Week 25
Glastonbury - Thursday
“We’re junkies, but we’re nice junkies”
I woke on Thursday with a sore head. I knew I’d been drinking the night before, but that didn’t explain the ring-pull embedded in my forehead. Thursday is the perfect day to explore the site and take in the many delights it has to offer during the daylight hours, including the charming portaloos. There’s a ridiculous amount to do at Glastonbury, aside from using the toilet, but there’s so little time to do it in, especially when you enjoy sleeping as much as I do.
After P. Mushy shared out the mandatory pirate tattoos, Sandro courageously led a guided tour through the mud, for the benefit of T-Reez and Kimbo, who were gracing Glasto for the first time. Thankfully, it was pretty dry but the previous day’s rain made welly-walking in the thick mud an arduous task. We struggled on and covered an admirable amount of muddy ground, sadly with no comical falls to speak of, in spite of my persistent attempts to push people over.
After a trip to the iconic Glastonbury sign, which is similar to the Hollywood sign but spelt differently, we took a well-earned break near the equally iconic Stone Circle, which is similar to Stone Henge but spelt differently, where hundreds of others also lay at rest. There was a faint cloud of smoke rising from nearby and a peculiar smell in the air that could mean only one thing: P. Mushy was nearby. He and K-May joined us following a prenatal massage, which P. Mushy described as the best he’d ever received.
There were all sorts of other crazy cats around us, from dodgy dealers selling laughing gas to kids (K-May), to others selling various bits and bobs, including giant lighters. P. Mushy’s own giant purple lighter was now broken, but he traded it for a new one, from an unsuspecting dealer who looked a bit like Iggy Pop, but more rubbery, who’d mistaken it for one of his own dubious stock. As a bonus, he then recited a lovely poem for us, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
“You don’t get that kind of service at Home Bargains” P. Mushy admitted, “now, that’s a bargain!”
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The Green Police were also hard at work in the vicinity. A fella who’d been sitting in front of us chose precisely the wrong moment to aim his old boy at a hedge, and the green fuzz caught him yellow handed. Prodding him as he walked back to his friends, they educated him and those in earshot on the perils of his urine seeping into the ground and spreading to nearby streams and rivers, where local fish would be understandably appalled.
They also flogged some eco-friendly ‘Cigarette Butt Bins’, but bottled trying to persuade anyone to quit smoking, before setting off once more in hot pursuit of the next man to drop his pants. You may be thinking that Glastonbury is just about mud, giant lighters, drinking, playing ‘Butt the Beer’, and saving the world by collecting deadly cigarette butts, but there’s also a bit of music now and again.
We finally saw our first band of the festival at the Avalon Café, although while they were introducing themselves, P. Mushy and I had slipped away to collect cigarette butts, so I can’t tell you what they were called, or the names of any of their songs, but since when was that important?
Nobody knew the name of the artist who was opening the inappropriately named Wow! Stage either, as it was a ‘Special Guest’. Speculation was rife though, it could have been anyone. Pulp perhaps? Some daft bugger suggested Daft Punk, but I had my fingers crossed for Rastamouse. The Wow! tent was crammed full of an excited mass of bodies, trembling in anticipation, one or two dressed in rodent costumes and Rasta hats, and then, it happened. Kesha, who spells her name with a dollar sign, appeared on stage
“Dog$hit!” was the concise verdict of a chap near Cousin Bish, who was one of many who turned and started marching away as soon as she took to the stage. Cousin Bish and I however, were in heaven. Kesha, Ms. Dynamite and Sandi Thom on one night? Like true punk rockers we put flowers in our hair, and rejoiced at how lovely everything was. In reality I was dejected, so I threw off my Rasta hat and stormed off in a rage. I was intelligent enough to keep my rodent costume.
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At one of Glastonbury’s many popular night spots, known as The Common, Sandro and other commoners were watching some mild-mannered motorcyclists perform the Wall of Death. Meanwhile, I joined Cousin Bish, Barlow, Kimbo and Little P, and using the clearly labelled signposts and our site-maps to great effect, we managed to avoid the tedious events at The Common altogether, instead trudging through the mud in a circular motion in exciting fashion for an hour or so.
In place of rapid bikes, we had folk music in the form of Rory Mcleod and the Familiar Strangers at the Avalon Café to entertain us. You can make your own mind up as to which you’d find more entertaining, but apparently Rory used to be a circus clown and fire eater, and none of the circus clowns or fire eaters who were riding the Wall of Death can say that. Once he and the strangers finished, we finally stumbled across the route to The Common, which luckily, was now shut.
We spent the rest of the night in the Park area, where the queue for the always popular Silent Disco was enormous. Whilst drinking outside the packed Stonebridge Bar, we were joined by a lovely Irish couple, who amused us with stories of their favourite gigs, Glastonbury experiences, and weird naked Englishmen. Like many others at the festival, this was their chance to get away from their rotten kids and let their hair down, even though they were both bald.
“Basically, we’re junkies, but we’re nice junkies,” the Irishman summed up. Like countless others, even though he wasn’t a big fan of U2, he predicted that they would put on a hell of a show and said he’d be there to see it. At about half one, we decided to head homeward and bade farewell to our Irish pals.
“I think I’ll join ya. Where yous headed?” the Irishman said unexpectedly.
“Err, back to the tent,” I replied proudly,
“Losers!” he said, pointing and laughing, “No fuckin’ way! Ya losers! Yous borin’ bastards!” he continued, which was a tad unfair I felt, as it was well past bedtime, and I needed to brush my teeth.
“Well, have a good one!” he said cheerily, and we headed home with pride to join Sandro and co. for a nightcap.
Barlow cracked open a couple of cigars, and we celebrated the fact that after three nights, Glastonbury Festival Of Contemporary Performing Arts And Rastamouse was about to actually begin.
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