Wednesday 9 July 2008

Sunday 29th of June

In which John pulls a Jack Bauer (by which he means he almost stays up for 24 hours).

My original plan for the Sunday morning was to go and distribute some more books, only the weather had other ideas. That and on approaching Pedestrian Gate C to get back to the car the queue to get back out of the festival was immense. Were these all the townies who'd had enough post-Jay Z?

Deciding my time would be better spent elsewhere I went and interviewed Wooden Books in the Green Futures Field. It's a strange place the GFF, not content to be the domain of bongo-playing hippies small activist tents are present. The CND sits uncomfortably alongside the Ramblers Association as if to say if you like coastal path walking you should also be anti-Trident. Most forlorn looking is the Anti-Coca Cola tent, which has a few t-shirts with slogans attacking Coke milling about in the breeze. It fails to make me feel guilty about the can I had for breakfast.

I stole away to the Jazz Field. The site didn't seem busier, on Sunday, Glastonbury opens its doors to local residents with complimentary tickets. The litter was now sweeping across the site that four days ago had seemed so empty and green. A dwelled in the field with friends, summoning up the strength to visit a poetry slam. As you may imagine it was a Herculean effort.

The afternoon drew on and I found myself outside the Pyramid watching BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE about whom I remember relatively little, though they were more competent than their smacked-up appearance in this documentary had lead me to believe.

NEIL DIAMOND



was better and I saw him do 'Red Red Wine', a fine performance. Only at that point I thought I'd lost my wallet and that sent me scurrying back to my tent as soon as I possibly could. I hadn't, but I was running low on funds.

I decided to brave the cash machines on the corner of Pennard Hill. As I queued the unmistakably smug and evil voice of MARK RONSON drifted over to me. Now here was a man who knew how to get the party started. Inviting a pink-haired LILY ALLEN on-stage to do her cover of the Kaiser Chiefs 'Oh My God' Lily wowed the crowd by relating the sad news that her Grandma 'Nanny Allen' was dead. I imagined Keith and Uncle Kevin chewing gum and drinking lager while stood over a coffin, itching to get back to the festival.

Grabbing some dinner while THE PIGEON DETECTIVES bored thousands through their set, I considered the fact that this was all pretty much over for me. Two acts and one night to go. I'd arranged evac from the site from my good friends Matt and Angela. This would take place at approximately 5am following meeting at 4...

THE ZUTONS

I'd be lying if I claimed to be there for the Zutons music, though I enjoyed most of the gig. I was probably more there for Abi Harding's legs. 'Valerie' got its third play of the Festival in it's more laid-back form, which would probably have better suited the crowds a few hours back from this evening performance. Overall though, I find them a band that it's impossible to dislike and who deserve bigger fame than they've currently got.

GROOVE ARMADA



I find it hard to believe that up to this point in my life and being a fan over ten years, this was the first time I'd actually seen the premier league dance act play live. They did pretty much everything on this greatest hits performance. 'Madder', 'Song 4 Mutya', 'At the River', 'I See You Baby' were all present, though the highlight was an ultra-pounding version of 'Chicago' from the first album 'Vertigo'. As usual, being the last act, they were allowed to use the lasers and the light show was pretty impressive. They finished on 'Super Stylin' was which was mega. As I rapidly ran out of superlatives it was back to the Brothers Bar to finish the night there.

MONDAY MORNING

At about 4am I was making my way up to the Dance Field to meet Matt and commence the long trek home. Managing to overbalance with my rucksack, tent and sleeping bag on my back, I decked myself into the grass, breaking the arm off my glasses and giving myself a scar on my face and bruise on my leg that I still have. I hurt.

Dawn broke as we trekked back to Pedestrian Gate C and the vast Disneyworld-like car parks. We were on the road by a quarter to five, the sun emerging brilliantly over the Somerset Levels.

A swift trip to Bristol saw me getting on a train to Paddington by 6am and passing out. When I woke up, I discovered we were on our way to Swansea.

Panic set it, while realisation crept up on me. I got the right train, only I'd slept to Paddington, slept through the changeover and was now on my way in the opposite direction. Scrambling for my stuff I jumped out at a commuter riddled Reading to get on a train going back into London. Everything had that special extra-sharp quality that only sleep-deprivation provides. People stared. They knew where I'd been, though what I was doing on a Reading platform wasn't that clear.

I made sure I stayed awake all the way back to London.

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