In 2000 I was all set to be an Oxfam steward. It was an exciting prospect, as I recall.
The application had been straightforward. A list of do’s and don’t’s, things to bring, things to leave at home, was provided. All was well with the world. My tent was proofed and my wellies had no holes. I was ready for whatever a festival weekend might throw at me. Then, on the eve of my departure for Worthy Farm, I went down with a dose of the “squits”. Travelling was out of the question, and several phone calls later, between visits to the loo, it was mutually agreed that I sit it out *literally* and recover.
Sixteen years on and the grossly commercialised festival has my stomach churning for different reasons. Still, it is what it is, and I’m just an old fart moaning about how fings ain’t what they used be. Glasto has never been more popular, has it? Around 170,000 souls all lumped together for rewritten rituals under English summer skies. A weekend of tunes and temptations, all for around £243 a ticket – prices may vary.
For stay-at-homes like me, there’s blanket coverage available across all devices. I don’t doubt it’s possible to pick up Radiohead on the food mixer, with a bit of effort.
Last time I went to Cambridge, in 2012, this left me speechless.