The Grumpy Scot: Havin' a Festival, Are Ya?

The rain is bouncing off the ground outside as Edinburgh seemingly tries to sell itself as the ideal place to film a prequel/sequel to Se7en, Bladerunner or any other film where miserable weather is as important a character as the psychotic killer and the jaded detective with ambivalent morals. This can only mean two things: Summer Solstice has arrived with the only benefit of the longer daylight period being even more time in which to mull over the vagaries of the British summer; and, in turn, Glastonbury weekend is upon us.

Glastonbury somehow manages to be the both the mummy AND daddy of all festivals, the yardstick against which all the plucky newcomers and upstarts must measure themselves. It is three days of music, performance art, theatre, stand-up, hippies being at one with nature, middle-class kids spending their allowance on 'joints' that smell suspiciously like your mother's spice rack and Keith Allen doing whatever it is that Keith Allen does in order to keep himself in the ever fading limelight. It's an extravaganza. It's Sodom and Gomorrah spliced with The Summer of Love in a never-ending loop. It's dogs on strings and overpriced salmonella in a bap. It's something I've never been to.

I've been to a number of festivals but never made it to Glastonbury. As a self-proclaimed music lover this is probably like deciding the real Mecca was too much hassle and heading down a bingo hall instead. Believe me, though, it's not for the want of trying. Twice I have come close to the Holy Land and every year I am tempted to try again but my near-Glasto experiences come back to haunt me and I plump for watching it on the BBC with red wine and volleys of abuse every time Reggie Yates and Edith Bowman trot out their stilted attempts at 'banter.' What turned me into the bitter, Glasto-spicious man viciously typing these words? Read on...

Near Glasto Experience, Mk I

While at university I worked in a petrol station. As with most retail jobs it wasn't particularly challenging, the main one being staying awake through an eight hour shift. There were two ways to do this. First of all I spent many an evening fucking with the heads of the stoner kids who came in:

Me (standing tall and scowling): You want ten fags AND a packet of Rizla? Why's that?
Kid (shuffling nervously): Er... well... in case the cigarette snaps.

Secondly, we listened to the radio constantly. During the day when there were a number of us on this meant Radio 1, or even worse, local radio. However, once I was on my own in the evening I could get something half decent on, usually The Evening Session. Once in the run up to Glastonbury they were giving away free tickets. These were no ordinary tickets, mind. These were the straggly-haired festival-goers' equivalent of a Wonka Gold number - VIP passes, paid accommodation, spending money and Michael Eavis booking the bands of your choice. I might have made some of that up but you get the gist. The question came up, I knew the answer, I called in. For the first and only time in my life I got through, answered the question correctly and was asked to hold until the song then playing had finished. I'd then appear live on the show to answer the question and act all excitedly when I was told I'd won, even though I already knew this.

The line goes quiet, I assume I'm on hold and think nothing of it. I start to realise a few minutes have passed and the line is still very quiet. I utter a tentative "hello." Nothing. I stretch out the word a little more, desperation sneaking into my voice, "h-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-o-o-o-o?" Still nothing. I pull the phone from ear with the same dread of a slasher movie heroine opening the door of an apparently abandoned cottage. The screen stares blankly back at me, a tiny orange abyss into which my Glastonbury tickets have disappeared. I can't even swear. I rush frantically to my bag and find my charger. I practically leap at the socket on the wall, a flurry of hands and fingers as I connect the phone to power and wait for it to start up. I type in my PIN number, only getting it right on the third attempt and mash the redial button. It rings. It keeps ringing. I tap my feet and mutter under my breath, "come on, please, come on." Finally someone answers. It sounds like the same person I'd spoken to previously so I explain the situation. She sounds genuinely sympathetic but says they had no choice to go to the next caller who'd answered correctly as I was gone when they came back to me. I ask if there's anything else they can do - will they be running the competition again? Is there a second prize? Hell, can they even just give me tickets? I don't give a shit about the fancy VIP pass. Sure it would've been nice but I just want to go to Glastonbury even if it means shitting and showering with the masses. She listens but it's like pleading with a bouncer who's already decided you're not getting in. They take my address and say they'll send me some CDS and other bits and bobs. A couple of weeks later I receive a bulging parcel. My excitement soon fades as I realise they've basically sent me all the promo stuff that no-one at the station wanted - a mixture of generic mid-90s techno and albums that were only ever going to be sold in filling stations. To this day I have rarely gone anywhere without a mobile phone charger.

I was going to include the second Near-Glasto Experience in this post but I have been rambling on quite enough. Instead I will save that for a rainy day (expect it tomorrow). In the meantime, here are five performances I wish I'd been at Glastonbury to witness:

Neil Diamond: Crunchy Granola Suite