To say, on the actual weekend of the festival, that Glastonbury isn’t the be all and end all may sound like sour grapes, given that I won't be there. And let me be clear, I don’t hate Glasto or music festivals per se.
I can’t stand a festival bore, obviously; the sort who wears their entry wristbands for a month after getting back to the office, or who wangs on about how they got trench foot back in the mudfest of ’98, or who won’t accept that you’ve experienced life unless you’ve got stoned at Worthy Farm under a moonlit sky with members of a minor Britpop collective.
They are also the kind of people who love Jarvis Cocker for being so arch, but who then sway along to Elbow’s relentless ‘One Day Like This’ in a display of such saccharine, cultish devotion that it would make David Miscavige proud.
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