Don Your Way column: Why I'll definitely be at Glastonbury next year. Probably. Maybe.
As you sit down to read this week’s Don Your Way column, a few hundred miles away at the other end of the country, more than 200,000 festival goers will be dancing their little, muddy socks off as Glastonbury gets into gear.
As per usual, I shall sadly be watching the events from Worthy Farm in Somerset unfold on a TV screen in the comfort of my own home.
Since about 1989, when Glastonbury and music festivals in general first came onto my radar as an avid reader of inky music papers such as the NME and Melody Maker, I’ve always wanted to subject myself to Britain’s greatest music spectacular.
Every year, I sit watching the likes of Dolly Parton or Barry Gibb or whoever on the box and think: “I’ll go to that next year.”
The stunning sunsets over the Tor, the happy go lucky carefree atmosphere, those flags waving in front of the stage, beer flowing, sunburnt faces bellowing along to anthems at the top of their voices – it all looks so magical and so much fun.
But, to date, it’s never happened.
A few years back it got as far as the registration for tickets phase, but no further.
This weekend, as I sit there getting all dewy-eyed once more as the likes of The Killers and Kylie Minogue do their stuff, I’ll once again be wishing I was in among the throng in front of the Pyramid Stage.
But then I think of the mud, which seems to blanket Glastonbury each and every year, even if its 200c in the shade.
The foul and rancid toilets, hygiene and personal cleaniness going out of the window for a week, the thought of being trapped in a field being forced to listen to someone like Kula Shaker (look them ‘em kids) – all of sudden, watching on the box seems a far better prospect.
I suddenly think back to my attendance at the Reading Festival in 1992 (Nirvana headlined if you’re interested) when a torrential downpour on the Saturday night swept tents away and left the site looking like the Somme.
There’s probably still customers of a Little Chef in Berkshire with vivid flashbacks of me and my badly hungover, tired and unwashed mud-caked entourage crashing through the doors looking for any sort of proper food, sending terrified children scattering.
It reminded me of one of those ‘Top Tips’ in Viz comic which went something along the lines of: ‘create Glastonbury in your own home by putting £250 down the drain, placing your TV at the end of your garden and then inviting complete strangers to come and stand in front of you while urinating and vomiting over you.”
That said, the closest I’ve ever been to Glastonbury was getting lost on the M5 on the way back from Minehead a few weeks back.
Maybe next year.