Glastolgia

This weekend should be brilliant.  The sun is out and the England/Germany match will either be a fascinating meltdown or a victory so thrilling we'll all wake up with terrible headaches and bulldogs tattooed on our faces.  But while my body is clumping about in flip flops around getting a sun burned neck, my soul is pining.  I shouldn't be here - I should be (to paraphrase Jarvis) somewhere, somewhere in a field in Somerset (alright!).

I am a latecomer to the festival phenomenon.  In my teens, when I devoured the NME weekly, considered Camden to be a mythical Zion and really knew my Delagdos from my Ultrasound, I really should have made the effort but didn't have friends with a similarly forensic interest in white boy guitar music.  As I got older my musical tastes calcified and I assumed I was too out of touch with yoof trends to be admitted to any credible gathering.  Plus the mid-2000's run of televised festivals blighted by monsoon conditions didn't give me any confidence that I wouldn't drown in my sleep or get forcefed ecstasy by warlocks covered head to toe in mud.

But two years ago I was bullied by less cowardly chums into buying a ticket for Glastonbury and had literally one of the best weekends of my life.  So I went back last year as well.  A lot of what makes it great is very simple pleasures - lashings of cider, unexpectedly brilliant food and music everywhere will all improve any event.  I've also never been there mid-downpour, which I assume sorts the men from the boys and would have me weeping and calling an air ambulance within minutes.  But the real key is the sheer pleasure of spending a long weekend in the company of 169,999 other people in a few large fields who are all incredibly cheerful, friendly and considerate.  Even when emerging from a medieval toilet or a performance by the Verve.

There are exceptions, of course.  Last year we were camped next to a mobile home full of Scousers who listened to mid-1990's trance until 7am and, when they heard a passive aggressive moan from one of our tents, shouted "FUCK OFF!" at us through a megaphone.  And my patience with the free chat ethos of the camp was sorely tested whenever it was my turn to hold the enormous Oxford United flag we used to identify our position for stragglers.  Invariably someone with three teeth and a caved in forehead would immediately appear in front of me and yell "Orlroight there boy, wort do yew reckon to next season then?".  "Actually, good sir, I support the men of Nottingham Forest" I would reply, before clasping a scented handkerchief to my nose and depositing the saucy cur into a sewage puddle with a sharp blow of the flagpole to his chest.  But these moments of bad vibes were rare enough, and who needs aggro when you could be watching a Mad Max style procession of fire-breathing motorcyles, or sitting in a leather armchair in the Guardian tent, or having your shakra realigned by a crystal-waving vegan from Brightlingsea?

But I'm not doing any of those things this weekend.  The tickets sold out in seconds before I or any of my friends even noticed they were up for grabs, and that was that.  Some of us are off to Latitude this year for a more genteel festival experience, but watching every available minute of the TV coverage this weekend has made me ferociously nostaglic.  Even Corinne Bailey thingy.  Even the useless BBC presenters.  I want in for 2011, and I'll bring a massive Forest flag this time.