Friday, June 24, 2011

Songs and mud, no style

Six years ago a friend and I went to the Glastonbury music festival with my two girls then aged three and 18 months. My friend worked on the Festival's PR team so we had 'VIP' treatment, which really just meant a largish tent within smelling proximity to a bank of port-a-loos. The tent was behind public lines so we got to see all of the badly behaved celebs park their ridiculous cars on our front lawn.

But, it goes without saying, we had a FABULOUS time and my girls still claim they can remember every second of it!!

Most of the people there looked like this...

..... that is tired, dirty, sleeping, and drunk! And the mud was like mud you have never seen before - like brown Clag glue that has had sand and all of the earth's smelly things scattered in it. Blurk! I can still smell it.

It was amazing how happy and friendly everyone was under the trying circumstances. And it was fascinating to see how everyone sort of deteriorated over the days. The first day they arrived sparkling and all dressed up and ready to go, by the end of the weekend they were sleeping in muddy clothes and wandering around in those same clothes all day!! I think my girls stayed in the same clothes they are arrived in, undies and all. It took all of my efforts to get their teeth clean and to stop them from disappearing into the mud.

When they bands came on stage we forgot about all of that and got down with our bad selves. I'm not usually much of a dancer but the crowd enthusiasm made me forget that. The bands included the White Stripes, Coldplay, Beautiful South (my favourites from the whole festival!!!), Elvis Costello (a close second) and New Order. Musical fabulosity!

Having been there it always amuses me to see photos of celebrities poncing about in their cool outfits, looking to me like they have been photoshopped into a field. I mean, where is the mud? Where are the dark circles under the eyes? Where is the unbrushed, straw hair?? These pampered pooches obviously fly in for a couple of hours of press time then board a helicopter home. Seriously, at any given time there seemed to be four or five helicopters lined up to arrive or leave, each of them bearing someone too posh to slum it with us.

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