The sun raved long and hard at the Glastonbury Festival last weekend, with over 200,000 revelers (including myself) making the pilgrimage down south for a weekend of music, magic and mayhem - minus the mud!
- Havana Club Rum does this to good people..
Arriving on the first night, we drove beneath a hidden network of Ley Lines, floating lanterns and base beat sirens echoing up from deep within the valley. A plume of ecstasy drifting through the air caught many by surprise, including the Diesel team I was camping with (having commissioned Pollocks to create a Michael Jackson Memorial) we remained in that spirited trance throughout the weekend; and were yet to even discover the Stone Circle. Dismounting at Pennard Orchard, we unpacked and made our way en route to the festival gates, aptly prepared for battle with our cavalry leader Cat Crawford, aka ‘The Chipmunk’
The sheer scale of this festival is emphasised by the emptiness of the surrounding fields - still yet to be invaded by the Mighty Eavis. A settlement greater in population than that of Bordeaux, France, this pop-up city represents the true essence of community, explaining why so many have returned year in-year out for the past forty summers. Deprived of nature, Glastonbury invites us urbanites to reconnect with the environment in ways that only a Cub Scout or even Bill Oddie could appreciate. With the finest of culture on show, do not be fooled into thinking that this weekend evolves around the pyramid stage or festival fashions. Yes, everyone is awaiting Stevie Wonder - and yes, there is the odd it-girl such as Pixie Geldof (below) working hard for the cameras, but despite the odd boundary divide between what wrist band you have and accommodation you are camping in, the general vibe is that of a very balanced and euphoric lifestyle. Glastonbury represents a new age battle, free from weapons and anger where everyone is fighting to get high on life. Literally.
Pixie Geldof giving good face in her Diesel ensemble
The expectation to look after your temporary home becomes a personal responsibility, with shit and packaging becoming a constant reminder of how much waste we produce in our daily lives. In order to experience the festival you have no choice but to slum through a sea of drink bottles, chip packets and cigarette butts that festoon the green carpet in homage to the morning after the night before. At home these byproducts are effortlessly flushed away or transported to a distant land, hidden from site and smell, but it is the reality of festival life that makes this experience more visceral and human than reality itself. For three days we are alive. Filthy. Dirty. But, alive.
Sherrill from Models 1 clearly ate too many burgers having crushed Elma the elephant.
Escaping to Blackpool Beach in the early 1900’s or flying to the Costa del Sol in the 70s and 80s, Glastonbury has unintentionally become a holiday resort for Britons looking for that concrete break. The festival has grown from its roots as a hippie jaunt into a national destination for everyone from Chavs to Rock Stars alike. Aside from the obvious, a personal highlight was the Strummerville Campfire, set up by the friends and family of Joe Strummer in the year after his death. The charity seeks to reflect Joe’s unique contribution to the music world by offering support, resources and performance opportunities to artists who would not normally have access to them. Sat around a log fire (myself falling asleep at one point beside the flames) we were intimately seronaded by the likes of Coco Sumner, The Mystery Jets and Jarvis Cocker to name but a few.
After three days and four nights, the festival mirage disappeared into the Somerset valley, leaving us behind with only wrist bands and memories for comfort. Until next year…
