MUSIC | FESTIVALS

A Day Out At Glastonbury Festival

1992 was the worse Glastonbury line-up ever

Festivals are for the young. Fuck being old and camping in some dodgy tent in the English ‘summer’. It’s all about creature comforts when you hit a certain age. Besides, who wants to hear from an experienced muso repeatedly tell you how much better it was in their day? “Fuck off grandad,” he says as I proceed to tell you how much better it was in my day!

It was a rite of passage for the youth of England. Everybody, at some point, would make a pilgrimage to a summer festival. The two main festivals in the UK were Glastonbury and Reading. Glasto was the big one. Every band wanted to play the main stage and everybody wanted to get wasted watching them. Reading was the indie festival of choice. This was where the minor bands warmed up before they broke into the mainstream.

Back in 1992–1994 security was still lax. I never met anybody who had actually paid for a ticket. Breaking into Glastonbury was as much fun as listening to the music. I’m not even sure how the news traveled as nobody had mobile phones. It was all word of mouth as to where an opening had appeared in the fence.

My crew consisted of Tall Tony, Rocket Alex, Fuckable Jules the Virgin, and some spotty hitchhiker we picked up on the way. The road to Glasto was a blur. I’m not even sure we picked up the hiker as I don’t recall stopping. Rocket Al had secured imported weed from Amsterdam called Purple Haze and we were floored. Fuckable Jules let loose in the back talking shite about how she’ll finally get laid and do it with somebody from a famous band. We had bets her virginity would remain intact. She was the unluckiest person we had ever met.

Trudging the half-mile to the site (no tickets meant no on-site parking), we bumped into several geezers who had the same plan as us. Find a gap, sneak under, pitch a tent, get wasted. None of us were there for the music, it was all about the crack. Word reached us there was an opening on the east side. “Right, better skin-up first,” croaked Alex passing an already lit joint around the group. Sure enough, we found an unguarded piece of fence that somebody had wire-cut. Rumor had it, that some scousers had brought several ladders and were laying siege to the site!

1992 was the first time Glastonbury erected a fence. As such, security had flaws. This wasn’t a prison camp. There was no barbed wire or high towers or fucking alsatians patrolling the parameter! Security wasn’t paid enough to get hostile with people and wrist bands were never checked. We sneaked under the opening and pitched our tents somewhere in a field. Let the fun begin!

Rocket Al was our main man. Along with the weed, he had bought enough tabs (of acid) and microdots to kill a small Scandanavian army. The Swiss always had a small army, that’s why they invented their army knives. Imagine starting a war armed with the deadly Swiss Army Knife and their uncuttable scissor function and shit knife blade. No wonder they stayed neutral.

I admit…I don’t remember much about the music. It was a shit lineup. Glastonbury had slipped into being uncool, over-priced, and full of old men waving their todger. A change was needed, which the organizers did in later years with old-party favorite novelty acts like Kylie Minogue gracing the center stage. But 1992 was shit. Shakespeare's Sister was the headliner. Yeah, you read that right.

What I can recall is how powerful the acid was and getting lost. I would spend most of my nights in the techno areas blitzed. I never slept and avoided eating. Back in ’92, the toilets were a formidable experience. You simply avoided going for as long as possible. It was better to take a dump by the fence than to walk through the quagmire of mud and feces that surrounded several of the portaloo sites. I’m sure somebody emptied them but they were usually full to the brim with waste and floors awash with piss. A festival poo is a giant shit you have after holding out for three days, safe in the comfort and luxury of your own home.

The music? See if you can recognize anyone:

I don’t remember Friday. Which is a shame, I love The Breeders. I also loved my acid. And my weed. Lou Reed was a wanker. A huge disappointment with unintelligible mutterings. He must have got hold of the bad acid. The big rush was on to watch The Shamen. ‘Ebeneezer Goode’ was riding high in the charts with the parents ‘not getting’ the lyrics. What a party!

Sunday was good fun. We had finally come down and everything was less technicolor and more chilled. Rocket Al had shagged a girlfriend of a dealer who had stolen his stash and was hiding out in Al’s tent. By the third day, everybody was a little feral. The stench had risen and no matter how many drugs you took, the acrid smell of unwashed bodies was overpowering. There was also a heatwave on. It felt like a scene out of an apocalyptic movie with bodies everywhere. Best roll another doobie and ride that shit out.

Avoiding the Pyramid stage and Richard fucking Thompson, we soaked up the vibes of Spiritualized before Blur lay waste to the crowd. Neds Atomic Dustbin was the real scene stealers. So much energy. They had had a single hit with ‘Kill Your Television’ with that utterly brilliant opening line “She said she said ‘you don’t know shit ’cause you’ve never been there.’” The crowd was going wild with every break in the music as they chanted “KILL”… “YOUR”… “TELEVISION!”

We staggered off back to our tents after 808 State. Too tired to do anything else. Too exhausted to go find another party spot. We hadn’t slept or eaten much for three days.

The first gas station on the way home is always the most joyous sight after a huge weekend away. Pies, fries, and a dump. Life doesn’t get much better than that. My next big festival would be Reading of that same year and that experience was all about the music. Fuckable Jules had failed her quest. We all assumed she got lucky as we didn’t see her again until the final night. Turns out she had befriended a lovable veteran who took pity on her as she wandered around lost. The granny was the ultimate cock-blocker and claimed to be Tom Jones’s auntie. Jules had spent two days glamping in the VIP area supping tea and dunking Hobnobs while enjoying the music with a backstage pass. Did I mention how unlucky she was?

Onto Reading.