I ♥ CYANIDE AND HAPPINESS

GLASTONBURIED

Blaerlge preepot snerg cnergsha fnigl toopsnoger zlub.

That’s what this entire post would have looked like if I’d tried to write it the day after returning from Glastonbury. My brain was fried, and my body and soul were completely and utterly exhausted.

I LOVE GLASTONBURY!

Last year I’d got a free ticket for six days in exchange for working just three shifts behind a bar; this year I’d forked out £195 to get in as a regular punter. The rationale was that I'd have more time to see bands than I did the previous year, but as it turned out I saw fewer. I’m afraid I'm well on my way to becoming one of those people that I spoke about last year: the ones who hang out at Glasto, actively avoid the main stages, and go around annoying first-timers by saying "It's not about the music, man, Glastonbury is about so much more than music". I share this in the hope that the first phase of recovery from being a wanker, is acknowledging that you are a wanker.

This year, there were three distinct phases to my Glasto experience: 

Phase 1: The Journey

This phase was much longer than the distance between London and Glastonbury might suggest. It started with me waking up at seven in the morning: bouncy and excited and ready to hit the road. I just had to wait until the driver - my flatmate - woke up.

Two hours later, I was a lot less bouncy, but MUCH more ready to hit the road. And increasingly tempted to hit my flatmate. I kept looking out the window (he was sleeping in the garden) (don‘t ask) and imagining that I saw movement and signs of waking every time a leaf fluttered near his feet or a moth floated past his beard.

Another hour passed, and I began to seriously consider acting upon my fantasy of drenching him with the garden hose and trying to pass it off as an unexpected afternoon shower.

Eventually he woke, and much MUCH later we set off to collect another of his friends from the other side of town. Despite our arrival being many hours later than expected, the other guy still needed over an hour to get himself ready. That saying about girls taking longer than guys to get out the door is utter bollocks.

We eventually hit the road and started the very long journey west-ish to Glastonbury. "West-ish" is the best description of our route  that I can provide, as the boys refused to use a map and insisted on navigating using only the sun. What on earth had I got myself into?

Mud Lake? Swan Mud-pit?

In the end, the journey turned out to be a lot of fun. This despite that fact that I endured the two most traumatic "bush pee" experiences of my life. The first time, I was doing my business and, feeling in danger of going slightly off-balance as I was - er - winding up, put my hand on the ground to steady myself. I felt a stabbing pain and for a wild second though that I'd shoved my hand into a cactus. When I looked, though, all I could see was normal-looking grass, dirt, and a green, leafy plant. There were no sharp or spiky objects to be seen. Weird. As I was walking back to the car, my hand started to feel warm, getting worse as time passed. By the time I rejoined the boys, little welts had started to appear and the whole palm of my hand was stinging. Ouch!

I was too embarrassed to tell my friends (even though one of them was a doctor) and sat for a while watching with detached interest as the weird marks grew more defined on my burning hand. I was trying to figure out what exactly had caused them. A snake? No. It didn't look like a spider bite either. Bull Ants? Maybe. The sting felt similar, but less itchy. And I didn't think they had Bull Ants in England. Eventually, after about ten minutes flicking through my mental database of potential nasties, I realised what must have caused it. I actually felt quite pleased once I worked it out. I felt I'd reached a milestone of sorts, I'd now had what I considered a quintessentially British experience, bringing me closer to Enid Blyton and the dozens of characters in English stories I'd read as a child. I'd finally become acquainted with the Stinging Nettle.

The second of my traumatic bush pee experiences took place a couple of hours later. As you can imagine, I was scanning the ground intently for the innocuous-looking nettle plant and, having found a bare patch of ground that was blissfully nettle-free, settled down to the task at hand. It was only then that I lifted my head to look around me. Turning to the right, I nearly fell over with fright. There was something there. In the gloomy darkness. Sitting just a couple of metres away, it looked like a deer or maybe a large dog. By now I was mid-stream, so there was precious little I could do in the immediate term without risking a potentially embarrassing splashing incident. I kept my eyes glued fast to the beastie, willing it not to move until I could finish, button up, and get the hell out of there. It stayed still. In fact, it stayed unnaturally still. When I finished, I crept slowly, hesitantly, a little bit closer, to see what it was. It was dead, that's what it was. I squealed like a girl and rushed out from beneath the bushes and back to the car. In my efforts to avoid anything that remotely looked like a nettle, I'd wandered into the undergrowth and squatted next to an animal corpse to do a wee.

I stopped drinking water at that point.

The journey was relatively uneventful from then on, although it did take a long, long time to navigate ourselves to the right festival carpark. We pulled into the wrong carpark in the middle of the night, and after waiting an hour for the boys to return from their walk to the Lost Ticket office (and enduring three sets of security guards shining their torches into my face and demanding that I move the car to an authorised car park) we finally moved the vehicle to its final resting place and could relax. Relax we did. The car park was The Place To Be in the middle of the night. There were loads of people who, like us, were delaying the inevitably long and arduous walk into the festival by cranking some tunes, having some drinks, and chilling out.

We'd heard that there was rain on the way, so eventually had to summon up the will to load our gear and make the trek in to the festival campsite. We were very heavily laden, and the journey was torturous. I'm not using that word lightly. One friend was using a wheelbarrow to push along the camping equipment, food and drink that couldn't fit in his backpack, however it was so muddy that the wheel kept clogging up and he could barely move it. I don't think I've ever seen anyone that close to a nervous breakdown. I had two hands full of my camping gear, in addition to a heavy backpack and wellington boots that kept getting trapped in the mud as I tried to move forward. It was tedious and unpleasant and seemingly neverending. In realtime, I think it took just over one hour. In perceived time, it took at least four.

Eventually my flatmate and I went ahead of the wheelbarrow-man to try to find the campsite spot that his other friends had staked out for us in advance, and to gather volunteers to go back and help our almost-fallen comrade. When we arrived, exhausted, I was pleased to be able to escape the search and rescue duties and instead set up my tent. I crawled inside just as the first drops of rain started to fall. Dawn was breaking, and I slept for just a few hours before being woken by the sounds of fellow campers coming to life around me.  

Phase 2: The Festival

Glasto! At last!

I woke up the next morning with a bunch of strangers, who quickly became friends. (That's what it says on Facebook, so it must be true). The wheelbarrow-man hadn't been able to muster the energy to pitch his tent, so was asleep on the ground beside his heavily-laden barrow. As more of my flatmate's friends emerged, we helped unpack the wheelbarrow and discovered that in addition to the usual camping gear, his stash included a solar-powered sound system, what seemed like a lifetime supply of tinned chickpeas, and two framed paintings to decorate his tent. Classy.

It was a great setup, and formed a fantastic base for the four days ahead. It rained on and off on Thursday, and absolutely p*ssed it down on Friday night when I was trying to watch U2, but the rest of the weekend brought glorious sunshine and warmth. There are no words to explain how much I enjoy attending the Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts. Well, maybe three words. Capitalised. With an exclamation mark.

I LOVE IT!

My highlights: Sliding down the Rabbit Hole and discovering another secret passage within its secret bar; hiding from the rain in a cushion-strewn cinema tent while screaming along with a room full of strangers at the gory goodness of Machete; sitting in The Front Room in Croissant Neuf listening to, singing with and laughing at passionate performers; sitting on logs at the back of the West Holts field, drinking up the sunshine while sipping cider; dancing with a hundred strangers on a hill behind The Park while Pulp played Disco 2000 to packed crowds below; going to see Coldplay on a whim and realising that - unexpectedly - Chris Martin is flipping fantastic.

I had two friends arrive on Friday afternoon for their first-ever Glasto, and had such fun introducing them to my favourite spots. Determined that they enjoy the full Glastonbury experience, despite their having only two days at the festival, I dragged them around relentlessly and kept them out dancing all through Saturday night until well after the sun had risen. They returned to London on Sunday: broken, weary,  sleep deprived, but converted into passionate Glasto fans. My work here was done. 

Phase 3: The Farewell

Some people always leave Glastonbury on the Sunday night. Many more, demonstrating astounding acts of self-discipline that are beyond the abilities of yours truly, wake up early on Monday morning and depart at first light. We took a more relaxed (some would say sedentary) approach to our departure.

Sleeping in as much as was possible inside boiling hot tents, we awoke to a festival graveyard. Practically the whole field had left early, abandoning tents, gazebos, chairs, food and booze. I put on my (metaphorical) Womble hat and had a brilliant time scavenging, gaining a huge swag of camping equipment goodies.

Our departure was similar to our arrival, in that it took hours and hours longer than it should have and was somewhat traumatic. It involved excessive amounts of sitting around waiting for people, long hikes on tired legs, heavy loads on tired backs, the spillage of half of my worldly possessions into a puddle of mud, the splashing of said mud onto most of the left side of my body, and an almost incapacitating drop in my blood sugar levels due to having to wait until 6pm to eat my first meal of the day.

Things picked up after I ate. We stopped for a "pub lunch" (this is at 6pm, remember) at the lovely Pelican Inn in Stapleford. After wolfing down my food and spending a fun-filled fifteen minutes in the brilliant playground out the back, I went inside and talked myself on to one of the pub trivia teams. I love pub trivia. When the boys came in I managed to get them hooked on the pub quiz as well. Yes! Eventually, though, we had to leave. The day was quickly disappearing and we had a long journey ahead. Now I'll never get to know if my guesses turned out to be correct or if my adopted team ended up victorious. My one great regret of the trip.

So my Glastonbury 2011 adventure officially ended when we arrived back home at one in the morning. Unpacking could wait, showering could not. There really is nothing better than one's first post-festival shower. Coming a close second was the sensation of crawling into clean sheets on a real mattress. I think I genuinely was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I was exhausted but also so happy that I'd made it to my second Glastonbury festival. There's no other festival like it. I'm gutted that there won't be one in 2012, but it only makes me more determined to make sure I'm around in summer 2013 so I can go again. Bring it on!!