Glastonbury sums up everything there is to hate about rock music

‘Glasto’ – the diminutive makes me shiver with distaste; like ‘Peely’ – as his fans affectionately called the late DJ John Peel, schoolgirl-admirer and all-round creep – it sums up everything I don’t like about rock music. I’m reminded of my years as a teenage reporter at the New Musical Express, coming home from some rancid punk club having pretended to enjoy the Drones lurking or the Lurkers droning, and dancing around my room to the Isley Brothers until the sweet soul music chased the awful white racket away.

When Lenny Henry pointed out how pale-faced Glasto is, I wrote that this was because black people are less inclined to blow hundreds of pounds for the pleasure of using fetid toilet facilities between bouts of glazed staring at a stage so far away that it might be Billie Eilish but could just as easily be Billy Bob Thornton. In short, the sort of soppy eternal student who has more Mummy than sense.