GLASTONBURY 2002 – Monday
An entire day of thinking
we’ve leaving in about an hour. Dreaming of the Little Chef. Trying to hold out
on the Portaloos[1].
Half-hearing the conversations of those packing up around you (and admiring the
girl who “thought the wine bar was playing drum and bass but when I got closer
I realised it was The Monkees”). Hiding from showers in the tent you should be
packing up. Listening to the frenzied horn chorus of backed-up cars trying to
leave the site. Trying to gauge how long you’d have to 
stand still in the middle of the field
before your legs were entirely coated by billowing bin bags. Watching the
Scavengers going round, happy to adopt abandoned stoves, mats, food. Admiring
the foresight of the man who’d brought a motorbike for that very purpose.
Wondering why the dying soufflé of a tent behind us contained a bucket, and
whether we should be worried that the wind was getting fierce enough to knock
it over.
We’re waiting for Katie,
the 4th car passenger. (The one who thought she’d been hired for a
couple of half-days of grunt work – shifting ‘n’ lifting in the Dance Tent –
and realised when she arrived she had five days of fourteen-hour minimum-wage
shifts…) She’s waiting for the ONE lorry the Dance Tent has to cart its stuff
offsite, to come back from London, so she can load it, finish up, leave. It’ll
be here by two, by three, by five. She’s waiting to get paid too, an occurrence
ever twenty minutes into the future. And we’re all waiting on her waiting…
(“It’s six o’clock, I wanna go home… No
way, not today…”)
By six, I thought I’d achieved a Zen state of nothingness, boredom
having been transcended, hot food and tiled toilets a distant light for the
day’s end. By seven, I realised I was just cold bored and hungry. And despite
the Wombling profits we’d made of the afternoon (we’d caught an orange lilo and
a pink inflatable chair, found a tarpaulin, helped ourselves to abandoned
pegs), and the fact that we’d neatly avoided the traffic queues and the where-exactly-did-we-leave-the-car-again?
problem by waiting until EVERYONE ELSE had gone… I wanted to be at home.
Glastonbury The Day After isn’t a nice place to be, with or without the
petulant weather. Everything’s coming down, being dismantled; the fields are
covered with overflowing binbags and tumbleweed Pot Noodles; on all sides
there’s the slow silent trudge of the homeward bound. It’s all just aftermath.
Just after eight, I got
The phone call. Katie was finished, Katie was paid, Katie was on her way.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
That (knowing we’re
leaving, passing out through the gates, piling into the car) gets to be
fourth-place high point of my day. Maybe it should be higher. (But the
competition’s stiff…)
The day’s three highlights
(beyond our Actually Leaving):
The rainbow that appeared late afternoon, stretched between the
Other Stage and the Pyramid Stage, when the sun decided to fight the rainclouds
for supremacy.
Driving away from Worthy Farm towards Glastonbury Tor, the spiral
hill and St Michael’s tower silhouetted proud against the pale sky as the sun
set behind it.
Three milkshakes and a full plate of food in the glorious Little
Chef. Yum yum yum.
The one thing about waiting
for Katie, all day, was that we effectively missed ALL TRAFFIC PROBLEMS WE
COULD POSSIBLY HAVE FACED EVER. (Peak hours you’re warned against when trying
to leave the site: 9:00-4:00. Cheers. That’ll be ALL DAY then…) Thousands of
people trying to leave the site simultaneously? The closest real-world
fast-food place being full of tired grubby campers? Hundreds of cars, vans,
lorries and caravans all cramming onto the same roads, motorways and
service-station forecourts? Swathes of the motorway cone-cordoned off? Rush
hour in Leeds? No problem… The only people still bombing around after midnight
were taxi-drivers and long-haul truckers. Oh, and us.
I stayed awake for half the Garbage album, and then drifted off, propped against the rucksack dividing the back seat. (In that uniquely selfish way that non-drivers can.) Woke up, neatly, just as we were approaching Leeds. Katie was dropped off (then her tent, minutes and a U-Turn later), followed by Roger, and then out to Ilkley (thankyouthankyou) for me.
Get back to my own house
at half two. In the morning. (Trying to be quiet, but thwacking the Grandmother
Clock into a chiming frenzy as I try to manoeuvre through the hall, forgetting
the rucksack I’m staggering under makes me twice my normal breadth…) The
treasures of roofed living (baths! ovens! the ability to drink a pint of water
in one sitting without fear of where it will lead you!) will have to wait until
tomorrow. For now, the only thing I’m concerned with is
bed…pillow…snuggle-happy duvet… Zzzzzzzzz…
…Oh, and next year: I am positively truly
totally & utterly
(and utterly totally) BUYING A TICKET THE
DAY THEY GO ON SALE…
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Last revised: 13/07/02