The Telegraph sent me to do a piece on Glastonbury the other week. The crush of the crowd, the stink of the burgers, the even worse stench from the lavatories, the fact that most people seemed to be half-drunk or stoned, and the loneliness of wandering around the site, utterly miserable, when everyone else appeared to be having a high old time with friends or loved ones, reminded me of Mephistopheles’s great line in Dr Faustus: ‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.’ When the thunder and lightning started, followed by rain so heavy it drenched you in seconds, I felt more miserable than I have in years.
As I fled the site I made a firm vow never to return to Glasto. Once was more than enough. But having filed my knocking copy I shamefacedly found myself creeping back the following day.
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