Thursday, 31 July 2008

Day 3 Glastonbury

No head in Sarah's crotch but did have knit/purl indentations on my face mingling in with the wrinkles of tiredness. Oh, and age. Our delightful neighbour had woken me much earlier with a hail of 'fucking bitch, cunt, bastard, fucking shut the fuck up..' at the top of his voice. Not sure who he was talking to but did not envy them. The spirit of Glastonbury!

It wasn't raining - cause for huge celebration - so we sat looking apprehensively at the clouds, trying to figure out whether it might rain and hence what to wear. Not that we had a huge amount of choice. Morning passed quickly, managed to blag a free breakfast from the steward's tent, Sarah having made friends with all the caterers the night before and then it seemed to be time for next shift. Having learnt our lesson previous night, we stuck like glue to Sarah and headed straight for the BBC tent and stood there purposefully, so much so that our lovely leader just left us there to get on with it, presumably making some other poor sod guard the frigging sand monster for 6 hours.

This was a much better day and we watched act after act strutting their stuff - some of it was great, much of it was not to our taste. There was a hilarious public school boy band and I watched the proud parents bopping in a sort of middle aged awkward way, secretly laughing at them, until I realised I probably look exactly the same! How embarrassing. Hadn't heard of any of them but then again, I suppose that's why it's called the 'introducing tent'.

Met some nice people from various BBC radio stations and thrust Yes Sir Boss's CD into their hands, begging them to listen, which they probably didn't. The time didn't exactly fly by, but it was less painful than the previous night and we actually had the energy that evening to go and see Yes Sir Boss again at the Avalon Cafe. Same venue as last year. We had a couple of glasses of wine before we set off and a couple more in the cafe, so we were all happy (especially me) and YSB were absolutely brilliant - better than the Pussy Parlour. Chatted with a lovely bloke who had seen them a couple of times and sought them out specifically. He was just about to leave halfway through when I persuaded (bribed) him to stay by offering their CD if he did. His mates left him there, but he stayed. Bless him. Felt all that mother's pride of seeing 'my boy' looking handsome and relaxed, doing what he loves to do. Quite emotional too, probably alchohol induced.

Tumbled into 'bed' very late, but the sun had shone and life seemed good, though my stomach felt like a blown up balloon due to the consumption of nothing but carbohydrates for the last two days. We decided this was a good thing because it clogged you up so much you couldn't go to the toilet, which, to be frank, was a blessing. Eventually it had to be faced, but procrastination was an excellent idea, as I discovered on Sunday morning. But that's for another time.

Tuesday, 15 July 2008

Day 2 Glastonbury

I woke up with my head in Sarah's crotch, which was a little disarming. More for her than me. I think we had camped on a slight slope and Rob had rolled onto me and, like a tiny string of dominoes, I had rolled onto Sarah. The sound of rain pitter pattering on the top of the tent sent alarm bells ringing and I lay there wondering what excuse we could make to leave and go back to the comfort of home. I couldn't think of one.

We had been told that we could get breakfast from the Security Guards tent, which was one field away, but when we went in there, it was a bit more complicated than that. We did get boiling water for a cup of tea, which we drank in our 'Glastonbury' chairs, probably the best investment we made. The rain had stopped, though we did not like the look of the sky.

There were a lot of inconsistencies at Glastonbury. The stewards and security guards seemed to make up their own rules randomly. We decided it usually depended on one thing - the tabbard instilled a certain sense of power, but not of meglomaniac proportions. This was obtained from the possession of a walkie talkie. Walkie Talkies + tabbard = power crazed Fascists, sort of 'more than your jobs worth' types.

We eventually managed to find some breakfast in the Park. Never has a bacon butty tasted quite so delicious, probably because by this time it was about midday, so was actually our lunch, and having traipsed about a hundred miles in the somewhat slushy conditions, we had worked up a fairly large appetite. We combined this 'brunch' with a recky (if that's how you spell it?) of our stewarding venue, which was the BBC introducing tent, where new acts play a slot, normally about 4 songs, and, if you're lucky, you get to meet people in the 'business'. Of course, we were dying to promote 'Yes Sir Boss'.

To be honest, we couldn't really see why six fire stewards would be needed in what is basically an open tent, just quite a large one. We never did figure that one out.

That day we basically spent sheltering from the rain in the Pussy Parlour, where 'Yes Sir Boss' were playing. We met up with a huge crowd and managed to get a table, and listen to YSB and actually started to enjoy ourselves. Despite the fact it was tipping it down.

As complete stewarding novices, we were taking the rules very seriously and hardly drank anything, and we arrived at the hut where we signed in and donned our pink tabbards. We felt just a tiny bit important, and strutted down to the BBC tent.

At the venue we got our first inkling of what we had let ourselves in for. We were greeted by our 'manager', an affable guy, though possibly not the most scinitillating company (No Personality Pete). We knew we each had a shift with him and I wondered what we would talk about for 6 hours solid! Anyway, this particular shift Rob and I were put together, so at least I knew what to expect. Pete sent us over to a bar/cafe type place opposite the BBC tent, where we were instructed to stop people from smoking inside. Thrilling!

I have never seen anyone so grateful at being relieved from their post as the two people we took over from. After about half an hour, I could see why. I began to long for people to light up, just to give me something to do! In fact, this became my opening line - 'Thank God you've lit a cigarette. Now I actually have something to do, would you mind smoking outside?' People were very nice about being asked this, though Rob refused to force people to move, though he would have been up for putting out a fire. If only anything so exciting could have happened!

I ended up clearing the tables, just to be doing something. After about an hour, Pete came shuffling over in his wellies, which were too small and chafing his somewhat ample calf muscles. 'They need you over at the sand monster pit. You have to guard it. Luckily, there's been no incidents'. This said with a sucking in of breath, and then a major exhalation. 'Thank God'. I would have given anything for a major incident.

So, we stood by the sand monster, watching it develop and grow, which was quite interesting, for about five minutes, but not really sustainable for two and a half hours (by now it was 10pm). We wondered what sort of a fire risk this sand monster actually posed? Perhaps you can tell me? Eventually we sat on a bench and just chatted to anyone who sat with us, striking up conversations out of sheer desperation, though everyone was good fun and we actually had quite a laugh.

Then, disaster! Pete came over, really quite flustered this time. An INCIDENT had occurred! Someone had climbed up a pole upon which were hanging a string of lights and broken one of the light bulbs! Oh no, CRISIS. Pete was very excited and getting alarmingly breathless.

For some reason we were then separated - Rob to a place called 'The Glass House', which is sort of a glass gazebo type thing, and me to this tent where people came to chill (can't remember what it was called) in a few deck chairs and a hammock. The music was great, Andrews Sisters and boogie woogie type things, but where was anybody? It seemed entirely empty.

At about 11.30pm (one hour before our shift ended) it started to fill up. My first encounter was with a young man who puked up more or less on my wellies and then proceeded to lie groaning at my feet. I did my civic duty and asked him if he was okay, which he was, at least he was alive. I watched in eager anticipation as several people lit up near the back of the tent and I trotted over to tell them to go outside and soon, the tent was empty again and everyone was standing on the edge of it. All of them smoking. I observed some people rolling what I thought was a joint (or spliff, I should say) but then, when they put it to their nose and leaned forward, I realised how naive I am about drugs. Since it wasn't really my duty to stop anyone snorting anything, I didn't bother. In any case, I felt a bit more vulnerable on my own.

I was delighted to be chatted up by someone young enough to be my son, but, what the hell. He was also blind drunk, but I still felt a little flutter. I haven't been chatted up in years. I was not very sophisticated, going bright red and stuttering, but he didn't seem to notice and soon turned to a much more suitable girl and started chatting her up.

Finally, it was 12.30 and shift over. We met up with Sarah and Sam, who had had a fantastic time at the BBC tent, meeting Annie Mack and the head of Radio One. I couldn't help feeling a little bitter and twisted, but they promised that they would get us in the actual tent the next day, using their 'contacts', so we felt better.

Back to our 'home', more wine, tumbled into bed, having survived our first shift, but now knowing what the next two held. Christ......

Thursday, 10 July 2008

Exhaustion

It is now over two weeks since our return from Glastonbury and I don't think I have yet recovered. What an exhausting experience! Or am I just a total wimp? (or possibly too old?)

I made some notes to remind me what actually happened, which is good because it is all a sort of fog in my brain. So, I'll start at the very beginning:

Day 1: As we got within a two mile radius of the site, which resembled a large refugee camp, the heavens opened. I couldn't help feeling a sort of warped sense of satisfaction because this proved all those positive thinking types wrong. I obviously wasn't surprised, since I had known it would rain. Still, my heart did sink, knowing from my brief visit last year what it was like when very wet. I tried to look on the bright side, but the only thing I could come up with was that my thigh muscles would get a good workout as I slithered and slid in the knee deep mud. Kate felt the same. She is not a good camper and, like me, values her home comforts, especially toilets which don't have piles of shit spilling over the top. Call us fussy, but there you go. Sarah was more optimistic and up beat. Rob was quite quiet. Since he hates walking at the best of times, and Glastonbury is basically like a very uncomfortable walking holiday, I was a bit concerned. Ben just couldn't wait to get there.

We were met by a possy of young people (our kids) who helped us unload our stuff, which hadn't seemed much until you faced the prospect of carrying it, in the pissing rain, quite a considerable way. My wheelie suitcase proved a disadvantage, as it kept toppling over, since no surface at Glastonbury is smooth. How inconvenient! So I trudged behind these cheerful, excited, youth, who relished being the Glastonbury veterans and told us all about what to expect. At least they were having a good time. But the sun had been shining up until our arrival.

When we FINALLY reached the campsite and managed to find out tent, my heart sank even further (if that is possible as by this time I was drenched through and blisters were beginning to form on the sides of my ankles). The tent we had found in the loft and put up on a 'dummy run' in the garden and decided it would be fine, if a little squished, for three people, now looked as if it had shrunk, and would only be suitable for one very very small person, possibly a toddler. How on earth had we managed to convince ourselves it would do?

At this point I nearly suggested trekking back to the car and going home, but Sarah, being an ever practical person, had realised that our optimism about our tiny tent was a bit misplaced and had been to Milletts and bought a 3 man tent that very day. Hallelujah!

We put all our luggage in the tiny tent (it acted like a garage) and quickly pitched our mansion of a tent, helped by Robert and Sam, who are seasoned campers. I stood around feeling useless and rather soaked and just a little desperate for a drink.

The next problem was a pump. We didn't have one. Sarah produced this amazingly thin mattress which self inflated in an instant. Ours took up most of the space and was not self inflatable. I headed off in search of one and was delighted to spot a fellow steward (for we were in the 'stewards campsite') leg frantically jigging up and down and asked him if we could borrow his. In the sort of war time Glastonbury spirit, everything is shared. As a thank you, I invited him over to our 'house' for a drink.

There we sat, in our little 'patio' area, legs stuck out in front of us so as not to muddy the interior, sipping some sort of cheap, boxed wine from plastic cups, and getting increasingly more optimistic every sip we took. The powers of alcohol.

We tumbled into our beds and slept like babies, soothed to sleep by the pitter patter of raindrops on the tent. The lullaby of Glastonbury.