20 years on and I yearn to return despite having all my clothes stolen Twenty years ago this very weekend, I was at Glastonbury one of a number of trips to the festival which just about allow me to look my children in the eye and say once, a long time ago, I was young, just like them.
It was a rather eventful trip. It didn't stop some fine upstanding members of the community entering our tent on the first night, however, coach outlet sale for black friday and while about six of us tried to sleep, stealing all our bags. Oh how we all laughed in the morning when, assuming it was a prank played by friends camped next door, the dawning realisation was that we had become the victims of thieves. It could have spoilt the occasion. Instead, we just stuck a sign up telling those who pinched out stuff they could stuff it somewhere unpleasant, and had a look round to see if we could find any remains. We found one shoe about 100 yards away. I often wonder what the crooks who pinched our stuff made of it. There is, after all, only a limited market for used t shirts of Carter USM, Ned's Atomic Dustbin and Kingmaker. The looks of disappointment on their faces is the only comfort I take. All of which meant the first day was spent stood in a queue which stretched for some little distance waiting to report it to the police. It wasn't very rock n roll, but apparently a crime number would allow us to claim on our parents' home insurance and somehow we squared that away with any sense of 'rebelling against society' we have pretended to have burning in our bellies. By the time we got to the line of police huts, I went in and whinged to the poor officer inside about all the stuff that had gone. I even pointed out that my entire supply of cigarettes had been swiped. He offered me his tobacco pouch and said I was welcome to roll one. I thanked him, but said I didn't know how. He said I may be the only person on the entire site who wasn't capable of rolling a fag, as we looked out of a site over which a fog of cannabis smoke gently floated on the breeze. I was swiftly identifying myself as the dullest person at the festival. Cementing that position, we all would leave the site every morning and drive to the nearby town of Glastonbury where we would use the public loos they flushed and buy a slap up fried breakfast at a local caf. All rather civilised. I don't mention all of this to my children. If they think going to Glastonbury was in any way cool, saying I avoided the lavs, and couldn't roll a spliff would swiftly dispel any image of a hip and happening father. Yet despite all this a coach outlet promo code brush with crime which now I think would mar my enjoyment of an event it just became part of an experience and an extra story to tell. Granted, this was a very different Glastonbury to that which will greet festival goers this year. Tickets cost around 50 and you could afford to wait some weeks, if not months, to decide whether to go or not none of this selling out in five minutes nonsense. The capacity was about a third of what it is today too and back then the place was a remarkable, sprawling city of a place. But coach outlet purses 1950s after attending the following year too, it suddenly became hugely popular and our leisurely approach to ticket buying meant we missed out. And then life over took. Children, mortgages, jobs suddenly Glastonbury wasn't a priority. Needless to say, I yearn to return. And if I can be quick on the mark to nab tickets for 2014, I'm going to be there. But then I say that every year. Because once you've been it's hard to turn your back on it forever.
Perhaps it was just my youthful spirit which remains so connected to Glastonbury, or simply all those ley lines they keep banging on coach outlet stores in wisconsin about, but there is something in the air; something that makes it special. I do feel there is a little part of me left in that field. Perhaps those stolen pants of mine, complete with my DNA, were dumped and have since rotted into the very soil.
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