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.

From my review, you may presume that I didn’t see any bands. You’d be wrong. Not only did I see many bands, I actually played in one. This could come as a surprise. It was certainly a surprise to me.

My life a few years ago was pretty wild. I played in an all-girl rock and roll band that was fairly big on a certain scene. For a while, it was not uncommon for me to go out in one city and wake up in another. People would come up and chat to me, making it evident that I had had quite a considerable talk with them in the recent past and I wouldn’t have a clue who they were. For a long while I’d greet everyone as Doll, Mister, or Chick, as I had no idea of their name.

But times have changed and I’ve tamed my ways. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that I found myself on stage, live on the radio, playing with a band that is not my band at Glastonbury. I’m not entirely sure how this happened, although I suspect the sun beating down on my cider filled brain was involved.

So, if you see any footage of the Ralfe Band playing on the Worthy FM stage and wonder when they got a girl in and why the girl is shaking a pineapple, wonder no more. It’s me. And I’m not quite sure how I got there either.

To be honest, George isn’t even really sure what Legionnaire’s disease is.

But why, George? Why? I hear you cry. Mainly, I fear, because I have the will power and resolve of a damp tissue. But there may be other factors. Let us examine the evidence.

Tuesday
Make wild oath detailing a week off the sauce. An oath that I now admit was made with a hangover. Quite a killer one actually.

Wednesday
Day two of the new, booze-free me. Make wholesome plan to see friend who’s been alcohol-free for six months after work. Friend blows me out at last minute. Go home in rage but do not reach for bottle. Weird about the house listlessly instead.

Thursday
Band practise day, the big test. Can I spend three hours in a room playing rock AND roll without other stimulation? Yes, of course I can!
Drummer cancels. Buy three Cobras on way to practice and supplement with five after.

Friday
Oh my God, my head. I honestly thought I might throw up this morning. Right, that’s it, back off the sauce. Have a meeting scheduled for 4:30pm in the pub, normally my favourite kind of meeting, but manage not to drink a thing. Have to go home at 8pm though when the strain gets too much. More late-night weirding about Terry Towers wondering just what it is one does when sober in the evening.

Saturday
Friend’s birthday boat trip. When I arrive everyone is drinking Pimms. I opt for tap water like a perfect saint-like person. After the trip, the party hits the beer. I have a Diet Coke then am ‘accidentally’ bought a JD and coke by a pal. It’d be rude not to, right? Five later my head really hurts. Go home, early.

Sunday
Too busy to turn around let alone think about having a boozey treat.

Monday
Today. Another crazy busy day. It’s now 10pm and I’m still AT IT. Honestly, it’d be nice to have a glass of delicious red to help my creative juices flow and send me off to the land of nod later. But I won’t because I’m ashamed of my pathetic behaviour. Out of a proposed seven days off the sauce I managed five.
Actually, that’s not so bad is it? And almost a personal best I reckon. Maybe I do deserve a little reward for all my hard work. Now, if only we had some in…

The film’s called the Viva Voce Virus. I’m not really sure what it was about although a place called Gay Andy’s and some lesbian vampires seemed to feature quite heavily. My lack of understanding may be because I’m unfamiliar with the gay roadtrip genre but it’s more likely that I’d partaken too heavily of the free sparkly before the film started.

Thinking back, I was already a tiny bit tiddlypops when I arrived at the cinema due to drinking at my pal’s birthday bbq prior to show time.

And I’d gone to the bbq straight from a boozey lunch with the boss of my former record label.

Come to think of it, I’d actually woken with a hangover, so I guess I was just topping up my toxins.

Reader, I’m having a week off booze. Starting TODAY. Seriously.

I don’t want to incur the wrath of Morag and her drunken blog but I have started to fear for my insides. I have given up booze before now, once for Lent and once because my kidneys were beating a frenzied tattoo against my back and I thought I’d do them a month’s kindness. Also, I’d behaved like a twat of such magnitude on one terrible evening of which we will never speak again, that I shamed myself into a little time off.

It was utterly tedious.

The trouble with boozing is, it’s bloody brilliant. I have done some things I’ve regretted when three sheets to the wind, mostly men, but I’ve also had some of the best times of my life. The little drink demon who says: “Ok, you can come back but this time you’re sleeping on the sofa,” is also the demon who says: “We’re driving to Florida!” And goes through with it.

However, I’m going to shun booze at band practice, my friend’s birthday boat trip, and the studio opening I’m going to where the alcohol will be free.

I’m going to enjoy quality sleep, alone, be white of eye, pink of lip (rather than purple stained from wine excess) and fresh of thought.

I’m going to be rather smug and perhaps a touch patronising all week. And next Tuesday I’m going to tell you all about my sober week. Breakfast martini clutched in shaking hand.

This in itself is not unusual: I haven’t outgrown the student ability to sleep on sofas/the floor/top and tailing, and would always rather bed down at someone else’s than face the night bus home.

I’m not mad keen on buses: there’s always a much higher risk of crazies on the bus than the tube. Long ago I lived in Norbury, a wasteland between Brixton and Croydon, a short bus ride from my then job in Streatham. There’s a lot of sheltered housing in Streatham, and every day the residents would be kicked out to fend for themselves on the mean streets of South London. There’s precious little to do in Streatham once you’ve exhausted the possibilities of the Woolworths Pick n Mix counter so a lot of the socially other would use their Freedom Pass to full advantage and ride the buses around the surrounding environs all day long. Some of them still stick in my mind. No Knickers Man, for example.

No Knickers Man shtick was simple: he’d pick a lady, I can only presume at random, unless he had x-ray vision and I was the fool, and inform them and anyone in a 50 yard radius that they weren’t wearing any knickers.
“You ain’t got NO KNICKERS ON!” was a disappointingly familiar cry on the 109. “I don’t know why you looking away, you know me, and I know you ain’t got NO KNICKERS ON!”
Never directed at me, I’m pleased to report. There’s a steely glint in my eye that would make even the most crazed quail.

However, I had to take a bus today. It was especially terrifying as not only had I woken in a strange house but also a strange city (we’ve all done it: started the night in one city, woken in another, right? Right?), so had less idea than usual how to get anywhere. I enlisted the help of the driver and had to sit in one of the seats reserved for the elderly and infirm to be within nodding distance of him. I pulled my beret over my ears and affected a small drool in case anyone tried to challenge my right to sit there. No-one did, although a woman in a rakish tam-o-shanter eyeballed me for a short while.

So, after waking in an unexpected city, taking an enforced bus ride and then an hour’s train journey back to London, here I am at work in last night’s clothes.

I was at a fancy dress party yesterday.

Right now the question is: should I keep my Mrs Lovett outfit on, or change into the gym kit which is quietly mouldering under my desk?

Still, at least I managed to scrape the fake blood from my face before I made it in.

Most of it.

There tend to be two reactions when people discover this, either:

“Oh, I hardly eat any meat, except chicken, and ham, and y’know, the occasional steak,” or,
“If we were all vegetarians cows would roam the streets. Is that what you want? COWS in the STREET? Anyway, what’s your handbag made out of?”

Funny thing is, I rarely condemn anybody for what they choose to eat. You can munch whatever you like, the only things I’m uncomfortable with are foie gras, value eggs and those who exchanged their personality for veganism. I might not think meat is right for me but if you are down with it, then fair play to you.

So why aren’t I given the same respect back?

I’m having a barbeque this Sunday. It’s to celebrate my birthday. As it’s only once a year I have ventured to suggest that really, in my heart of hearts, I’d prefer it if people only brought veggie food ‘round. I admit, this is selfish. But it’s selfish greed: if people are bringing treats around I want to be able to enjoy them. However, my request has been greeted with dismay and outrage. One of my friends has even claimed that she doesn’t feel like she’s eaten unless she’s had meat.

Vegetarianism is never something I’ve shoved down people’s throats, metaphorically. But, if you come to my house, you will literally only get veggie food to chew.

My handbag, incidentally, is made of plastic.

In fact, we became social outcasts and, frustrated, turned on each other using Monopoly sets and improving books as weapons. Mrs and Mr T eventually relented when I was 13 and bought another box. However, the knowledge that one could live, if not quite happily, then at least, without television has stuck with me and I’ve never owned a TV.

“But, one can learn so much from television” I imagine you crying. Nature documentaries! Subtle comedies that reveal our inherent prejudices as a society! The way colour television changed our concept of war!

All very well and good, if your tastes tend that way. But my taste in television is still that of the denied eight year old. It is low, very low and oh so trashy.

Big Brother? Bring it on. Big Brother’s Little Brother? I’m there. Big Brother’s Little Brother’s Half Sister’s Dog? Try and tear me away from the set.

See also: You Are What You Eat, Too Fat Too Toddle, Fat Camp (in fact anything sizest, my therapist could tell you why), Corrie, Big Benders, Diagnosis Murder, Jeremy Kyle… nothing is too low brow for me. Except Hollyoaks, obviously.

Which is why I was delighted yesterday by Britain’s Got Talent. What more could one hope for in a programme? The acts included Tracey Lee Collins: an overweight drag act; Kate and Gin: a dog dancing duo (Kate’s mum: “She doesn’t have that many human friends but she wouldn’t have it any other way”), and Phil Blackmore, who’s act mainly consisted of balancing a barbeque on his chin.

The public vote was won by Signature, a Michael Jackson impersonating two-some, about whom Simon Cowell commented: “What you have is originality”. Fabulous.

And these are only the semi-finals, there will be another live show every night this week. Sod this girl-about-town malarkey I know where I’m going to be at 8:30pm tonight.

Actually, television is brilliant. What I disapprove of is myself.

For the dumped, the end of a relationship is a churning mass of horror: what’s wrong with me? Is it my new Annie Lennox cut? Was it because I told the cuntstubble joke to his mum? Hysteria: I’m never, ever going to smile/have sex again. And, eventually hatred: ha! I’d like him to find someone else who’ll put up with him blow-drying his (thinning) hair.

Although it’s tough when you can’t sleep for crying and are convinced you’re a love pariah, the most important thing to retain is your dignity. And that means no revenge acts. No, not even the selling his records one. Nor the telling everyone he has a small cock one. And especially not the sleeping with his friend one.

I’ve been dumped in some insensitive ways: via email, by finding my boyfriend kissing someone else and the night before my mum had major surgery. I’ve hatched some elaborate and deeply satisfying revenge plots, but I’ve never carried them through. Why? Because if I did, I would just have felt worse about myself.

Sure, I could have recorded over the only master tape of e-dump boy’s band with Let’s Get Ready to Rumble, but when he joined the company I worked for two years later I was glad I hadn’t. Especially when he took me out to dinner to apologise for behaving like an arse years before.

I could have spread the word about kissing boy’s bedroom quirks to all and sundry but I chose to keep schtum. I saw him unexpectedly on Monday night and we gave each other a little hug of greeting. He’s working in a warehouse now. And he’s got fat. Really fat.

As for surgery man, my best revenge on him is the knowledge that he’ll never have a girlfriend as good as me again, ever. Also I externalised my feelings in a rational and adult way by writing a little song about him. It’s called I’ll Like You Better When You’re Dead.

Friday
18:00 Up For It Schlas, to wit: George (me) and Katrin arrive on site and begin to pitch the Glam Tent
18:07 Pitch complete. After playing two festivals in two days the weekend before last, we’ve got this camping lark down to a fine art
18:10 Put up camping chairs, table, in-tent modesty screen (something upon which I insist after a recent in-tent “incident”); fix stove; spray bug spray; lay out roll mats, sleeping bags, camping pillows etc. There’s camping, and then there’s glamping, after all
19:00 Settle in camping chairs, Malibu and pineapple in hand, and bask in the envious glow from all the two-man domes and tiny tepee residents in the field.
20:00 Hannah Schla arrives on site on her scooter. She’s so cool.
20:01 Hannah Schla’s scooter is on fire! She’s so hot!
20:02 Hannah Schla’s scooter still on fire
20:03 Poke head from around tree (where have retreated for safety) and make helpful suggestions
20:04 Suggestions are unheeded
20:10 Smoke and fire becoming tedious. Where oh where are stewards/security when one needs them?
20:15 Fire bores itself out.
20:30 Make dinner of fresh pasta tortellini with pesto, balsamic vinegar and chilli oil, plus olives and cheese. Serve with chilled wine and eat around camping table while sat in camping chairs. Glam camping rules.
21:00 Light one, tiny, citronella candle to keep bugs away (bugs just love to dip their fangs in sweet Schla flesh) and are almost stampeded by security due to “fire risk”.
21:10 Construct elaborate smoke screen from hummus pots and wine bottles and re-light candle. Ha! We fought the war and the Schlas won!
21:15 Candle expires
00:00 Hannah Schla leaves the site, asking if we want a lift on her scooter back to “civilisation and a warm bed”. “No thanks” we cheerily cry; we love camping y’see. When one is as seasoned a festival camper as we are, one has all the things one could possible require: pyjamas, ear-plugs, Hard Bear substitute, a silky ribbon. Plus there are flushing loos in the guest area and hot and cold running water; what more could we ask for. No, camping rules: beds and B&Bs are for wimps!
00:10 Have camped on a boulder. Camping fucking sucks.
00:30 “Katrin… KATRIN… are you awake?”
00:35 “Katrin… KATRIN… please could you move over a bit, there’s a boulder on my side.”
00:40 “Sniffle”
01:00 Hammer boulder with a mallet. Boulder remains unmoved but the kraken (Katrin) awakes and is very sarcastic.
01:30 Cry self to sleep
03:30 Stare at tent ceiling for a bit cursing camping, Truck, but most of all spread-eagled and sleeping Katrin Schla.
04:30 A storm! How exciting!
04:31 Kinda wished we hadn’t camped quite so close to the tree though
06:00 Have quiet wee in a corner of the tent. A corner that for the rest of the festival Katrin will claim “smells of horses”.
06:57 Admit defeat, get up and go for secret shower.

Stay tuned for Saturday and Sunday’s exciting episodes, including the tale of what happened when George tells a young camper she needs to powder her nose…