The London Paper – 4 July 2008
My trip to Glastonbury could have had a more auspicious start. Just as we approached the VIP gate some yokel jobs-worth, who was giving it the Terry big spuds, decided to randomly search our motor. Inevitably, one of our crew had a bit of weed on him and before you can say ‘the rozzers framed me’ we’re surrounded by a bunch of uniformed coppers threatening us with a trip to the police station.
Admittedly, I probably didn’t help matters by explaining that nicking Glastonbury attendees for a bit of puff is like handing out speeding tickets at Brands Hatch. Anyway, we managed to negotiate our way in with my pal getting something called a ‘marijuana warning certificate’. He’s not the sharpest tool in the pack and didn’t help matters by explaining to a plain clothes Babylonian tyrant that, and I quote, ‘weed will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no weed’. That particular mate is without doubt a fully paid-up member of ‘Knob-Heads Anonymous’ who I tried to avoid thereafter.
One person I failed to avoid was my former boss at my last investment bank who was there with his daughter. The big stockbroker in the sky certainly works in very mysterious ways. I had met this comedian once before at Glastonbury just after he had decided to employ me when I was … let’s say in a heightened state of awareness. That ‘challenging encounter’, which I recount in my book ‘Cityboy’ could have cost me my job but this time I had no reason to hide my ‘confusion’ and we got on like a house on fire.
I’ve always considered Glastonbury to be a bit like a Nazi Nuremburg rally for hippies. There’s something almost fascist in the way bands and fellow festival goers demand that you participate in the mass hysteria that occurs. Hands are rhythmically waved, lighters held aloft and songs chanted just as old Adolf demanded back in the 1930’s.
I’ve also studied history long enough to know that the ‘carnivals’ that the elite permit actually play a strong role in maintaining social order. From way back when our masters have fully understood that releasing pent-up pressure occasionally in a controlled manner, as one does with a pressure cooker, actually ensures that they get to retain power for the other 350 days in the year. The cunning toe-rags!
Still, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I absolutely love Glastonbury. I’ve been most years since about 1992 and one day hope to embarrass my grand children there – on the off chance I successfully procreate. I consider it a colonic irrigation for my brain and it leaves me refreshed and fighting fit … well after a few days anyway. Everyone needs a Glastonbury to remind them what life is all about!
PS To see what really happened to me at Glastonbury type Cityboy Glastonbury into youtube.