Imperfect harmony

Glastonbury is far from perfect. My sources tell me that, not more than a decade ago, the number of traditional proper hippies, the dreadlocked-vegetarian-peace-loving-sandal-wearers, far outweighed the white, middle class workers who are there in force these days. But that's capitalism for you... it kind of ruins everything it touches. People used to get in for free, so the organisers put up a gazillion pound perimeter fence, hoiked up the entry fees and made the ticket purchasing system basically impossible without access to a computer. Hey presto: bye bye hippies. In return for the scorching ticket prices, you get world-class musicians on every stage, impressive security, and a mass of other attractions including a hidden after-hours dance area that would be more than enough to entertain me seven nights in a row, even without the main acts. But the organisers just can't resist the lure of more wonga - and much of this wonga is going to charity, so it's not categorically evil - but so every year they extend the camping grounds and allow more and more people in - this year there were 175,000 tickets sold (35k more than last year), so with all the thousands of staff, as well as the accompanied children who get in without tickets, attendance must've topped 200,000 - that's just under the population of Aberdeen, a Scottish city that is 184.46 square kilometres. The festival site at Glastonbury is around 3.8.

So, in summary: no more hippies. Ticket prices very expensive. Still far more demand than supply. Not enough space. Corporate sponsorship all over the place. Profit over soul.

And yet.

Last year, I thought it was the most magical experience I'd ever had, and that was with the Glastocrush adding some romance. I had severe doubts that anything could ever be an improvement, and was pretty sure that anti-climax was going to hit me like a big bag of brieze blocks. But this year topped it. It really did. I knew my way round this time, and I knew what to expect and what to do - we covered a lot more ground and got a lot less sleep. I laughed until I was nearly sick, several times. I crawled through tiny tunnels in The Rabbit Hole, I did flying angel acrobatics in Block 9, I drank Moscow Mules at Gaz's Rockin' Blues in Shangri-la, I watched a drunk Frank Turner perform a secret gig at a hidden stage in The Unfair Ground, while 100 fans sat round a campfire on sofas at 1.30am. I talked to strangers, I wore a white wig, I danced like a madwoman and ate like royalty, I left my belongings unguarded day after day with no negative repercussions, I queued for thirty minutes each morning just to reach the sink so I could brush my teeth, I fell off a seesaw, I took 300 photographs (which I later edited down to 80), I shouted along to West End Girls so loudly that I went hoarse, I set off a Chinese lantern at the Stone Circle, I didn't shower once in six days despite the 30 degree heat, I fell in love with a million skinny teenage boys, I stood slack-jawed at Stevie's anti-Islamic tirade but happily lost my mind during the rest of his utterly brilliant set, I marvelled at the Scissor Sisters and grumbled in front of Gorillaz, I jumped so long and hard at Dizzee Rascal that I had to do lunges the next morning, I missed England being kicked out of the World Cup because I was watching Ray Davies sing Waterloo Sunset and crying like a baby, I drank a million pints of beer and a lot of white wine, I loved Disraeli and the Small Gods, I got a phenomenal tan, and it took 90 minutes in the searing heat to walk back to the car at the end, dragging a wheelie suitcase over rocky ground with a ten tonne rucksack on my back and sweat pouring down the backs of my legs.

Then I came home, via the beach, slept for 100 hours and still feel like death. And yes, it's corporate, and yes, there's bureaucracy, and yes, it's definitely expensive - prohibitively so for the people for whom it used to be intended. It's very middle class, and very white, and very privileged, and it doesn't really stand for what it should. But fuck it was fun. It won't last, but nothing does, and I'm just very grateful that I was able to experience it the way that I did. It's certainly not perfect, but perfection is a hideous and terrifying notion, and Glastonbury is great. Go.