|{Abandoned 240705}
Some Other Place
“We are all going to change – or perish. We are going to become regenerate – or disappear into the abyss. Surely that’s clear! Either we are going to become persons with different desires, different thoughts, different emotions – or we are all going to become members of a vast suicide club…There will be a new world directly enough people want a new world. Somebody once said that there are doors which will not open till millions stand before them. When enough people want a new world, it will arise. And not before. Ideals won’t bring about it – and neither will schemes for a utilitarian Utopia. Neither prayers will bring it, nor planning. It’s what we all really want that counts. What we really want when we are alone. Not the ideals we profess. That’s just moral exhibitionism.”
- Claude Houghton, All Change, Humanity (1941)
Quoted in the original preface to “Hollywood’s Hallucination” - Sunday After The War – Henry Miller
It crept up on me this year. With the usual paranoia and hysteria displaced by – something: Complacency? Fatalism? Confidence? I don’t know.
But I dreamt about it, had a vision of a place on the site – the top of the road leading up through Home Ground to the farm and Tom’s Field, which bears a sense of closure, safety and relief in my memories. I checked the weather every day on the BBC web site, with my home town set as Glastonbury. I was glued to the five day and all its nuances. It took me out of daily life - and that was a good thing. Rain was forecast.
I made the provision of checking the train times on the Internet. On paper it was a easy journey – Twickenham/Reading/Castle Cary (2.5 hours). But the timetables now advised Twickenham/Paddington/Salisbury/Westbury/Cary Cary (3.5 hours - minimum). It took me a few days to work out that the site was peddling certified horseshit. I was subsequently screwed by Network Rail solidly for two weeks. I checked their web site 30 or 40 times – rang the Network Rail Enquiry line, South West Trains and Wessex Trains at least a dozen times – and in every instance was given bullshit information about the route, the status of the route and the price of the ticket. But they insisted that a peak return to Castle Cary would cost £90. They did this over and over again. It was a red route, they said, and no Supersaver was available. It was also a £57.00 hike on last years fare.
After last ditch research in the early hours of the 22nd I figured out that I could get a single to Reading for £9.30 and a Supersaver return from Reading to Castle Cary for £26.00 – a net saving of roughly £50 (for the same journey). Peak.
When I got to Twickenham station and started buying the tickets the guy at the counter asked me what the hell I was doing and suggested I get a Supersaver for the whole fucking journey for £33.00. Peak.
In the confusion of exchanging tickets I believe I short changed him by £3.00.
Bear this mind when dealing with the Rail People. They have the organisational skills and ethical structure of a group of Datura addicts. My honest advice (witness) is to drink very heavily before you ring the NRE line – 20 units at least. It will put them off balance and hopefully scare them. Act like a maniac. And be overly familiar.
…
So I am on the train. It is Tuesday - the morning of the 22nd of June. I have all my gear in, or strapped to, my 15-year-old Karrimor rucksack and I am feeling good. At Reading I see a few festival freaks on the platform. Then the countryside rolls by to Somerset. Silent music is playing. Now I am a traveller in my own land - unravelling. I talk to the nurse sitting next to me, heading for Devon. We talk about places to live, the price of property and, of course, the festival. She is attractive and confident.
And then I am there. Castle Cary. Bumping into the same cool blonde cabbie chick who drove me to the site last year. She is smiling and laughing and describing me to a colleague as the ‘man from the council.’ Her buddy has an eight-seater. I drum up a few more arses and he takes us to the main gate – Pedestrian Gate A, Vehicle Gate 6 and site of the Festival Bus Station. Price of being chauffeured onto the site? £3.00 – which will buy you two cans of diet coke at some of the stalls.
En route I sat next to a well-spoken young couple drafted in by one of the security firms. Nouvelle vague bouncers, in an industry now much changed by paperwork, personal liability issues, diversity management and disability awareness. The days of the bruiser seem done. A shame in many, but not in all, ways.
The girl was the first to see the site – though a gap in the roadside boscage. She went wide-eyed. I chatted to them both for a while, making a few non-committal, open-ended observations then decided to shut up. There was nothing I could say to help them. They would find out what the score was soon enough.
On arrival I left all of them and carried on alone.
It took at least an hour to get to Tom’s Field. The stewards on Ped Gate A told me to go to Ped Gate D (about a mile away) where my rucksack was ‘searched’ by a nervous security guard. I had three stashes of draw on me and a number of suspicious looking blue tablets (Stelazine). I knew he was looking for glass bottles, so I wasn’t worried.
Once I got through the gate I was on the qui vive. Only workers and the hard core at this stage. The Tiny Tea Tent is up and running, as it may have been for days - staffed by crusties, idealists, activists, travellers - whatever. Site vehicles moving people and gear around, rattling the temporary metallic roadways. Traders setting out their stalls. The toilets are clean, the grass is long and people are making finishing touches everywhere. A Transit drives past me with two long-haired Caucasians in the front. From the back of the van I hear an old woman barking what sounds like orders in a harsh dialect I imagine to be Romany. It mystifies me.
Finally I reach the northern end of the site – the farm itself, the hospital, Security, Police and Silage HQs and Tom’s Field, where the medics, nurses, police, professional stewards, Oxfam stewards, security guards, the Recycling Team and who knows what pitch their tents. About 10 or 20,000 of us in all, I think.
I was early – roughly midday. Registration at the ‘Oxbox’ (and this is a miracle) took about five minutes. They gave me details of my shifts, a high visibility tabard (I was E135), my photo ID and a lilac pass-out wristband. I erected the tent, inflated the air bed, had a beer from the marquee/mess tent and went for a walkabout.
Somehow, by 2.30, I was stoned. The notes go like this…
22 JUNE 2004 – TUESDAY
2.30 WRECKED IN TENT
MONUMENTAL FUCKAROUND WITH TICKETS
MUST GET HERE EARLY – TO CATCH THE BUILDING UP TRIP AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
IT IS STUNNING TO BE HERE. THE VOICES AROUND ME. HEARING THE TENTS & THE
AIRBEDS GOING UP
FEMININE VOICES
MANY SEXUAL METAPHORS ARE POSSIBLE WHEN A COUPLE ARE PUTTING UP A TENT
SO FAR SO GOOD
Later that afternoon I bought two blankets from Joe Bananas and retired early, smoking regularly in the tent. I made two further entries in the notebook: “Smoothie Badoobie” and “How was your Frout?” – both of which amused me at the time.
I experienced highs and lows. It had been raining steadily and a fine spray of water was blowing through the left hand side of the tent, from the East. Already small pools of rain were accumulating around the edges of the groundsheet inside. Outside people were still setting up camp. Two twee sounding girls were having trouble pitching their tent immediately to my right. I considered offering help but decided against it.
The state of my 10-year-old, 3-man Vango and the prospect of worse weather began to generate a panic reaction. Moreover, my first shift was due to start at 7.00 a.m. the following morning (Wednesday) on vehicle gate 5. I had not worked a vehicle gate before but concluded that it would be a bum rap – not my scene at all. At a critical point I checked my shift pattern again – closely this time. It looked like this…
Wednesday - Vehicle Gate 5 - 7.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m.
Thursday - Floaters - 7.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m.
Sunday - Vehicle Gate 5 – 3.00 p.m. to 11.00 p.m.
Thursday. Floaters. This was very good news. It probably meant spending 8 hours sitting in the marquee keeping the tea urns topped up. Possibly taking flasks of tea round all the gates in a Land Rover. Either way, it promised to be a cushy number. The graveyard shift on Sunday looked good too. I knew from past experience that the gate was likely to be decommissioned at 8.00 p.m. Besides, people would be heading out, not in, at that stage. It wasn’t too bad. I had cause to cheer up.
I had pitched the tent in much the same spot as previous years - on a gentle slope near the road – about two minutes walk from the marquee with the new Rasta restaurant, veggie café and cocktail bar. My feet faced the road – down the slope. I was opposite two huge generators and the medical centre. I was far enough from the long drops not be worried by the noise of crashing metal doors (still audible) and far enough from the portaloos not to be bothered by the rank stink I knew would kick-in in a few days. There were spotlights on the generators that bathed the tent in a gentle light at night. My neighbours were unusually quiet. I seemed to be the only one constantly smoking gear - in the tent.
I slept well that night – massively aided by the Draw.
…
I was the first one on my shift to reach the gate – on the Western side of the site. An Oxfam crew were already there. Early Shift bods I imagine - who get down there roughly a week before the weekend and work only the days leading up to the festival.
As the rest of my crew arrived various briefings took place and we assumed our positions and roles. About ten Oxfam Stewards, a handful of professional stewards and three or four security guards. A new security supervisor arrived, red faced, and apologised in advance for having a hangover. He looked like the proto army corporal and had obviously been in his game for a while. Two hip professional stewards spent the day under a small, open-ended tent next to the gate, smoking and chewing the rag.
I soon found myself working on a vehicle check about 100 yards from the gate. The people there seemed to be calling the shots. It rained most of the day. Eight hours passed. I was on autopilot. Time went quickly.
When the shift finished I made my way back to Tom’s Field. I stopped off on the way to buy a sack of solid fuel tablets made from recycled sawdust – a bargain at about £2.99 – with three packs of fire sticks to get the stuff going. I had every intention to build my own fire at some stage, and sit there watching the flames on my own.
The Oxfam marquee was packed. I found a spot to sit on the edge of the stage (where the Rastas who ran the canteen were planning to play), rolled a joint and got the notebook out.
The notes went like this…
23 JUNE 2004 5.30
OXFAM TENT
SUFFERED TWO PERSONAL DEFEATS BUT I BRUSH THEM OFF NOW.
ONE SURREAL INCIDENT
JUST GOT STONED OFF MY SHIFT AND SAW THE GUY FROM THE HOME LOANS DINNER. A PUNTER
(CREW) ASKED FOR MY NAME & THE FRENCH ARTIST FROM LAST YEAR JUST BLANKED
ME
IT’S YOUR OWN TRIP
LAST NIGHT WAS HELL BRIGHTENED ONLY BY MY REALISATION THAT I WILL BE A ‘FLOATER’
TOMORROW. A LUCKY BREAK.
FIRST SHIFT DONE. RAIN JUST POSSIBLY EASING UP BUT THE WIND IS STRONG. I JUST
BOUGHT SOME ARTIFICIAL FIRE BLOCKS (COMPACTED SAWDUST) TO BUILD MY OWN FIRE.
WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT
JUST SAW THE FRENCH ARTIST AGAIN. PULLING BACK NOW. EARLIER I DID SMILE AT
HER. DANGEROUS – CONSIDERING I AM STONED.
PRACTICALLY SQUATTING BY THE STAGE NOW
DIFFICULT TO WRITE
YES PULLING BACK
GUYS NOW PUTTING IN A NEW WALKWAY IN FRONT OF ME – BUT TOOK IT AWAY BEFORE
I COULD FINISH THAT SENTENCE
BANGING
IT’S BACK
BAD TO BE STONED IN THE CORNER
The site was being transformed. It wasn’t as bad as previous years (’97 and ’98 in particular) but it was definitely becoming…juicy. Even worse, it was now blowing a fucking gale. On the way back to Tom’s Field I saw a Gazebo ripped out of the ground and blown across the site. Nearly everyone had bought budget tents with them. My own battered but beloved Vango was rated at three seasons. This shit we were enduring was borderline for most people. I didn’t know it at the time, but the trade in tents at the camping stores was going bananas. And fights were starting over the last ones for sale on the site.
Let me explain something…
I know a bit about tents. The first tent I lived in was a big frame jobbie that my family took with them to Cornwall in 1976. I was sleeping in it some years later when a gas canister exploded – inflicting first, second and third degree burns on my mum and torching all the canvas to a cinder in less than two minutes.
My second tent was the Saunders Satellite I took to Cornwall with me in 1987. Saunders was a hero of mine, creating a camping revolution in the 1980’s with a fantastic range of ultra-lightweight, yet ultra-stable backpacking products. He pioneered the idea of flysheet first erection – to keep the inner dry if it was raining. The Satellite was a clever mix of transverse hoop and ridge design and with about 20 aluminium pegs and a low profile it was amazingly strong. It was also tiny – strictly a one man tent with no room to manoeuvre. In comparison, the Vango is a cathedral.
I have fantasised about my current tent, and built fantastic stories about the indestructible nano-technology tents of the future. Tents that can fly, hover motionless above the ground, move under water and that have extra-dimensional spaces in them - time-space warp fields. Comforts we can barely imagine or desire to imagine. These scenarios took hold in my mind because of the very real need for a psychological space as well as a physical one. Often at Glastonbury the demarcations can become blurred. Even in your tent the shadows, conversations, sounds and music invade your space and your mind. I often have to muffle hysterical laughter as I lie there – so as not to worry the neighbours. And now part of me thought of the Vango as a sacred space, a concept fuelled, no doubt, by some near religious episodes I have experienced in there.
I paid £70.00 for it.
It had been flapping around madly in the wind and I discovered that at some point earlier in the day one of the ten foot poles that formed the central dome had split. My base and source of retreat was now semi-collapsed. I jury-rigged addled repairs with paracord and found that I could maintain some structural integrity by wedging my rucksack up against the broken pole.
With the storm still going strong I now braced myself for the worst. Another panic reaction set in. I tried to imagine how habitable the tent would be if it fully collapsed. Not very, I concluded. Should I buy a new tent now – rather than waiting this one to fall around me? How easy would that be? I had three hundred pounds on me, but would there be any tents left in the markets? Whatever happened, should I just give up on the bastard, leave it here on Monday morning, still standing perhaps, and buy a top dollar four-season jobbie when I got back? How much would I have to spend for something like that? £300? I lay inside, gripping what was left of the superstructure with my clenched fist in a quasi power salute gesture every time a strong gust blew. I talked to the tent in my mind: Stay up until Monday morning baby, and I’ll take you back and get you fully repaired and restored. Just get me through this. I will look after you if you look after me. Do it for me baby, and I will never forget you. You will be the tent of tents.
Later that night I tuned in to Radio Avalon, mercifully up and running now. They broadcast traffic news, bulletins and music by the bands playing the festival. At one point they played an info bulletin lifted directly from the Fine Guide and the web site. It explained, amongst other things, the dangers of using drugs on the site – “The moment you enter the Festival site, you do not become an indestructible being…” Within a minute or so a punter texted them with the message “I am an indestructible being” – which set the seal on the evening as far as I was concerned.
…
Thursday
Somehow, I found myself in the Oxfam marquee at 2.50 in the morning drinking tea and making notes in the Moleskin: Just started raining again. Pray for abatement and sun to dry up the mud. All kinds of highs and lows last night. If the tent survives the weekend it will be a miracle.
I killed time between the marquee and the Vango until about 6.30, when I reported to the Oxbox and hit the marquee for breakfast and a presumed eight hours of reading and writing. After the chow I put my tabard on and settled down to a crossword, sitting apart from the rest of the floaters.
One of the other floaters had been with me on the previous days shift. I had got chummy with her because I had seen her on TV – a ‘day in the life of a Steward’ type sound bite that the BBC had broadcast in about ‘95 or ’96. Now she is calling out my name. An organiser is standing next to her – looking over at me expectantly. The Oxbox needs two floaters for cover.
They gave us a briefing at the box. A supervisor due to work on Ped Gate D had called in sick and they needed a replacement. I was landed with the job. They gave me a radio. I headed for the gate straight away. It took about 25 minutes to reach it.
I was met by Leanne, a professional ‘Gate Monitor.’ For some reason we both seemed to be shouting – over the noise probably. She briefed me on the organisation and layout then eyed me up and down.
‘You haven’t got a supervisors tabard.’
‘They didn’t give me one.’
‘Well, whatever happens here, you’re in charge now. Any decision
you make is final.’
I looked at her closely now. She looked dug in.
‘Have you worked this gate before?’ I asked her.
‘For the last nine years.’
‘Obviously, I am not going to wade in like an idiot. Any key decisions
and I’m going to defer to your judgement.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
I shrugged. ‘All I can say is that I will do my best. That’s the
best that I can do.’
We had about thirty or forty Oxfam stewards spread around the gate with about five Oxfam supervisors. There were about half a dozen security guards, about 20 staff issuing wristbands in a big marquee and the two professional Gate Monitors, Leanne and Tracy. I was supposed to be Gate Leader.