Londoners Magazine

You want to hear about Jay-Z? You’ve come to the wrong place, pal. Everyone and his dog tells you about the music at Glastonbury. Georgina Terry is here to recount what happened to her before the music even started.

(Photograph by Georgina Terry)

Wednesday

Arrive onsite at about 4pm. It’s already rammed. KP and I try to attain our usual spot but there are usurpers there. I send KP off to find a new pitch while I collapse in the sunshine and wonder whether the bulge in my tummy is a hernia from dragging a rucksack, tent, camping chair, and two enormous bags half way across Somerset, or an unwise motorway sandwich.

KP comes back triumphant and leads me to the new space. It is great! Near to the meeting point; that crucial, close but not too close to the toilets, and with no campers with acoustic guitars in sight. Hooray!

We pitch and spend the rest of the evening wandering around the site, soaking up the relaxing festival air and recharging our energy levels for the days ahead.
Oh, okay. We got twatted. We drank a lot of cider, too much organic wine, half a bottle of vodka and nearly a whole bottle of Malibu between us. We were overconfident and overexcited. We were fools.

Thursday

Not a good start to the day. Feel a bit sicky, can’t think why. I get up, have a tent bath (whether this is as bad as it sounds rather depends upon what you’re imaging) and a Pot Noodle then have a funny turn and have to retire to the tent for an hour or so. Eventually KP shakes me awake and insists that I leave the tent that day, so we go up to the Green Fields and sit on top of a hill surveying the wonder of the festival below us.

Now, I’m not a hippy, I’m very much a city girl. Furthermore, I’m Northern and ergo have very little time for horoscopes, mysticism and organic chai. So, you can trust me when I say that if there is anything more restful to the soul than sitting at the top of the Healing Fields and staring out at Glastonbury then I don’t know what it is.

However, the peace is soon rudely interrupted by the violent screeching of police whistles. Green police whistles. Some idiot is pissing in the stream! Polluting the stream is not cool as it affects the local wildlife. The green police humiliate the offender and the whole field boos the culprit. That’ll learn ‘im. He’s kinda big though so I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to tell him.

KP and I stride (did I mention? It’s sunny! It’s sunny! OMG) to the Park Field and stumble upon a sushi yurt. There is a low, narrow entrance to the yurt and you have to take your shoes off before you’re allowed into the carpeted interior. Inside, it’s a tranquil haven of red, black and Ashahi. We have a sushi box each and are very pleased with ourselves.

The music hasn’t started yet and already this is the best week of this year.