Saturday, 5 July 2014

"Glasto Blasto"

Festival Look Day Three (remarkably clean non?)
So no doubt some of you are wondering what my first kiddie-free festival in ten years was like...

no kids.  i repeat NO KIDS
                                                BLOODY BRILLIANT...duh, of course :)
what brekkie looks like when left to our own devices 
Don't get me wrong, I adore les trois monsters more than life itself, and fine, I confess, I was totally jonesing for a squeeze from the wee midgets by the time Sunday night rolled round, BUT, during the actual festival, I found myself feeling constantly relieved that I wasn't having to cart three muck-coated and rain shrivelled little people around the vast muddy trenches.
I spent an inordinate amount of time during the weekend throwing shapes in front of this giant flame throwing spider...
For predictably, it being Glastonbury, it rained.  A lot.  On Friday it was of such Biblical proportions I found myself wondering if indeed the end of the world might be nigh - and stuck in a tiny dance tent (aptly named I think, "The Deep Sea"), thick with the fug of cigarette smoke and sweating bodies, I did have a moment of wondering whether I could not have chosen a slightly more, shall we say, epic location to see in the Apocalypse.
But fear not, once that 'Glasto Gusto' kicked in, (as it invariably does) it was all good and I just settled in and got into the serious business of some hardcore top notch Glasto gawking.  (Some call this turn of events 'that moment' where you simply relinquish pre-held standards of comfort and hygiene, and give yourself mentally and physically over to the filthy toilets, mud-drenched fields, and ill-mannered middle-class nouveau ravers who have fashioned themselves into ridiculously long human daisy chains, weaving their way sporadically and manically through fields, yelling roll calls of "Olivia?!  Tristan?!" almost toppling you in their excitement to get to.....another field)

taking a rain-soaked moment to dry out the leopard skin rain soaked denim :)
In the end, it was for me, all about the music.  This year, I had little to no inclination to sit in some strangers tent and listen to silly talk all night, nor stumble upon a troupe of fire gimps gathered round a campfire giggling manically, high on Welsh 'shrooms and wearing wizard hats without the slightest sense of irony.
Jack White...not your typcial heart throb, but seriously dug the manic champagne swilling
No, this year I just melted back into my twenties state of mind, adopted a perma-grin of wry amusement, and found myself sometimes positively chortling at the ludicrousness of it all.  One of my open air toilet visits during a burst of torrential rain comes to mind, when my beloved Dr. Martin's were ankle deep in either mud or shite - it was hard to tell - and I found myself clinging on for dear life to the metal door, wondering if indeed I was poised on the brink of my first full bodied 'Tuff Mudder' nosedive of the weekend - at potentially one of the most inappropriate moments conceivable .  (So instead, I had a stern word with myself, managing to quell my hysteria, and delicately extricated my iphone from one of my manifold zippered pockets and...took a selfie.  As you do.
picture I remain proudest of having captured
not sure what was more fun - dancing like an idiot here or watching others do so
So during what flew past in the blink of an eye, I had a wicked weekend, hung out with the husband like we were seventeen again (and not in charge of child rearing, house buying, or writing dodgy absence letters to get our kids out of school) and let out a silent prayer that if I ever get a chance to live this life again, maybe, just maybe I might end up on stage this time round and not on the punter side of things.
Mr. Plant you had me at hello but lost me at the first jangle of world music/hoedown bollocks
And who knows...maybe I'll pull a Dolly and end up on the Pyramid Stage someday after all - all white-haired and sequinned up, sporting my trademark leather biker, feathered earrings, and the same mucky-poo-stained Dr. Martin's...chugging Champers from the bottle a la Jack White...
easily the most wrecked casualty of the w/end...found taking his blow up pet fish 'Vera' for a walk, bathrobe askew, Sunday a.m.

Sunday morning the sun decides to show itself - figures

the husband Stone Circle Sunning

is it a favela?  no it's Glasto you idiot

Five minutes of Metallica was all we could take...sorry guys but you were massively stressing us out

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