Hippy Harry…
When I was growing up most years (when it was on) we would go to Glastonbury. Ah so cool, soo cool. But, no!
Not when you’re growing up in Tring, the rainbow warrior t-shirt-down-to-your-knees look is not one celebrated by those (in same peer group) whose own style is comprised more of those classic common denominators: Ellesse pumps and some Addidas trackies. Probably explains why for year on year I would get a massive stash of josticks from school friends for my birthday, well, what else do you get such a hippified child? Good thing they never saw the pics that showed circle dancing in pants, eh.
But seriously, painful memories aside, acceptance that Glastonbury is a good place to be on the weekend nearest to Solstice has definitely widened in the last 15 or so years. It was only 29 pounds a ticket the first year my Mum and Dad took me that’s like 18% (ish- says online percentage calculator) of what it is now!!
Anyway, this kind of talk invariably brings up the odd ‘snot like it used to be’ mumblings which I would have to agree on: I remember seas of legs wrapped in stripey tights and capped in stompey DMs, and watching ‘punk and judy’ puppet shows in the children’s field and making my Mum go home early from watching The Pretenders because I had a stomach ache from dodgy veggie burgers, and lots of crazy hair colours (mainly contributed by sister Emily) instead of oversized sunglasses, hot pants and artfully mudded wellyboots. But maybe that’s just the difference a few feet in stature makes.
But who’s to say that’s a bad thing? The more the merrier, the more mainstream the more merrier the kiddies who go there and prance around in the mud in their pants, will be when they get back to school on Monday tired and elated and branded cool instead of looney.
Obviously, I’m not there now, posting the Laundry Big Bin email from atop a stone (of stone circle fame) looking down on the millions of tents like a medieval city…boooooo! Jealousy won’t get you anywhere