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I will not dwell upon the back-breaking, hour-long walk from the car to the tent. I will not dwell upon nights spent in the tent pitched in the seventh circle of hell. Nay, I will not dwell upon the state of the toilets - OMG - nor the people sitting smugly at their campsites in mountains of litter. No no no. I will dwell upon the joy of the music, the swell of the crowd, the beat of the drums, the men in tutus and fairy wings, the stilt-walkers carrying mermaids, Leonard Cohen doffing his hat with a deferential smile, the taste of cider, the surprisingly sunny skies, the sun setting over the pyramid stage as the audience erupted into a tear-jerkng rendition of Lennie’s Hallelujah. I will dwell upon our surprise gig in the poetry tent. A phone call at 5pm on Saturday saying the next performers hadn’t shown up and would we please be thereby 5.30 to perform a 25 minute set, the mad dash walking against the crowds towards my tent to fetch my words and apron, getting there only to discover the act had arrived but being invited to read anyway, the feeling of standing up on that stage. Pretty cool. I will dwell upon the Disparate Housewives’ joyful morning in the tiny tea tent (see above) where we serenaded individual tea drinkers with poems chosen from our specially created poetry menu. One man - big, tattooed, rolling a big fat spliff - commented on our rendition of ‘Bollocks’ and said he was was surprised to discover he had an imagination. I wonder if I am the first poet ever to meet with her kind and long-suffering editor at the Glastonbury Festival, to spread out the poems on the table in the children’s tent and discuss commas and iambic pentameters surrounded by nutcases dressed as bananas and cows. I will dwell upon the indescribably good Cumberland sausages, the fantastic bottle of Glenlivet we swigged from at regular intervals, the general loveliness of my friends and my kids. I will dwell upon the hour spent in the tent with Jacob, my son, drinking whisky and eating pistachio nuts, and catching glimpses of my daughter in her white waterproof coat hurrying along a busy thoroughfare towards the next big gig. And poor Amy Winehouse out of her head - so sad, so sad - her voice shot, her brains to pulp. We lasted two songs and it was too sad to stay and listen any more. One more rock’n’roll casualty. All that talent going to waste. And oh, to hear Joan Armatrading, Jimmy Cliff, Sinead O’Connor, Crowded House, Scouting for Girls, and Leonard Cohen. My friend Dzifa Benson whose poem made me cry, John Hegley playing half his set when the power was down. No mic, no lights and pulling out the best performance I’ve ever seen him do. I will dwell upon the shift in consciousness that occurs after two sleepless nights surrounded by drunken gangs of harmless but incredibly noisy men treading on the guy ropes. The dancing in my wellies, the ache of my feet, the songs in my heart, the poetry in my soul. And the Comfy Crappers. Three poos for a fiver can’t be bad. You wouldn’t believe how intimate you can get with your friends on the subject of bowel movements after three nights in Glastonbury. But yes, the music, the music. The experience of listening to an artist you love surrounded by 100,000 people who love them too is actually beyond words. It is true that in my tiny tent I perfected what I learned to describe as ‘The Glastonbury lunge’ which was one smooth movement from standing to lying down in order to reach my backpack at the end, all the time keeping my feet inside my muddy wellies outside the tent. But it was not easy. Heaven knows when I’ll be able to bring myself to remove my Glastonbury wristband. It feels like badge of honour. I made it from one end of Glastonbury to the other with only a touch of sunburn to show for it. Leonard Cohen called us ‘Angels of the Mud’. He moved me to tears with his poetry and his humility. Will I be there next year? You bet. But next year I’ll take an RV with a door I can shut. And I’ll keep my poetry in my memory and my handbag in case of a sudden, unexpected but truly welcome gigging opportunity. ps Stella Mandella (pictured above) says: ‘Struggling along with a chair, tent, two bags, and my little backpack handbag, a guy, in a last-of-Glastonbury effort to get himself fixed up, offered to help me on my way. The price was to hear him tell me about himself - what a music lover he was, where he lived, (Cheltenham) other festivals he'd been to - as if listing his qualities for the agent of a blind date company. I parted company with him at the Portaloos without letting on he'd just tried to pick up a quirky mother of three poet with at least two discernable, and not always compatible,  personalities, (not to mention two discrete names and an additional applicable title 'Disparate Housewife') whose visible luggage literally wasn't the half of it, (I'd already dropped the bulk off earlier) on heart pills, with an insane (dying) secret-ish passion for someone, supported by a wonderful, estranged, long-suffering husband, waiting for her at home, (along with her loopy brown dog) and an annual income currently less than most teenagers' pocket money - so he actually looked genuinely disappointed when I suggested he needn't wait! (Perhaps he had eyesight problems.) Oh, it could have been a beautiful thing! (If it wasn't for all of the above.)’ "seamless photo editing (see photo above) by aaron jell, www.non-consumer.com" Photo taken by Charles Johnson http://www.non-consumer.com/shapeimage_1_link_0
... joyful morning in the Tiny Tea Tent where we serenaded individual tea drinkers with poems
 
 
 
 
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Glastonbury