London was rather empty last weekend most of the townies had gone to Glastonbury. Apart from Michael Eavis, founder of the largest music festival in Europe, and a genuine farmer the rest of the year, I don’t think any other person in the ‘Glazza’ crowd actually lives in the country. Only townies could put up with nay, enjoy a weekend in slurried mud with only basic privations available and think this constitutes ‘getting real’ and ‘having the time of my life’. But, I must confess, I have fallen under this spell myself and went to the last one, in 2005. It was filthy, wet, smelly and? utterly marvellous.
Everyone is friendly, the music is second to none and, when you’re in that mood, a four-day party is a tonic. But this year, I chose to enjoy it from the comfort of my own home, tuning into Radio Two and, later, the BBC2 highlights. Watching the crowd, bedraggled and soaking, swaying to the headline acts, I had a brief pang of wanting to be there. Then I remembered that I was getting into a clean bed for an undisturbed night’s sleep and all was well with the world again
