good from just about everywhere, so if you don’t fancy being in the squash at the front, you can occupy the “picnic” bit at the back of the field, where people spread themselves out with blankets, chairs, and four-packs of Carlsberg. Or, in our case, frosty lemonades and iced coffee – we really were far too respectable. Iced coffee from the stall near the Pyramid Stage was fast becoming my favourite thing, and if you know me, you’ll know that for it to be too hot for me to drink liquid coffee means it was pretty fricken’ hot.

We sprawled about all over the field, basking in the sunshine. Then jumped up and down to “Three Lions” and “Life of Riley”. Then sat down again, because it was roasting. Now I like the heat, and am famed among my friends for feeling the cold if there’s a stiff breeze. Indeed, one of my colleagues at work once dubbed me “The Lizard” for my ability to sit around in the warmth, but this was pushing it, even for me. People were hiding in any bit of shade they could find. After the Lightning Seeds finished, we went our separate ways to see the different bits of the festival we were interested in. I went off to catch one of the bands at the West Holts (ex- Jazz World) Stage, then hide from the sun inside tents. Specifically, the Cabaret Tent, where I was about to fufil a six-year-old Glastonbury personal tradition.

I was at the Cabaret Stage to see the punk performance poet, Attila the Stockbroker. Attila was the first act I ever saw at Glastonbury, back in 2005. I was trudging along in the mud past a tent, when I heard a song with the memorable refrain: “Aneurin Bevin, your party is dead / And the time for a new one is nigh / Will the last person left please turn off the lights? / New Labour, just fuck off and die.” I promptly wheeled left, and became a fan of Attila the Stockbroker. I now always check the line-up to see if I can get to his show, and this year my luck held; he was on at 3pm. I settled in early to avoid the sun and stake out my spot.

Whilst in the Cabaret Tent, I also got to see the Great Glastonbury Filling The Tent Trick. It was impressive. As the previous act (a middle-aged man in a kilt doing diablo tricks) trotted off, the compere decided the crowd was not impressive enough for Attila the Stockbrocker, and announced: “Right everyone, we’re going to do the Glastonbury Filling the Tent Trick. This always works. Trust me. Right now I want all the people at the back to stand up, stand up, yes that’s right, don’t worry, you’ll get to sit back down again soon, so just go stand at the back and fill the entrances. That’s right, fill the entrances right up so that it looks like the entire tent is standing room only, that’s it, excellent. And now, when I raise my arms, I want you all to clap and cheer as if the most exciting thing you’ve ever seen in your life is on stage, Really raise the roof. That’s it. Right, one-two-three… Yes! Excellent! Keep going, keep going, it’s working, even louder please, even louder, that’s it, the people are coming in – make room for them, folks! Make room! Fantastic!”

He was right; it did work. Drawn by the magnetic urge to see what all the fuss is about and the fear that you might be missing a good time, people packed themselves into the tent, and Attila came onstage to see a full tent, which waved back at him. He ran through his list of favourites: “Libyan Students from Hell”, “Doggy on a String” and the song with the afore-mentioned chorus, “Guy Fawkes’ Table”. You can always tell when people in the tent have never seen him perform it before; they’re the ones who gape with surprise at the chorus, then laugh, then cheer. As his set ended, I reluctantly assumed the perpendicular, and dragged myself off to the beer tent to get on with my shift.

There’s not a lot to say about the shifts at Glastonbury this year, which is a good thing. You show up, you push beer over the counter at people, you throw the cash in the bucket, you repeat. Ours was, as previously observed, a very good and well-run bar to work in. The only challenge was that for some reason people would enter the tent at one end and form a queue there, rather than spreading out down the bar where there were more people to serve them. Being an insanely helpful type, I developed a Village People-style routine where, whenever this happened, I went up to that end and yelled “Folks, please move down inside the tent – we are waiting to serve you at the other end!” then did a sort of Mexican wave indicating the general direction of the people waiting to serve.

By and large, the punters at Glastonbury at our tent were good people. This is something I’ve observed on many occasions; I’ve no idea what working in a bar on a professional basis is like, but by and large, the Glastonbury punters are fairly easygoing. I was happy this year not to be in the Dance Field. The Dance Field is probably my least favourite bit of the festival; it is not my scene, and probably has a higher proportion of drink- / drug- casualties who are still up and perambulating around than anywhere else in the festival. (We used to call the 11am-5pm Sunday shift on the bar in the Dance Field the “zombie shift” because of the appearance of anyone who staggered into it at that time.)

By contrast, our bar was cheerful and, being next to the Pyramid Stage, had the best live soundtrack ever. It’s a funny thing about Glastonbury. We are all so used to hearing music in the background that at first, the sound of “Time to Pretend” or “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing” playing nearby doesn’t strike you as remarkable; then you look up and realise that, actually, you’re hearing MGMT or Scissor Sisters playing it live. As the slogan has it: “If Carlsberg did live bar music…”

I was sorry to miss seeing Scissor Sisters, as they were on before Muse, but my shift clashed. At least I got to hear them, albeit through the tent wall. Fortunately, I was going to get to see Muse.

If you know me, you’ll know that Muse are pretty much my favourite band, ever. I have seen them live once before at the Metro Radio Arena in Newcastle, but whilst that was fantastic, there’s something about the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury that seems to add an extra dimension to the artists’ performance. Probably, it’s the knowledge that a fair part of their audience did not pay for their ticket specifically so that they could see them, and is standing there thinking: “Go on then, impress me”. To say that I was bouncing up and down a bit as the clock ticked towards 10pm would be accurate.

Fortunately for N and I, Muse were on in the field next to us at 10.15pm. As soon as we finished (and you’d better believe we were in the queue for signing off the work rota and collecting our shift vouchers about 9.55pm), we tore out of the tent, made the fastest change into our non-work clothes ever, then took off towards our rendezvous with L, C, & T like heat-seeking missiles. Amazingly, we found them, and threaded our way through the MASSIVE crowd to the best spot we could find. Annoyingly, it had a guy behind us who apparently believed that Muse’s light show really needed him to point his green laser pointer at the top of the Pyramid Stage as an interesting addition. Sadly, he was not near enough behind us that I could “accidentally” tread on his foot.

All this was forgotten when Muse strutted on stage like returning heroes. (I’m sorry, this is the point in this blog where my objectivity is temporarily absent – I apologise if I sound like a cross between a fangirl and a sleep-deprived NME reporter, normal sarcastic service WILL be resumed further down this blog when Muse have gone offstage.) Matt Bellamy looked out at the crowd and muttered into the mike “Fucking hell, this is massive!”, and, in the words of the NME’s reporter, “did his best not to look like a man who plays to 25,000-capacity stadiums every day of his working week. (He does. He so does.) But yeah, maybe this one’s a little bit special…”.

Not just for the obvious reason, which is that the Glastonbury Saturday headline slot on the Pyramid is the “you have made it to the big league” signifier. If you’re a fan of Muse, this had a special resonance. Muse’s first performance on the Sunday of the festival on the Pyramid Stage back in 2004 is widely regarded as being the moment they entered rock’s big league and made it into the “you might have heard of them” mainstream. Unfortunately, it was also followed by one of the band’s worst moments, when their drummer Dominic Howard’s father collapsed and died of a heart attack half an hour after watching his son’s band on the main stage. Whether Muse would ever play Glastonbury again was something of a hushed question among their fans. To see them back on the stage was an emotional experience.

Then they opened up with “Knights of Cydonia”, and the crowd went ballistic. At this point I can really only say that I enjoyed the whole gig immensely (with the exception of Annoying Green Pointer Guy). For me Muse on top form + Glastonbury on a summer’s evening = perfect musical experience. Hearing “Guiding Light” live was a particular highlight for me, it’s one of my favourites from “The Resistance”. I also think that Matt Bellamy may actually have said more to the audience whilst onstage than at just about any gig I’ve seen footage of. He is notorious for saying very little to the audience other than “Hello, how are you doing?”, then ripping into “Plug In Baby” or “Stockholm Syndrome”, apparently out of the feeling that the audience is there to see him play rather than listen to him talk. (Possibly correct, although I think the Saturday evening audience would have been quite receptive to tales of aliens taking over the world in disguise.) Seeing him actually smile at the audience and say hello was quite a nice moment.

Then, of course, it was back to “Hysteria” and “Supermassive Black Hole”, and the party continued until Muse finally capped an excellent, excellent performance by bringing the Edge on stage and concluding with “Where the Streets Have No Name”. I’d like to say I don’t need other people to validate my taste, but when you have a favourite band, and when you get to see that favourite band demonstrate their brilliance to 40,000 people plus the watching media, it’s a very, very nice moment.

As the field very slowly emptied, we headed for our rendezvous at the Bread and Roses pub nearby. The Bread and Roses is another WBC bar, and highly popular due to the fact that it was the only bar in the main festival area that took WBC end-of-shift drinks vouchers. In the old days, any WBC bar would take them in exchange for a drink, which made being a volunteer somewhat more fun. Indeed, I don’t think I paid for a drink during the entirety of my first festival back in 2005 (people would just hand over the drink and grin “Nah, don’t bother” at you when you proffered the voucher), which is, of course, why the WBC no longer does things this way.

It does mean that the Bread and Roses is the default off-duty bar for WBC workers, and it was packed that night. We found each other, found some drinks and, after quickly making some new friends, found some seating in, around and on one of the very elderly sofas in the bar. Suddenly, Alabama 3 wandered onstage and started singing. We’d reached the point in the festival where this sort of thing had become the norm. Due to my alcohol intake, I actually cannot remember a great many details of their performance, except that a) I enjoyed it and b) at one point they were singing a slow country and western dirge when suddenly the lead singer yelled “Nah, you don’t wanna hear any more of this sad country and western shit!”, stopped the song halfway through and broke into a much livelier singalong song, to wild cheers from the (largely drunk) audience.

At this point, a debate occurred within the team. We’d talked early about going to see a band recommended in the Guardian Guide to the Festival, the Phenomenal Handclap Band in the Dance East tent, introduced by Craig Charles. Some of us were still up for this, but others were fading fast. After a slightly intense debate, myself and T decided that no, we actually weren’t too tired to go watch them. We staggered on out of the tent and rambled over to the Dance Field, stopping for a much-needed pee on the way. We were merrily rambling onward towards the music tent when, from a young woman nearby, there came an ear-piercing screech: “THERE ARE EYEBALLS IN A TREE!”

I turned to look, and very nearly jumped behind T and yelled “GAAHH!” Because there were, indeed, giant eyeballs in a nearby tree, which is quite a freaky sight when you aren’t expecting it. We stared at them for several minutes, wondering why on earth anyone had put eyeballs in a tree. The only conclusion we could come up with was that someone at Glastonbury hates the inhabitants of the Dance Field with a vengeance, and decided to put up something that would give anyone in an altered state paranoid visions for the rest of the festival. If this was so, I can understand their motivation (see my earlier comments for why).

We made it to the tent, and the band were on, and hugely popular (it looked like everyone else had read the Guardian Guide, too). The tent was jumping with happy people in costumes clutching drinks and glowy light sticks, and we merged into the crowd, pausing only so that T could get her photo taken with a young man and his girlfriend who’d come dressed as “Where’s Wally?” and his girlfriend Wallette. We drank, we waved our hands in the air, we jumped around, and when the band finished at half three in the morning, we weaved our merry way back home, having a good-natured drunken debate with two lads in a similar state of inebriation, about something which I entirely cannot remember. I couldn’t remember it the morning afterwards either – it’s not the passage of time to blame. Quite possibly the best single day I’ve ever had at the Glastonbury festival. What was to happen next?

Glastonbury Day 4: "Play Something We Know!"

Day 4 dawned hot and sunny, again. We had our morning routine worked out by now: arise, open tent / crawl out of tent, get up and shower whilst there was no queue (if feeling organised), kip no. 2, awake, eat breakfast together, gather in the shady spot. T, C and L had done sterling work and found the only really cool spot in the entire WBC campsite. It was in the shade of the toilet block, but we didn’t particularly care, since there was no smell, a nice breeze, and it was a big enough patch of shadow to hold all of us. We settled in for a natter before we all decamped to watch Rolf Harris officially open Glastonbury 2010 on the Pyramid Stage.

The heat, the heat… it felt like walking through an oven. And in answer to the obvious, yes, I preferred it to staggering around in mud and having to pull on a full set of wellies and waterproofs in the morning before I could go for a pee, but a dusty field with little shade and no nearby water to jump into to cool off in isn’t that much fun, either.

On the other hand, I was easily distracted by C’s incessant complaining about Rolf Harris. For almost the entire 20 minute walk, he kept up a running monologue of “I’m not going to see Rolf Harris. Rolf Harris is crap. Why do you want to see him? Why are we doing this? This is stupid.” All the while being pulled along by L, who was refusing to give him any choice whatsoever in the matter. The “almost” is because at one point we encountered a woman who may have been a survivor of the original Glastonbury festival in 1973 (I’m not trying to be uncharitable here, but it kinda looked like that) and who was wandering about topless, and this stunned us all into silence.

I brought up the rear, hoping vaguely to find a stall selling sachets of suncream. Not giving yourself backache at Glastonbury involves a fine judgement of carrying precisely what you need for the whole day (to prevent unnecessary-foot-aching journeys back to the tent), but only what you need (to prevent throwing your back out). I wanted some suncream I could stick in the top pocket of my shirt, but alas none was forthcoming, so I decided to go for Option B, and just nick suncream from other people as and when I needed it.

We arrived at the Pyramid Stage to find a massive field full of people wearing straw hats and shorts, excitedly awaiting the arrival of an octogenerian Antipodean. I was actually caught in the Great Rolf Harris Crush of 2009, when the organisers foolishly put him on the Jazz World (now the West Holts) Stage, and huge queues of people clogged the pathways surrounding the field. We turned around and went back, because it was obvious we would get nowhere near the stage, and I reflected on the fact that only at Glastonbury would you see people forming a massive queue to see Rolf Harris play the digeridoo.

Sensibly, this year the organisers had put him on the Pyramid Stage and made him the festival opener. As we arrived and fought our way into the crowd, Rolf opened up with a blast on the digeridoo, and a cheerful insult for a member of the stage crew who failed to throw him a bottle of water: “You could play cricket for England, mate!”. Rolf went through all the classics: “Jimmy My Boy”, “The Ladies at the Court of King Caractacus”, “Tie Me Kangeroo Down”, “Waltzing Matilda” and, of course, “Two Little Boys”. I recently learned that “Two Little Boys” was inspired by the death on the battlefield of Rolf Harris’s brother during WWII. Apparently his father was in a different regiment, and believed for the rest of his life that, had he only been in the same regiment, he could have pulled his brother to safety, just as in the song. When Rolf Harris played “Two Little Boys” to his grandmother, she listened all the way through, then said at the end “Please, never play that to me again”.

I didn’t know this at the time, so I simply joined in the communal singalong. So did C. I have a hilarious video of the five of us boogieing along to Rolf singing “Waltzing Matilda”. And yes, we did get him to admit afterwards that he’d enjoyed it. We had different shifts and different things we wanted to see, so the five of us went our separate ways and planned to meet later for a drink.

As the day wore on, the heat became increasingly oppressive. I took shelter from it in the Circus Tent. Always a favourite of mine at Glastonbury – there’s so much more to the festival than the music stages. This turned out not to be so much a tent as a communal sauna. Fortunately, I’d been at Glastonbury for over three days now, and was sufficiently in the festival mindset that lying about in a tent clad only in sweat, my bra and some shorts, in the presence of lots of strangers seemed like an entirely rational response to the situation. (I did keep my bra on though – I wasn’t feeling that relaxed).

At 2pm, mine and N’s six-hour shift started. An experience I can best compare to serving beer in a canvas sauna. At least we had access to drinks and ice, and as the afternoon worn on, the heat slowly bled from the day, reaching the ideal point around 6pm. From there it began to drop cooler and cooler. After a certain amount of experimentation, I’d found the ideal combination of stuff to take with me to the tent. As the shift ended, on went the leggings under shorts, long-sleeved t-shirt, jacket, and socks under sandals. (Yes, I know. Fashion faux pas. We’re in a field, who gives a fuck?)

Also as the shift ended, off went N and I in search of some decent food. We found it at a nearby Thai Curry stall which had apparently won lots of festival food awards. We wandered off in search of seats, and found some in front of the bar we’d been working in. Which was, conveniently, in front of the Cider Bus.

It was also, less conveniently, next to a passed-out drunk slumped on a bench, whom N preferred not to sit near. I wondered what it said about me that my eye had scanned Passed-Out Guy and decided he posed no threat. And yes, that’s heartless, but what could I have done for him? Put him in the recovery position? Woken him up? Either would probably have resulted in cursing and vomit, and I wasn’t wearing wellies. Instead, I thoughtfully ate my curry, and listened to Dizzee Rascal on the Pyramid Stage. N not being a fan of Mr Mills, we went off in search of more tuneful music on the nearby bandstage, then headed back to the Pyramid Stage to see Gorillaz headline.

Ah, Gorillaz’s headline set… Mmm. It’s a tricky one. If you’ve ever read any of the reviews for it, you’ll know that it was not widely regarded as a success.

Which in some ways is a shame. There was a lot of anticipation before the Pyramid stage that evening, and when screens came on to show Snoop Dogg rapping “Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach”, cheers came from across the field. I remember the first twenty minutes of the set as being pretty damn good, maybe not in the very highest bracket for a Glastonbury set, but definitely up around the four-star mark, as the band went through the first half of “Plastic Beach”. Damon Albarn swapping between piano and lead vocals to sing “Rhinestone Eyes” was a particular highlight, seeing Bobby Womack join in on “Stylo” was amazing, and when they played “Melancholy Hill”, it was one of those moments where you hear a song for the first time and instantly fall in love with it. When it happens in the middle of a field in the evening, surrounded by thousands of other people, it is the sort of transcendent experience that causes newspaper music reviewers to reach for the phrase “Glastonbury Moment”.

And then things started to unravel. Now, I actually admire Damon Albarn’s determination not to give the public what they want, which takes some balls if you’re the opening day headliner at just about the biggest music festival in the UK calendar. However, I question the wisdom of doing this by employing the Syrian National Flute and Drum Orchestra (I think) to play a musical interlude for what felt like about 15 minutes, which is far too long when you’re in front of a crowd wanting hit songs to sing along to. Rightly or wrongly, that’s what the Pyramid Stage is about, and I couldn’t help wondering if Gorillaz might actually have worked better on the Other Stage, where the crowd is a wee bit more alternative and open-minded. The Pyramid Stage crowd wanted songs they knew, or at the very least, songs they could jump around to. As the Guardian’s music critic put it: “There is a time and place for spotlighting virtuosos in unfamiliar disciplines but this emphatically is not it”.

As the show continued, it became painfully obvious that Gorillaz didn’t, quite, have the big repertoire of songs to draw on to fill the entire slot. I think people would probably have still been happy, though, if they’d stuck to a set of continual pop songs with an ever-changing line-up of People Who Are Famous Enough That You Know Them, like Lou Reed – watching him onstage alongside Damon Albarn, Mick Jones and Paul Simon was one for the rock geeks. “Dare” was a highlight, too, but unfortunately its very popularity only pointed up the fact that people were jumping around because they knew it, and once it was finished, they went back to going “Huh?” at the stage. Particularly at what I remember as being one of the most painful moments to watch, “Plastic Jet”.

“Plastic Jet” is a song about… well, it’s not 100% clear from the lyrics, but in the context of the whole album, it’s about alienation from the natural world and wasting our resources (or something along those lines). I seem to remember watching the band sing it against a backdrop of some of the goriest footage of whales being slaughtered that I ever hope not to have to see again. Damon Albarn then tried to get the crowd to learn the chorus and sing along.

Since the chorus is: “It’s all good news now / Because we left the taps running / For a hundred years / So drink from the cup / The plastic cup, drink / Drink to the purple, the people / The plastic-eating people”, this was not destined to go well. Some of us did give it our best shot, but it was actually quite painful to watch Damon Albarn wheedling “Oh come on, please?” to a crowd who were clearly not up for it – especially if you, like me, had been there when he broke down in tears at the overwhelming warmth and support from the crowd when Blur headlined on Sunday night last year.

The next high point came when Albarn and the Japanese artist Little Dragon sang an exceptionally lovely ballad together, which would later cause me to scratch my head in bewilderment at why on earth Albarn cursed one of the most romantic songs he’s ever written with the godawful title, “To Binge”. For me, the high point after that was the tribute to the recently-deceased Dennis Hopper, “Fire Coming Out of the Monkey’s Head”.

Now, my tastes in music are weird, and I usually like the tracks on albums which nobody else likes. “Fire Coming Out of the Monkey’s Head” is a spoken-word parable of environmental catastrophe on Gorillaz’s second album, “Demon Days”, with Dennis Hopper providing the narration. Spooky and compelling, it was a real treat for me – but not, alas, for the two men standing next to me, who yelled “Play a song!” “Play something we know!” at the stage, and voiced the desires of many.
Albarn apparently heard their call and answered it, as Gorillaz ended their set with their biggest two songs, “Feel Good Inc” and “Client Eastwood”, with Snoop Dogg joining in on the rap sections in “Client Eastwood”. Mollified, the crowd got on down and boogied, ending on a happy note, although later on the way back to the village campsite, C and I would compare notes and agree that it was a shame he didn’t use the original rap from the song. I guess when you’re a Big Star you want to put your own stamp on things, but the rap in “Client Eastwood” is what people were wanting to hear, and it was a bit of a shame not to get the original lyrics. Still, it was a good first day to the festival. And the pints of beer and cider in the Village bar that ended it were very welcome. Onward to Day Five…

Glastonbury Day 3, Thursday: “You Don’t Like To Complain About the Sunshine, But….”

Day 3 dawned, and the heat still continued. Better prepared for it this time, I staggered out of the tent at 6am, went for the usual semi-conscious first pee of the day, staggered back, shed most of my sleeping clothes, threw my arm over my eyes, and fell back to dozing on top of the sleeping bag. Three hours later, I awakened and wandered off to join the others for breakfast. One of our neighbours who L and C had kept amused with their bickering last night commented to me “They’re just like a married couple”. I agreed – they kept arguing all the time and never had sex. (C was sweetly devoted to his lady, and L was madly infatuated with her new boyfriend.)

It was immediately obvious that treating L’s hayfever was going to have to take priority, as her eyes were red and she could barely see. We gathered our worldly goods and wandered down the increasingly familiar dirt track from the WBC village to the festival site. We were in a good location this time, with the road from our campsite leading straight onto the Railway Track – the main road through the festival site. Fortunately, the medical centre was immediately inside the site.

Unfortunately, they were not able to help very much, instructing us to go to the pharmacy and buy eye drops. We headed off yet again in search of the elusive pharmacy. I reflected on the fact that you’d think the only pharmacy serving a festival site the size of Sunderland would be better signposted and marked on the map. L was really suffering, it was roastingly hot, and it was not the most fun walk I’ve ever had through the Festival. We eventually found it (it was one field beyond where N and I had stopped looking the night before, annoyingly), and purchased the strongest eyedrops they had for sale. T appointed herself L’s nurse: “Put them in your eyes, right now. And don’t rub them. No, don’t rub them. You’ll need to put them in again tonight, even if you don’t feel like it. And don’t rub them!”

We split up to go our separate ways and have a wander before the festival started. I bought a handbag, and wandered to the Green Fields, where I went for an explore. I do love the Green Fields; they are, by far, my favourite part of the festival. Peaceful, devoted to healing and the earth, not filled with drunken wasters. If the entire festival consisted just of the Green Fields, I could probably spend a weekend there quite happily. Then again, you could easily split Glastonbury into four or five separate festivals. The sheer scale of the place takes some getting used to.

I quite fancied a massage, but all the therapists were booked up, so I went and sat in a meditation tent until peaceful harmony reigned in my world. After the stress of the last half a year, I needed to calm down a bit. Refreshed, I made my usual pilgrimage up to the top of the site; the Stone Circle and Viewing Field. I seem to remember that the Stone Circle is not actually very old – it’s a modern circle – but it looks impressive and is always surrounded by people lounging around. I wandered along, then crossed across to the Viewing Field and took some panoramic shots of the site in the sunshine, then strolled on down to start my first shift of the Festival at 5pm.

Ah, to be back behind the WBC bar… the memories came flooding back. Some were good; the time we got the main stage bar at Leeds festival, so had a frontline view of all the acts even when we were serving. Some were bad; the time I did my first-ever shift behind a WBC bar in the now-defunct Jazz Café bar at Glastonbury 2005. We were an hour late due to the mud slowing things now and the bar being incredibly well-hidden, the floods had knocked out the electric beer and cider pumps, and the water seeping into the tent had produced conditions behind the bar that led some people to compare it to trying to serve beer in the trenches. (Except, you know, without the rats, the disease, the German snipers, the poison gas and the general fear of dying a horrible death at any moment, so basically not really like being in the trenches at all.)

Some were infuriating; the time we worked an extra shift on our first day at Leeds festival until 2 in the morning, with a manager whom we found apparently completely and lying down in the staff rest area. Some were life-changing; the first time I heard Muse play live at Leeds 2006… I really have been doing this for a while.

From the start, it was obvious that the Village Inn was going to be a joy to work behind. The management team were fantastic. (Not just my opinion – many people posted on the WBC Servers Facebook page to say so!). They were supportive, they kept the bars stocked up, they worked hard, and peace and love reigned all around. Except for the people who we had to ask for ID. I hate this part of the job as I am notoriously rubbish at guessing people’s ages. On the other hand, it can be amusing. I still remember the time when I asked a young lad for ID at last year’s Glastonbury, and he presented me with a “national ID card”. I adopted my solemn face and muttered “I’ll have to see the manager”. (Actually, I didn’t need to, but when you know you’re going to have to take someone’s ID, it’s as well to pre-empt the “I want to talk to the manager” line of argument.) We both had a laugh, then I returned to inform him of the decision.

Me: I’m sorry, we’re going to have to confiscate this.
Him: Why?
Me: It’s not a valid form of ID. Britain doesn’t have identity cards. (Inside my head: “And even if it did, that isn’t how you spell ‘Parliament’.”)

He wandered off looking as though he was on the verge of tears. I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that. Then again, most people who try to get served underage probably don’t much care about landing the person who serves them with an £80 fine. I certainly didn’t when I was roaming Wakefield’s Westgate Run aged 16 getting pissed in the pubs…

The shift ran smoothly, with the only problem being the heat. It was incredibly hot inside the tent, and I tried not to think about what it was going to be like in the full heat of the day for the 2pm shift tomorrow. The phrase “sauna with beer” jumped to mind. It was already becoming apparent that if “Dunkirk spirit” was the catchphrase of the 2005 and 2007 festivals, “You don’t like to complain about the sunshine, but…” would be the catchphrase of 2010. As you walked around the site, you could already see people starting to colonise every available bit of shade. Trees, hedges, even bins – their shadows were filled with pink festivalgoers panting like dogs. I suppose I should have been grateful for small mercies since, although the bar was very near the toilets, there was, thank God, no smell.

N was knackered after his shift, but I wanted to go for a wander rather than return to the WBC canteen tent and drink. I’ve got nothing against drinking in the WBC canteen tent, but we’d been doing it for two nights on the trot and I fancied a change of scene. I strolled off to look for excitement, and ended up in the Queen’s Head, a giant bar / stage / nightclub tent. A random stranger bought me a drink, and I stayed there and danced for a while, then wandered slowly back, stopping at any bar I saw that looked interesting, including one where people were dancing with hula hoops on top of giant wooden reels.

I have no idea why anyone bothers taking drugs at Glastonbury. The place is weird enough as it is.

Glastonbury Day 2: I Blame Wayne Rooney

Day 2 dawned bright and sunny.

Too bright and sunny; it was impossible to sleep inside the tents past 8am. I have a high toleration for heat, but even I found it was like trying to sleep in a greenhouse. Ironic, since the night had been freezing cold (well, not literally freezing, but so cold I’d struggled to get to sleep until I put a jumper, trousers and socks on). As the festival wore on, people began to adapt. Around 7-8am, you’d see the sleeping changeover. People in pyjamas would emerge from their tents, dragging their sleeping rolls and sleeping bags with them. Those with tents with awnings would curl up in the shade there, whilst those in smaller tents would kip in the shadow of their tent, or drape a large towel between their tent and a neighbour’s, thus creating a nice large shady spot for an al freso kip.

Nevertheless, we awoke, we stretched, we showered, we ate a cooked breakfast which was not bad except for the peculiar scrambled eggs, and then myself and N dashed off for our briefing in our bar. L, C, and T had not been assigned to a particular bar, so had an afternoon briefing, and a longer day to spend lying around the campsite relaxing.

N and I dashed about looking for our bar, found it behind a hedge near the Pyramid Stage, ducked into the backstage area, and wandered about looking for the briefing, which we knew had already started. I poked my nose into the backstage area of the bar, to be confronted by a tall young woman with long dark hair, a nose ring, a dark blue flowery dress and wellies, dangly earrings made from the loops in the middle of cassette tapes strung together, and the biggest three-cornered pirate’s hat - complete with skull - you’ve ever seen. She was one of the station managers.

We said hello, then N stuck his head in and yelled that he’d found the briefing in the staff rest area of the bar behind the tankers. WBC bars get through so much beer and cider, there are large tankers – the sort you see trundling along the M1 with “Carlsberg” written on the side – parked behind the bar tent. Meaning that a WBC bar is the only place you will hear a bartender using the excuse “Sorry I can’t serve you right now, we’re just changing the tanker”.

The briefing consisted of thirty volunteers of varying ages and genders sitting on the ground in the sunshine drinking water and listening to the bar manager, Paddy, and the assistant bar manager, Mark. Paddy was a huge bearded Irishman with a faintly piratical air, khaki shorts, a green Glastonbury T-shirt, a baseball cap and a cheerful grin. Mark was a smaller Englishman who, in his own words, was nearly thirty but looked about twelve. Paddy was running through the legal requirements of working on the bar, dwelling heavily upon the importance of asking everyone who didn’t actually have grey hair and wrinkles for ID.

As part of this, he explained the concept of the Filter of Shit. The Filter of Shit works as follows: if Paddy received from the police or the festival organisers about selling to underage people / not checking IDs / not selling correct weights and measures, he would then filter it down to Mark and the station managers, who would then filter it down to us. On the other hand, Paddy assured us, this also worked the other way and they were there to support us, so in the event of punters giving us shit about asking them for ID, we were to come and find him. “I LOVE dealing with people like that”, he declared, with the sort of grin I imagine Blackbeard would have worn upon spotting a Spanish galleon on the horizon. We went off to explore the bar area – familiar to me, since most WBC bars are set up the same way.

After that, we escaped into the sunshine and roamed through the festival site. It was all new to N, though not to me, although it was interesting to see the site so early on in the festival. I’d never been there on a Wednesday before, and it was nice to see people creating their own fun. Guitars were brought out and strummed, small stalls were opened, and people wandered freely in the sunshine sucking on large slices of watermelon. It was a truly scorching day, and for the first time ever at the Glastonbury festival I wished I’d brought a bikini.

We headed back to the WBC village to rendezvous with our friends, and found that L and C had gone off to buy chairs whilst we were gone. For a couple of hours we amused ourselves in the sunshine outside our tents, reading the programme, applying suncream, having a drink, customising the chairs with biros and generally hanging out and just chilling. They were a truly great bunch of people and I couldn’t have asked for better companions to spend the festival with.

Eventually, we prised ourselves away from lolling around in the sun, and went off to watch the England match on the big screens near the Pyramid Stage. L, C & T could only stay for half an hour as they had a bar briefing, but myself and N saw the whole match, or at least some of it – our view was obscured by a man with a skull and crossbones flag, who refused to move it despite increasingly strident protests and choruses of “Shit Flag No Fans” from people standing behind him.

N and I would have met up with the others afterwards, but they had been ambushed with an unexpected shift at the bar they’d had their briefing at, so we went for a wander. I found out that one of my favourite bands, Seize the Day, were playing that evening, so N and I made plans to see them, and headed back to the WBC Village for dinner and a drink. We changed into some warmer clothing, and discovered new and interesting patches of sunburn. I had one on my chest which precisely matched where the shawl I’d had round my shoulders whilst watching England had slipped, for which I’m blaming Wayne Rooney.

We marched off to the Mandela bar, only to find it very quiet and with no sign of music. Hmm. This did not bode well. Fortunately, there were some long drop toilets nearby, so I went off to check the band’s stickers with the performance times and locations on (whilst secretly wishing that Seize the Day would advertise somewhere less fragrant).

It turned out they were in the Mandala bar, not the Mandela bar. The Mandala bar was in the Green Fields. I looked at my watch; it was 8pm. We debated whether it was worth going, since we’d arrive in time for the last few songs… N persuaded me it was worth a try. I felt a bit guilty for dragging him all over the site, but we set off with determination, and arrived by 8.30pm. The Mandala bar turned out to be less of a bar than a large café tent with a pedal-powered sound system. As we got there, there was no music drifting out, and we soon learned that technical problems had prevented the band starting on time.

Twenty minutes after we arrived, the band started, and the tent started cheering. It was a mixed crowd of families and passers-by, meaning that it was a polite sort of appreciation, but appreciation it definitely was. Seize the Day played their usual standards – “Designer Kidz”, “With My Hammer” – and gave us some new ones from their new album, with “Globalisation (The Pirate Song)” being especially popular. I trotted over afterwards to buy a CD from them, and we wandered slowly home to meet the others, who were more than slightly disgruntled at having had to work an unexpected shift. C had only had his prescription sunglasses with him (not much use if you need glasses to see and it’s dark in the tent), none of them had had warm clothing for when the temperature dropped in the evening, and L was really suffering with hayfever.

We medicated ourselves with a few drinks in the bar tent, compared our various patches of sunburn – C had the worst – and pottered off to bed. L and C kept us (and some friends we’d made who were camping nearby) awake, and entertained, for a while, with their endless affectionate arguing. I can’t remember all of it, but I do remember the following exchange:

L: “You’re just being really unfair…”
C: “Shut up, you! I should have left you in the car to bark at strangers! AARGH!”
(Pause)
T: “You putting the aftersun on your sunburn, C?”
Bundled in warm clothing against the cold night, we smiled and fell asleep.