A friend once rang me and asked ‘Am I real?’
Admittedly it was the middle of the night and this and other nonsensical ramblings were the result of a fondness she shares with The Beatles for the chemical which influenced much of their work. But fast forward to the same weekend two years later, and I began to understand the root of her crisis.
…dancing with men wearing glittery military outfits.
Even teetering on the edge of soberness I could be heard on the phone defining my location as ‘behind a secret door, in a room with a velvet heart shaped bed, dancing with men wearing glittery military outfits.’
This will all sound utterly bizarre unless you have ever entered the Alice in Wonderland world that is Glastonbury. The place where reality becomes insanity and coherence is frowned upon.
…the ongoing story of rebellion and debauchery.
The coverage of Glastonbury on the BBC is vast, but no amount of technology can capture the true essence of this festival. One area, ‘Shangri-La’, which this year represented a dystopian world of disease and contamination left muggles perplexed, as it promoted the slogan ‘Recycle by Dying’.
But each year, it returns with another chapter for the ongoing story of rebellion and debauchery. And it is this which makes Glastonbury so special; the extravagance, art and individuality, along with its long history.
…Beyoncé, play some acid house!
Where festivals like Bestival succeed in providing a voice for underground projects and lesser mainstream ideas, without the true longevity of Glastonbury, it can’t compare. You could create a festival with all the money in the world, and still be unable to recreate anything close to the real thing.
Ok, you need dollar (‘dollar is what you need’ – thanks Aloe Blacc) for big acts like Beyoncé, but even she’s not for everyone. As the man in the crowd next to me shouted ‘I’m bored of this RnB sh*t Beyoncé, play some acid house!’
As I emerged from the mud, covered in glitter…
It would be impossible for me to give you ‘Glastonbury in a nutshell’; it is an entity to itself. As I emerged from the mud, covered in glitter, day after day, there was only one thing I could say, ‘Is this real?’