Glastonbury Special

On Thursday I set off down the ancient lay line that is the A303, past Stonehenge and arrived at Pennard Orchard, which was to be my home during this years Glastonbury festival.

After negotiating a bewildering entry system to the festival site, which made ordering a meal at Nando’s look easy, I arrived at the Blues stage in time to catch Clive Henry. The man who is one half of Peace Division and resident DJ at DC10 since it’s inception in 1999 played a stunning set which offered a welcome ray of Balearic sunshine as the storm clouds gathered. Jimmy V in the Rabbit Hole bar closed out the first night proceedings with aplomb whilst sporting a jacket that couldn’t decide if it was a modern major general, a Kidbrooke council estate Christmas decoration, animal or mineral.

Sasha on Friday night was rather like a precocious child; he made a lot of noise, got over excited but actually had very little to say. If this is what going to Shelly’s in 1990 was about, then I’m pleased I never bothered making the pilgrimage to Stoke On Trent; although they do know their way around a pottery wheel, and Bethesda chapel is probably worth a visit.

Saturday night at the Rabbit Hole was why I came. For over four and a half hours Pillow Talk and Craig Richards secretly stole the entire festival, leaving the knave of hearts nothing but the Somerset mud to plunder. With a rather Tudor ladies throne-room on site, I think the old card actually elected to leave empty handed on this occasion.

As attending Dolly and Ed Sheeran on Sunday was voluntary, I chose to stay by our yurt dubbed “The Tidy Lounge”, in the sunshine, with mates, before heading off. We listened to a set given to me by James Monroe a few years ago called Relaxez-vu on our sound system. The man has more class then a Berkshire finishing school and I’m gutted I missed his set at The Glade; this more then made up for it.

After a clinical exit strategy, I detoured to Avebury Stone circle on the Marlborough downs to recharge my cosmic battery. As a Neolithic monument it’s been around about 4978 years longer than the ring at the Pilton festival site and there are 400 less people doing nitrous oxide balloons besides its Sarsen’s. I enjoyed a stunning burger and brownie at a pub called the Red Lion in Avebury village; a favorite watering hole I might add of HRH Prince Charles.

For the final leg of the weekend I set off down The Ridgeway, the oldest road in Britain and back home to Dodge. During the journey I caught Kasabian on the radio painting pictures of matchstick’s that sent burning men diving back into the Atlantic, across to the USA in search of their heritage. Glastonbury is now part of ours, and it always rocks.

Footnote: Congratulations to the Guardian on a splendid app; all you have to do now is change everything else you do into The Times and I’ll gladly start reading.

Second Footnote: Let’s all get behind Mark Cavendish for the yellow jersey on Saturday down the Mall.