Glasto Report Day 4 (Sat)
Q Magazine’s one-word weather report accurately summed up the conditions: medieval
It pissed down. All day. Footpaths that had only just dried out from the deluge in the week turned into a thick brown quagmire. Mud ruled.
Any hope I had of maintaining satorial elegance vanished as a particularly clumsy woman slapped her foot into a large brown puddle and sent a huge dollop of mud all over my trousers.
At this rate I may have to join the nutters who entertained the Cider Bus drinkers with headlong plunges into the surrounding mud lakes.
But it takes more than an ocean of mud to stop Glasto folks enjoying themselves!
We started the day with a trip back up the Green Fields to meet up with some chums.
We bumped into Shane at the Speakers Corner and had fun listening to the bizarre ramblings of some bloke who is apparently Britain’s best paid astrology.
An example quote: ‘Venus symbolises the vagina. Obviously’. Yeah, right mate.
He then went on to explain that we have to thank the alignment of Aquarius for broadband, ominously adding that the age of Pisces foretold a ‘Psychic Revolution’.
Quickly freeing ourselves from this tosh, we headed up to the fabulous Lost Vagueness field to see our mate Rob from Alabama3 busily marrying perplexed punters in the Wedding Chapel.
A trip to the TeePee field followed, hopeful of admiring Wolfie’s new tent. But the bastard wasn’t in.
A group of Urbanites assembled later for the infectious country and western tunes of the Hot Club of Cowtown before fleeing the stage after being terminally unamused by The Rutles.
A trudge through the sludge took us to The Glade only to find that the Aphex Twin had cancelled.
Spirits were lifted in the comedy tent before we feasted on nachos as Toots and the Maytalls put in a highly variable set, moving from quality roots reggae to overblown showbiz (think Elvis’s Los Vegas period and you’ll get the idea).
The evening was rounded off shaking a limb to 50s swing in the Lost Vagueness Chapel, playing ‘enhanced’ table football and then fleeing at the sound of Chumbawumba (Lord knows I’ve tried to like them but I just can’t bear their racket).
This may be my last transmission from Glasto as my mobile phone batteries are going criticially low and I don’t fancy queuing up for three hours at the Orange tent to charge them up again…
