Joe Lycett wrote in his book that to re-create Glastonbury without attending, one must simply drain their iPhone battery whilst pissing in their garden, all whilst blasting out a wildly eclectic collection of music. And somehow, for those who didn’t get tickets, Lycett’s offer does seem quite appealing.
No early 9AM wake up to spend hundreds of pounds on tickets, no endless drive to a farm in the south, no port-a-loos, no mud, no sleepless nights, for those who didn’t get tickets that is.
I mean, for those of us who didn’t get tickets, Glastonbury is overrated anyway. The line up is full of worldwide superstars, the best artists around, you wouldn’t be able to see them all a so why would you even bother? If you can’t see them all there’s no point seeing one or two of them, right? Watch it on TV. It’s much easier to flick from channel to channel than trek from field to field where you’d only get a view that is undoubtedly restricted by a plastic fan waving his phone in the air as he videos the only song he knows, or a flag with some witty remark about Theresa May or a football team logo. Why on earth would you want to be a part of it anyway? It’s organised chaos that everybody pretends to enjoy when in reality, all of those attending are puppets in a play directed by the Eavis’, a play made for us sensible people, who didn’t get tickets, to watch from the comfort of our own home with cups of tea on tap and unlimited electricity and warmth and showers and burgers for under £7 and an early night oh god an early night, for those of us who didn’t get tickets that is.
You get told all the time, “you’ve got to go to Glastonbury, you’ve got to, it’s like nothing else” – a piece of propaganda that allows one family to dominate the music industry, for those of us who didn’t get tickets that is. Who wants to see the best bands in the world for 3 days straight anyway?
