Sorry: long and self-indulgent.
"Gosh" exclaimed Gunter, "I couldn't possibly".

"But you must" they chimed harmoniously "you simply must, it just wouldn't be the same without you".

"But, you just don't understand..." Gunter tried to protest before cutting himself off. If he couldn't believe his own argument how could he possibly hope they would. He offered it anyway, but he knew it was weak and they knew he was going with them.

And so it was amidst a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that the gang clambered aboard their trusty chariot and waved merrily to the Hertfordshire boundary as they sped past it on route to the South West.

The sun stretched and yawned and raised itself from the previous nights' rest, and the first evidence of their destination presented itself to the weary, happy campers. They'd driven through the night, pausing only briefly to fill up their surprisingly swift, but unmistakeably tatty Fiesta, and to top up the caffeine levels of their surprisingly tatty, but unmistakeably swift driver. After what seemed like an eternity, the car finally bounced unhappily through the empty field and each occupant questioned yet again whether the sign at the entrance really had said 'parking: £5'. Surely their collective sleep deprivation hadn't lead to a shared hallucination, and there was the vague memory of presenting a crumpled 'lady' to the crumpled gent on the gate. The sight of the solitary Golf sat in the distant corner soon reassured them and they abandoned the car alongside it and trudged back up to the main road.

"My word" Peter puffed as the tall fence loomed into view.

"Gee whiz" William agreed, "I shouldn't think I'd have the strength to scale that, not in a million years".

"I'm sure we'll find some assistance" hoped James. "There must be some kindly souls here about that could help us".

There were. For £5 a rope was proffered by a kindly Liverpudlian gentleman. They thanked him profusely, but continued their pursuit of an alternate option. One that would cost them less; at least £5 less. As they continued their circumference of the site they encountered numerous groups of terribly helpful and friendly chaps. Largely from Liverpool, each gentleman gestured toward a rope going over, or a hole snaking beneath the perimeter fence, and each one was willing to exchange its use for a small donation. Their persistence paid off, however, as free passage beyond the fence eventually became achievable, and as the last of them blew out a puff of air upon their impact with the soft ground, they felt themselves relax and finally able to take in the rare and unusual beauty that is the Glastonbury Festival.

It was 8 in the morning. The site was at its calmest as almost all the previous nights' revellers had finally taken themselves to bed leaving only a few dazed and confused stragglers; lost, frightened souls who wanted nothing less than to have their hangover exposed to the bright morning sun. For our four, however, the absence of sleep was immediately forgotten and they bounced merrily through the haphazard tents, eager to begin properly the adventure they'd spent hours jabbering excitedly about.

[There now follows a montage from the point of view of Gunter: the day flashes past in the familiar time-lapse style and the images become progressively blurred as the sun seeks solace behind the pyramid stage. Snippets of music interspersed with garbled speech, spat from increasingly gnarled and distorted grimaces offer a disorientating soundtrack. Eventually the underside of a van is briefly, if a little confusingly recognisable, before blackness descends over the screen and the gentle sound of light rain becomes the only sensory stimulant to remain].

"Where the fuck am I? What's crawled into my head and started punching my brain? And, ugh, what's that big face doing there? It's shouting at me. Now there are hands on me; what the fuck is going on here?" The snarling ape dragged me from my refuge beneath the van and continued making sounds. I didn't understand a word of it. I didn't really know where I was, and I definitely couldn't summon any words, so I just walked off and left him swinging his knuckles about the ground while squawking and bleating at the top of his voice.

The sun had risen, but its effect was dampened by the drizzle that just hung in the air and refused to finish its descent. It was 8 in the morning again and now I was one of those freaks, caught out by the early morning. Nowhere to hide from the brutality of my excesses and forced to stumble through the throngs of zombies, gripped by fear and loathing, my body in turmoil and my head wrecked and broken. I found conditions conducive to rolling a spliff by propping myself up against a wall and cowering beneath a small, plastic baby bath, but the cold air mixed with my soggy clothes and I had to keep moving in order to avoid freezing. I accidentally wandered into the path of my partners in crime and couldn't find the energy to berate them for not waking me (I soon discovered that they had no idea of my whereabouts after I'd staggered away before collapsing under the van) and we immediately decided not to prolong our agony, but to head straight out of the site and toward the shitty old Fiesta we'd arrived in just 24 hours earlier.




And here we reach the disappointment: that's the only time I've been to Glastonbury. Everyone I know who's ever been speaks so highly of it that it sounds like a beautiful and perfect dream. They have such fond memories and a constant desire to return that I can only imagine how it really must be there. My only memory is of waking up; tired, confused and in pain. Opening my eyes first to the sight of the van's undercarriage (stop sniggering at the back), then to the contorted, angry face of the man monkey who dragged me from my 'bed' and shouted incomprehensibly at me. And to know that it would now cost me 100 and something quid to experience that again... very disappointing.
( Moey, Tue 1 Jul 2008, 14:47, 1 reply)

I hate it too
I worked there a couple of years ago, when all the tents got flooded, and I hated it. Even though I was sleeping in a van, in the performers area where I got access to showers and decent loos, I still think it was one of the worst experiences of my life.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Tue 1 Jul 2008, 18:36, closed)