Wednesday, 9 July 2008

Glastonbury 2008 Pt 2 - Esqueezy Explains It All

For this month’s Esqueezy message she popped into New Ears HQ and started shouting Glastonbury at us. I grabbed a pen and pad and got this down…

So yeah…I don’t know whether Glastonbury reflects the usual Somerset economy but chicken between dry bits of bread for £4? Bun dat! Ordering a mountain of sausage, mash, beans and gravy worth £6 and managing to make off without paying? Yam dat! True stories.

I’m (not so) fresh off my block from my very first Glastonbury experience and yes, it was surreal from the go. I’m pretty sure Daisy Lowe was sat behind me on the shuttle from Castle Cary carrying camping stuff in Marc Jacobs’ bags and chatting about going to Diesel parties with people called Margot, Jasper and Bessie. It sounded like some sort of modern, spawn of a celebrity/fat cat chief executive/new money version of an Enid Blyton novel. Who else thinks that stuff must have been written on acid? Little kiddies climbing trees to go chill with Moonface? I also heard Daisy Lowe say she got “claustrophobic” the first time she [legal editor – allegedly] double dropped. Esqueezy gets all Perez Hilton up in this bitch…hello libel? [nah… should be ok].

One of the female Jaggers was stood next to me when I bought my wellies so along with Lowe, it proved what I’d always thought about festivals, that it’s all about top models slash heavy socialised female ‘celebrities’ pretending they are down, reckoning they get familiar with the mud and Porta-Loos, making sure the Grazia photographers are on hand like flies to cow shit to snap them coming out of a tent first thing…then shake them off and sneak back to the plush Winnebago with a gold toilet seat with stylists and make-up artists who specialise in creating ‘the festival look’. The average, everyday person does not want to camp- we’re just too poor for V.I.P. camper vans and getting a helicopter ride in and out (with a complimentary glass or ten of Cristal) like Jay-Z.

I’d say the first drop of rain fell about as soon as I walked through the gates. No hype. My tent wouldn’t fit in the space I’d been saved. I didn’t know what I was doing and it was pissing it down so my tent looked like a train wreck. Not the one. I went to this faux igloo dance tent and saw some DJs wearing stupid clothes with stupid hair and everyone looked like they were smoking crack and my Reeboks were covered in shit and, and, and, and I just went a bit crazy after that.

Anyway I don’t want to ramble on about my Glastonbury experience like I’m Saint Esqueezy and everyone wants to follow my movements or uphold my opinions like its tightrope walking the fine line between life and death…so I’ll get it over with. The rest of my time I only really ate doughnuts, watched Woody trying to spoon a campfire, told a tent-desperate Martello I’d consider helping him if he would rub oil on my sunburnt back, did hip hop karaoke with Lord Lewis, did more hip hop karaoke with Lord Lewis, and then a lot of “I’ve been drinking rum and ginger beer since 11am and now it’s 5pm” skanking to Toddla’s set. Looks like I’m going up in the world folks…but right now there’s this zany girl demonstrating Triassic and Jurassic rocks layers with different coloured cakes and now I’m too phased out/hungry to write so my last words for you beautiful people til August? Any Brum heads can check Murkage Cartel (of Monday Murkage fame) out at Bigger Than Barry on 26th July. I’m not playing as this fine ass will be biggin’ it up in Andalusia…

Later alligator.

…and just like that she was gone.

Words: Esqueezy

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