GLASS-TON-BERRY MADNESS
As the 2024 Glastonbury Festival opens the gates today, I’m giving you a glimpse into my relationship with the Somerset beast before heading to the fields tomorrow.
Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!
See, on paper Glastonbury Festival and I should never really have become friends.
The mud, the rain, the cold nights – not to mention the fact it’s the most tiring weekend with all the miles you have to walk to see acts (and your friends).
I must lay my cards on the table at this point. Some of you may already know this, but I’m not the easiest going low-maintenance person when it comes to slumming it.
I like my comforts and luxuries. I’m not one for camping, sharing bathrooms or having to lug my stuff around all the time. If it was a case of having to get on public transport and there was a splash of rain – I’d not hesitate in getting an Uber. Maybe even an Exec to make it the best possible experience.
I’m the guy that went to Mumbai and stayed at Soho House when it first opened there and nearly had a panic attack when my then boyfriend made me leave to get public transport to the Gate of India. It was beyond. The trains didn’t even have doors. I mean.
So, as with pretty much all my endeavours when my career in the entertainment industry began, when I was asked to cover Glastonbury in 2001 by the 3am Girls I took it in my stride. I accepted the task at hand and really didn’t think about the sheer size and level of wildness this beast withheld. Little did I know once I’d gotten the first year out the way this legendary festival would become so integral to my annual plans I’d rarely miss it.
That first year though, woah nelly I was such a novice.
I complained continually. I literally had no idea what I was getting myself into when I pitched up with a smart cross shoulder bag and energetically tried to find the backstage hospitality area where my first task was to interview Gwen Stefani and her band No Doubt (below when I looked like a yeti). I was a mega fan. This was fucking excellent, I thought. But within hours the rain came and I wasn’t prepared. The wrong shoes, the wrong material on my coat, I was drenched, freezing for hours and generally found it exceptionally hard to navigate the place. I was also at the start of my Mr Showbiz career. So, I didn’t have a wealth of contacts. The main way of getting stories back then were to follow people, earwig where possible and get as close to the stars in attendance as possible. It was hard work, and we were fully expected to stay on site in the throng of it all until we achieved the best showbiz story we could find.
Also, from that very first year I realised just how hard it was to track celebrities as they moved around the festival. Some of them were whippet fast. The set-up of the festival means there are a few hotspots that remain celebrity heavy throughout the festivities – but when they move around, they go with lightning speed to ensure they’re not besieged by photographers who ruin their fun. Kate Moss has always been the gazelle of the festival. Dressed to perfection, effortlessly cool and the fastest animal to try and track despite her wellies being firmly on. I remember one year I tanked it – Kate was just mincing around the festival with Pete Doherty on her arm like she was training for the Olympics speed walking championships. Wearing that infamous waistcoat and shorts combo. The best outfit to have ever been witnessed at Glastonbury.
The other tricky element in those early years was without the contacts to slip you the odd story or tell you about gossip they’d heard the night before – the place was a bloody nightmare. Editors calling continually to see where you were, if you’d got that all-important column lead and my Mirror bosses were continually asking “what The Sun had got”. Like I’d know exactly what the whereabouts of the competition would be on a 900-acre site full of 200,000 people.
The main thing I did that was wrong in that first year was I fought against the festival in every way. I moaned, I hated the experience, I felt beaten and to be honest it was just a real chore. I also saw fuck all bands or had any real enjoyment at all because I was fully stressed out about the whole situation and trying to file the gossip back to London and the girls.
I guess the one good thing was the fact we didn’t have social media so we were fully focused on the festival. We didn’t even have camera phones then – so in theory stress levels should have been way more chilled. But having to hunt down the celebrity news in the cold was the biggest uphill climb. We didn’t even have laptops etc. I’d have to use my Nokia 8910 to speak to the Daily Mirror’s copytakers on the phone to file my stories. It took a long time, you had no chance to check all that you’d filed from site and you essentially had to hope you’d delivered. And that’s before you even heard the next day what the competition had filed and run with. With all the stress and negative vibes I was exuding it was hard to enjoy the festival in any way.
After a couple of years ‘off’ from the festival whilst I was celebrity editor at Loaded, I arrived at Closer and the festival was back to being big news for the magazine and for my new column Mr Showbiz it was integral I went and reported on the festival once again.
The best thing is the fact in those interim years I’d settled into the showbiz world. I’d made contacts, I had proper friends in the industry by then and I’d also had a word with myself about it all. It was like the penny dropped – I understood the key to enjoying Glastonbury. I had to go into it realising the festival was in charge. Realising I had to let all barriers down firmly and go with the flow and dare I say it, not be quite so highly strung. Tough to do as a control freak but I went into Glastonbury from then on with a new fresh outlook – I was going to see where the festival took me. Staying calm and relaxed.
Fair to say that today in 2024 there’s very little in the showbiz diary that I enjoy more. I get it. I go in there with an open heart and the belief it’s going to be the best experience. It’s amazing how with this attitude I barely consider the weather as a factor. The truth is you can always cope. I’ve done it all. Been coated in mud. Not showered for days and had wet-wipe ‘showers’. Slipped and landed on my backside. Lost my wellies. Woken up with no memory of what happened the night before. One year I even awoke to having a massive carrot drawn on my face. I could only assume I’d gotten it down the Rabbit Hole one evening. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember how, where or why. But IT WAS FINE because when you’re in Glastonbury the real world doesn’t matter.
Ahead of tomorrow when I head to the fields…I thought it might be handy to tell you what not to do at the festival. I learnt a very valuable lesson the hard way a long time ago about how to conduct your behaviour at Glas-ton-berry (how US artists always pronounce the festival).
So many incredible adventures went on in my youth. This is all about my dumb adventures. This is about me being an idiot. Not about other people being twats or exposing what goes on. You can’t dish the dirt on Glastonbury and what really goes on – that would be social suicide. But as far as I’m concerned revealing my own dipshit endeavours if anything is handy to all. Call it a rough guide to, if you will.
This tale takes place in an infamous year when I started to, how shall I put this, enjoy the odd enhanced party. I would often take my friend from college Charlotte to Glastonbury as my plus one.
She’s the best fun. Charlotte in a nutshell: a mutual Madonna fan who loves nothing more than roaring into the sky with her claw clenched and dancing like a wild cat to drum and bass music. Rock music runs through her veins. Whippet thin in a healthy way and more energy than a werewolf on a full moon. Charlotte is the perfect Glastonbury partner. It kills me she’s not there by my side this year.
She loves exploring, knows exactly what to do and what not to do and is exceptionally good fun at all times. Despite being sober these days, she’s still just as much fun. Nothing phases this wild tarantula.
The year that sticks out was 2011 when U2 were headlining the Pyramid Stage and Charlotte and I decided to get our butts out there to watch them and get as close as we could. I was 31. I was fully in deep with the ‘numbing’ period following my dad’s death and this was a perfect example of when it can go thoroughly wrong.
En route to U2 Charlotte and I had split a pinger (commonly known as ecstasy) and were quickly fully engaged with the light installations and the sheer beauty of it all. The rain began shortly after the set began and it was hit after hit from Bono, The Edge and the boys. I remember vividly thinking it was literally the best concert of my life. Ecstasy has this effect on pretty much anything when you’re high.
Charlotte and I were dancing like wild animals – I was lifting her up and swinging her round with my super-power strength. It started to rain. Zero shits given. Nothing in the world was going to kill my buzz.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see this guy infront of us downing something wrapped in little parcels. Only small. He was swigging from his backpack to wash them down. “Charlotte, look – what’s that?” I squawked.
“That, you don’t go near – that’s what,” Charlotte replied howling at the moon as Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For began.
“Eer, mate – what’s that you’re downing?” I asked.
“Speed bomb mate – want one?”
“You don’t fucking want one of those,” said Charlotte.
In that stage of euphoria when somebody tells you not too you just want to rebel against them. I grabbed the tiny little parcel and grabbed his backpack and washed it down.
“You’re a fucking dick head,” Char said.
She was totally right. Within five minutes I was so uncontrollably high I thought I was never going to come down. It was what, upon reflection, I consider one of the biggest dick moves you could ever imagine.
I could hardly walk, my eyes were bouncing off the walls and I was really struggling to hold it together. We stumbled across the mud towards the hospitality area where we were going to try and make it back to the Winnebago area where my pals would be. We got back to the Winnebago area and I was met by Wayne and Coleen Rooney struggling to get their wellies on as they left the party palace. My longtime pal Naomi looked on aghast, took one look at me and said to Charlotte: “What the fuck happened to him?”
“He took a speed bomb off some guy in the crowd and now he’s like this.”
The thing about speed is you can’t really do much about it. There’s no antidote and it feels fucking horrible. Like you’re being shook in a metal box – you can’t get your eyes to focus at all.
So, whilst everybody headed out into the night to dance and have fun…Deanie spend three hours with a friend walking around and around the Winnebago working off his speed which eventually calmed enough to allow me to head to bed.
Moral of the story? NEVER ever think speed is a good idea or accepting ‘gifts’ from people in the crowd at Glastonbury is a dreadful idea. That was a lesson learnt the hard way. Hideous.
Just say no, Kids.
At the grand old age of 44 the idea of having to go through that scenario again is something I will NEVER consider. I’m even going to the festival in 2024 with a sober pal to experience the festival in a completely different way. God it’s great growing up in some ways.
The best thing about 2024? I don’t really care for much of the line-up and I’ve got my shit in check. I’m middle aged for crying out loud. Sure, I’m going to go with the waves, enjoy as much of the festival I can and try and keep the train on the tracks as much as humanly possible.
I’ve decided to write about this year’s festival in next week’s newsletter. So, I shall be reporting back, all. Until then. Wish me luck.