My Instagram feed has turned into a virtual shrine to Glastonbury festival. It makes sense – this year would have marked its 50th birthday. People are longing for those heady, care-free days at Worthy Farm. I, however, can’t really partake in this exercise of collective FOMO. I’ve never been. And while I’ve flirted with the concept over the years, I’m almost certain I’ll never go. Sure, I love to indulge in throwback pictures of Kate Moss in her muddy Hunter wellies and vintage waistcoats (otherwise known as, The Pete Doherty Years), time warp back to the 1990s with clips of Liam Gallagher asking the crowd “Are you lot gonna wake up for some proper songs?” and Bowie’s 2000 performance of Heroes. But the fascination stops there, it never quite extends enough to want to invest in the (I’m told) painstaking efforts to actually buy a ticket. Why ever not? You may think. A 4-day whirlwind of music and escapism from responsibility with my best friends? Perhaps, but I also fear I could hate them at the end of it, all because I tried to mould myself into someone I’m not: What if they want to see a band I don’t like? We get lost? My phone dies? I can’t find our tent? I want to sleep (I know myself enough to know that constant thumping and lack of Zzz will turn me into The Grinch on a bad day)? And so on. Just writing that list down gives me mild panic. I know they’ll be long-time Glasto goers who’ll retort, “But you don’t know until you’ve tried it!” Like they’re privy to this gateway of fun and y’know, I’m just yet to be enlightened. I don’t buy it. I can still drink, dance, listen to live music, have long and winding existential conversations and snog strangers without having to go to a festival. Speaking of, I can’t wait for the pubs to open.
Images | glastofest