Glastonbury, the spiritual journey of peace, love and understanding (and a bucket load of narcotics) "but what about the music ? "..... It was fantastic ! Well, actually I can't remember a f***ing thing about it ! All I know is.......my tent stinks of sex, drugs and hippie crap, my car has been vandalised, my credit cards stolen, and another 50,000 brain cells killed off ! ...........Hooley, bloody hooley ! Mr Eavis is a genius !
Don't forget to send in your own reviews of Glastonbury to DeepGrit.


B E N S D I A R Y . . .
Now I know I slagged it off last week, but this time the thought of a load of ‘hot beaver’ walking around the countryside, pissed out of their minds was just too much to resist. At 10 a.m. I phoned my dear friend ‘Swampy’ to break the news to him that I wanted to experience the ‘Glastonbury magic’ as soon as possible.

After 4 f***ing hours, waiting for the freak to turn up, and dressed in nothing but my Mum’s ‘Laura Ashley’ dressing gown and a Habitat lampshade (I knew I’d have to fit in somehow ! ) I hear the familiar sound and revolting smell of Swampy’s little ‘Gypsy love wagon’
" Sorry man, I had to wait for my kids ‘Stinky’ and ‘Kinky’ to get back from ‘Tarquins’ with some ‘Purple’ hearts’ ( f***ing crusties ! )

With a crack of his whip, his ‘little donkey of hope’ suddenly sprang into life and we began to creek down the middle lane of the A40. It was beautiful man, Swampy’s wife ‘Trixy’ handed out dried fruit to the very nice men of the AA (who had come to our rescue us just outside Bridgewater, where our wagon got stuck in the car park of the ‘Little Chef’). Unfortunately, we had to dump the ‘mobile mud hut’ as the wheels Swampy had stolen, (from a Victorian ‘Penny Farthing’) were causing too much "hassle man".

By some miracle, we finally arrived at the ‘Gates of Glastonbury’.
(It was indeed a miracle, as one of Dobin’s legs went missing and a wheel from Swampy’s old BMX now made up one of his hind legs). At last the ‘Peace, Love and understanding’ could begin.

After a violent clash with a bunch of Scousers over a hole in the fence, we were in ! (All apart from Swampy that is, who, unfortunately had been taken to hospital. We also tried to get ‘Dobin’ in through the fence, but he was just too big ! so lets just say, we ‘dismantled him’ and sold him to the ‘Organic Indian Take Away’ van .)

Five pounds richer, and armed with nothing more than a ‘Crack pipe’ and a bag of ‘Vegan chicken wings’, myself and Trixy had a fine old time as we began munching on those delicious ‘Heroin Brownies’.

’
I L O V E M E . . .

We then sat back and enjoyed the musical ‘genius’ of The BlueTones.

Man, they were shit. They have all the musical muscle of a field mouse in a boxing match, and sound like ‘Gerry and The PaceMakers' at a wedding reception. (To be honest, I didn’t actually see them, because, by now the trees were talking to me as I opened my third jar of ‘Smack Lemon Curd’ .
However, I don’t know if it was the drugs, or merely the fact that I was now watching an overweight Mountain Bear singing her tits off !
but that ‘Macy Gray’ looked as if she’d spent too much time in an Oxfam shop, just before she took to the stage. Once again she did a very good impression of ‘Co-co the Clown’ on heat with the voice of Rod Stewart.

And, man, does she love herself ? She desperately wanted the crowd to love her too. But, in actual fact the crowd were so out of it even Hitler, singing ‘Away In A Manger’ could have whipped these ‘dope eyed freaks’ into a frenzy. I prayed that Macy would never get out alive ! hoping to God that some ‘Hippie’ higher than a space monkey on jungle juice would plough into her, whilst asleep at the wheel of a run away tractor. Alas, two days later she was still ‘at large.’


R O B M A R L E Y . . .
One band that really did send me into a ‘Caribbean’ state of mind was ‘The Wailers’.

As I smoked the best crack money could buy, they pumped out the hits like a massive ‘Reggae Kareoke Machine’. ‘No Woman No Cry’ sounded as good as ever. However, their idea to replace Bob with a young panel beater called Rob was a terrible mistake.

White, pale, and skinny, he looked well out of place ! ‘Redemption Song’ suddenly loses all it’s magic when sung by a short man in an afro wig with a Scottish accent. (Bob must of been turning in his pineapple skin grave.) It was a truly moving experience. It was so moving that I actually began enjoying the whole ‘cultural carnival’. By now I was thinking about the deeper meaning of Love and of caring and ‘a sharing.
’


N A K E D . . .
After humping the arse off Trixy in the Avalon field, I slowly made my way down to the ‘Other Stage’. (To anyone who doesn’t know, this is a strange place that can be found somewhere between the porta loos and the silage farm, which is ironic, seeing as most of what you see and hear on this stage is ‘Class ‘A’ shite’).

This theory is backed up by the decision to put ‘Idlewild’ on this stage. (The worst band in the world.) To be fair, they really got the crowd ‘going’.
Because once everyone had seen their dire ‘Indie cack’ everyone thought about ‘going’ (And I was one of them).

By now, I had managed to get rid of Trixy, (by trading her in for a handful of ‘magic beans’ with some ‘Romanian Jugglers’ ) and I was walking around stark bollock naked and covered in grease. I was looking forward to watching those ‘Water Boys’ who I’d heard so much about. Admittedly, the sight that greeted me in the Acoustic Tent was not the one I had pictured in my mind.

Any hopes I’d had of seeing ‘boys’ covered in ‘water’, were dashed when a group of ugly Irish Travellers popped up and started playing a load of ‘jingly jangly peasant music’. Lord, it was hell on earth ! There they stood, singing about ‘unicorns’ with ‘rats in their hair’ and with many of their front teeth missing. I quickly hosed myself down, and took a swig of some ‘Tamazipan Cider’ and ran for the hills.


H E Y B O Y. . .
Thank the lord then, for The Chemical Brothers. Yes, they look like the kind of freaks that used to spend every Thursday lunchtime at school playing chess, but at least they know how to get the party a ‘moving’ and a ‘shakin’. (Which is exactly what I was doing after the narcotics kicked in during my ‘drug hurricane.’)

This is the kind of thing you need at a massive ‘Traveller’s Convention’.
Just as they kicked into ‘Out Of Control’ I was quite literally out of control as my ‘Speed Short Breads’ really started to work their magic.

By the time The Chemical Brothers had left the stage, I was still rolling around like an epileptic in a cement mixer. I was on top of the world as the speed flowed through my soul. I thought I was the resurrection. (when in actual fact, I wasn’t, but I had a huge ‘erection’ and was by now slowly going blind !.) Nothing could stop me now !.

Slowly, but surely, I collapsed and lay spread eagled on a large pile of lentils just outside the Children’s Tent. How I was going to explain this to my colleagues at Asda, I did not know. All I knew was that I was now living in a 'new world.' A world where ‘Grandstand’ and ‘Animal Hospital’ did not exist. It was the beginning of a new life..........I was wanking all night.

Saturday morning burst into life with the sound of young children poking at my ‘veggie sausage’. I was alive ! I’d survived ! I was naked to the world, and no one gave a fuck. (Why can’t they be this understanding about nudity at Kwik Save?).


G E T Y E R T I T S O U T . . .
Anyway, onwards and upwards ! After having a delicious Vegetarian breakfast (that consisted of a few conkers and some sandpaper) I was off to see one of my favorite bands of all time : The Pet Shop Boys. It was to be a gay wonderland that the ‘new Ben’ was only too willing to embrace.

First though, I had the horrific experience of watching Elastica.

Sweet Lord above ! Let’s just say, it was a classic case of ‘nice tits shame about the music.’ This bunch of Camden monkeys seem to have forgotten that life has moved on since 1994, and perhaps they should go back to the library and get a copy of that classic book ‘How to write a hit single’.

They sounded like a bunch of sixth formers playing at a ‘Wire’ tribute night. Even the sound of a mini bus full of choir boys colliding with an oil tanker in a tunnel, would have sounded far more pleasant than this lot, because at least it would have been in tune.

Now, get yer tits out and clear off, big nose.



K O R M A . . .
Bored with the same old Indie 'tripe', being served up by the same shit bands, I decided to take a short trip to the Hari Krishna Tent. Now this was more like it ! I always thought that Glastonbury was about different cultures ‘blending together’ and living as ‘one’ whilst sharing the same deep spiritual beliefs’. Sure as hell, my ‘belief’ was to get as much free curry from them as possible, and not ‘share’ any of it with the bald motherfuckers. Yes, it was cruel (they’d run out of popadoms), but at least I hung around and talked about that ‘deeper level of understanding’ that surrounds everyone of us.

Hari Krishna : "So Ben, Do you have any deep held beliefs?"

Me : "Yes, I do Harry. I believe Seaman’s past it, and I think Fowler still has a lot to prove at international level"

Hari Krishna : " But, don’t you feel you need more Karma?"

Me : " Yeah, I‘d love some more ‘Korma’…. Wack it on there mate"
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G O W E S T . . .
After being kicked out of their ‘spiritual curry house’, I once again headed towards the Pyramid stage for my next musical experience.
And what a Gay ‘o’ time I had ! Whoever had the idea of putting the Pet Shop Boys on needs a massive wet kiss. Who needs drugs when you’ve got these two lifeless souls on a huge stage with nothing but a white back drop ? Actually, you do need drugs ! So after another ‘LSD Onion Bargee’ I was suddenly back watching Zippy and Bungle on ice !

Admittedly, they did sound great. (This was probably helped by the fact the keyboard player had little more to do than make sure that the CD of their greatest hits was not skipping). And old ‘bum fingers’ Neil Tennant was like Dale Winton in a sausage shop. He was lapping it up, as they played to a field of sweaty men. I was as naked as the day I was born,
(and my cock was also the size it was the day I was born.) It didn’t matter.

They ended their encore with ‘Go West’, and half the audience took their advise and legged it towards the Dance Tent for some more ‘bottom thumping’ music. Did I want to stick around for Travis? Of course not !
I had made many close friends whilst ‘bombed off my tits’ and I now wanted to see what my new friend Barry’s ‘cottage’ looked like.

Isn’t it funny that Cottage and ‘Cottaging’ sound so similar when stood naked in a field with loud music blaring in your face?

After giving Barry a good fisting (no bottom involved, just his face and my ‘fist’) I got friendly with a young farmer who let me camp in his field for ‘peanuts’. Another day, another victory. I didn’t know who I was, or indeed, where I was, but by Sunday morning I had discovered that the words ‘peanuts’ and ‘penis’ also sound very similar when totally fucked, as I awoke with a farmer chewing on my ‘finger mouse’.

After laying there for a good few hours, I decided it was probably best to make my excuses and leave. He said I’d blown the whole thing out of proportion, but looking at the state of my ‘love pole’, I say it was clearly old ‘farmer Giles’ who had ‘blown it all out of proportion.’



M A D R Y D E R . . .
Anyway, back to the music. Sunday at Glastonbury is really ‘has-been's day.’ Basically, any band playing today is on the last train to the DHS.
They’re there to provide background music whilst everyone packs their tents up.

And that’s when the Happy Mondays took the stage. At last a band who look and sound more out of it than the audience. Jesus Christ, they sounded terrible. (I’m sure I saw Shaun Ryder selling Glastonbury T-shirts only hours earlier on my way back from the farm). Anyway, at least they gave us a ‘greatest hits set’ that every drugged up donkey could go beserk to. Bez looked as if he was having the time of his life (although later on, I did see him dancing like a freak to the sound of a car alarm).

By the end, the whole thing had naturally descended into total chaos, as one by one, the band sacked each other and stormed off stage until the drugs had worn off. At least I now know what Peter Beardsly would look like with a beard and a belly full of pills, as Shaun Rider stumbled around the stage for one last time like a pissed up hyena with a sore head.

By now I was pissed off with the whole thing. I’d lost my clothes, my friends, and my virginity. I needed to kick start my life all over again. And so out came the crack pipe.


S T A R M A N . . .
Within the hour I was once again lost in another land. A land where the Beta Band didn’t sound like a bunch of ‘tuneless art students’, and Embrace actually sounded like a world changing band rather than the sad sack of cack that we all know they are. After another slice of ‘Heroin Yorkshire Pudding’ I stumbled alone in a naked daze, in search of one last dose of ‘Love’ and ‘free blow jobs’

Admittedly I couldn’t see much beyond the ‘swirling clouds’ and ‘flying goblins’, but what I could make out was an old man wearing my mother’s Laura Ashley dressing gown. Hold on. Lord above …..It’s David Bowie !

Lord, oh lord. I wondered if I’d see a true ‘superstar’ this weekend. (Half way through the Beta Band I was beginning to lose all hope), but at last the great man had arrived. Come’th the man, come’th the hour !

This man knows how to sing, and work an audience full of drugged up tent thieves. (Admittedly he looked more like Sue Barker from 1976, but Jesus, he rolled back the years.) Out he came like a big ‘hit rifle’ spraying the crowd with ‘golden’ bullets. We got a whole musical history of his sex life. China Girl (here he was having some ‘sucky fucky’) Young American (Some boys from Detroit) and Life on Mars
(here he had a chocolate bar up his poo tunnel). It was brilliant.
(Almost as good as T’Pau at the Sheffield Arena in 1989, but not quite).

As he started to sing ‘Ziggy Star Dust’ tears filled my eyes. Whether or not it was the lighter fuel I’d been sniffing, or the fact one of my legs was now on fire, I didn’t know. The pure power of an aging bi-sexual singing his heart out about some poofy freak from out of space was just too much to bear. Even when Bowie cocked the whole thing up by launching into every Tin Machine B-side ever recorded, I was still over come with emotion.

As the final notes of Bowie’s set rang out across the cow sheds of Somerset, I turned to walk away from it all. I was still naked, I was still cold, yet I was warm inside. My life would never be the same again. I was addicted to hard drugs and under age gay sex, and for that alone, I must be thankful . I’d made new friends, and lost some old ones. Not only had my mind changed, but my whole ‘being’ has changed. I couldn’t believe it. Three days ago I had been stacking dog food at Asda and waiting for Swampy and Dobin to pick me up. Never again would I burn a crustie’s river boat to the ground, or plant drugs on the homeless man before notifying the police. Those days had gone, and as I walked across the icey mountains only one question remained ‘Where the f**k was I ?
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