For the most part my memories of attending Glastonbury Festival are good; a wonderful selection of music and entertainment, spread across a sprawling site, enjoyed amongst the excellent company of friends and several thousand other people. Admittedly walking through the mud can become a bit of a chore, any shelter from the elements depends on how much you paid for your tent, the sound of people giggling off nitrous can get very annoying and, obviously, the memory of the Long Dropsfamed aroma draws a knowing recognition amongst fellow travellers who've experienced its delights. As I've grown older however the lure of urban festivals, such as The Great Escape in Brighton or Portsmouth's own Victorious, very much appeals; I can enjoy a surfeit of good music, seek shelter from the elements when required, and retire to the comfort of a proper bed at the end of the night. If only there was a way of enjoying Glastonbury in a similar manner, of savouring the music but without the mud or "interesting" toilet facilities? No long walk between stages, no chance of the stage view being blocked by That Guy with a ridiculous flag on a pole. If only. This thought may well have occurred to the very nice people at the Staggeringly Good Brewery who, having both a tap room and a new music venue at the their disposal, have decided to stream the best of Glasto for the enjoyment of Portsmouth's beer and music loving punters.
Alongside the yet-to-be-announced-but-most-likely-excellent selection acts whose performances will be shown on the big screens will be a selection of the brewery's excellent (and unfined) ales. Add to this the promise of proper toilets, no mud and absolutely no chance at all of being stuck behind someone trying to get their significant other on TV by hoisting them onto their shoulders and it sounds like a winning plan to me. Obviously it won't be the same as being stood in a muddy field in Somerset but that's kind of the whole point.
Best of all though is the price of the tickets; entry is absolutely FREE (which, given that I like many others missed out on a ticket to the festival's return this year, makes it even more of a bargain). Lovely super smashing great, as the late Jim Bowen was wont to say.
Chas Hodges, legendary session musician and half of easily the greatest pub rock combo ever, has died aged 74 after a battle with oesophageal cancer. In his long musical career Chas performed with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis and Gene Vincent, played alongside Ritchie Blackmore as part of Joe Meek's house band, The Outlaws, and guested on a variety of artists' studio sessions (most famously on the much sampled Labi Siffre tune I Got The, which also featured the other half of Chas'n'Dave, Dave Peacock, before they joined forces).
Over the course of their 40+ year career as Chas'n'Dave the duo had over eight UK Top 40 hits, hosted a variety TV show set in an East End pub, made drinking Courage beers more appetising, sound-tracked Alf Garnett, played Glastonbury, introduced the word "gertcha" into the common lexicon and definitely seemed to be having a lot of fun along the way. All that and they ensured that "rabbit" has a special connotation to those of us of a certain age too.
Whilst I never got to see Chas'n'Dave perform live they did once make an impromptu appearance in my old local pub, stopping in for a quick beer on their way to a gig in the next town. Sat at a table, joined by drummer Mick Burt, they supped a pint in the Lounge Bar (looking very much at home) whilst we shy blokes in the Public Bar craned our necks to steal fanboy glances.
In previous years my enjoyment of the "Glasto experience" has meant gravitating toward the sofa, cracking open a cold one and watching events unfold over the various BBC channels; if I wanted the full effect I'd stand in a bucket of mud at the bottom of the garden, downwind of the neighbour's compost heap, and squint at a screen 15 metres away (a screen that's partially obscured with flags obviously). However for the past few years a mate of mine has been gently badgering me to go, assuring me that (as I'm something of a gig whore) I'd love it. Frankly there is only so much prodding my willpower can take before it melts like a Kit Kat in a hot car. And so, inevitably, it came to pass that I got off of my keister, bought a ticket, and made the journey to that special corner of the world known as Glastonbury.
Friday 24th June
For the people at home, watching Auntie Beeb's coverage, the festival starts today. For me and several thousand others however the festival has been already ticking over for a couple of days; I've been in Somerset since Tuesday, on-site since Wednesday morning, and the novelty of wet-wipe bathing has long worn off (though the shock of the long drops is still fresh in the mind).
Under an overcast sky The Master Musicians of Joujouka start events on the Pyramid Stage, bringing a slice of Morocco to Somerset; the soft drone of their instruments carries on the wind, a strange and intriguing cacophony. Over at the West Holts Stage the Brazilian sounds of Ziriguidum are more my thing, a 50-strong outfit whose samba drums dance my feet in the direction of the Brothers Bar and back again a couple of times.
Following an extended sojourn in the Green Fields I return to the Pyramid Stage in time for the Wu-Tang Clan; from my vantage point halfway up the hill the mix sounds stodgy and distorted, heavy waves of bass slosh around and I can barely pick an F-bomb out of the lyrics. Instead I watch the Swallows who, oblivious to the music, dart through the sky just inches above the tent tops.
At 85 years of age BB King is the Grand Master of the Blues, he can therefore be excused for letting his band warm the crowd up a bit before making his appearance. Not that he needs anyone to warm up an audience that is; the throng at the Pyramid Stage hang on his every word and, it must be said, I get a weird squishy feeling inside when I hear the opening bars of The Thrill Is Gone.
Scottish rockers Biffy Clyro have had an amazing 18 months, discounting having one of their tunes used to line Simon Cowell's pockets that is, and their Glasto set is icing on what must be a very large cake indeed. The band stir through a large chunk of Only Revolutions, mix in some of Puzzle and a sprinkling of Infinity Land and Blackened Sky. All good stuff, though the mass sing-along is reserved for that one that the guy from X Factor covered.
The enigma that is Steven Patrick Morrissey swaggers out into the evening, a heady mixture of sarcasm, dourness and self-deprecation, and launches into I Want The One I Can't Have. I immediately turn back into a 15 year old wastrel and start waving my arms wildly, wondering idly if there's a flower shop nearby. Indeed the first half of the set blends a fine mix of classic Smiths tunes (Shoplifters Of The World Unite & There Is A Light That Never Goes Out) with up-tempo solo material (First Of The Gang To Die & You Have Killed Me). Unfortunately things seem to stall midway; the inclusion of so-so new material leaves our party shuffling about in our dampening ponchos, a state that not even a cover of Satellite of Love can resolve.
Meat Is Murder would not then seem the obvious choice to warm up a cold and wet crowd; a paean to vegetarianism sung in the middle of what is, for most of the year at least, a Dairy farm. A odd choice but, now on a roll, our hero heads toward the big finish. Earlier in the set Moz had announced that he'd sing as fast as he can, given that the audience were all waiting for U2; whether this is the reason for the sprint through This Charming Man or not I don't know, but motor through the song the band duly do. And, just like that, he's gone; some old songs, some new songs, a change of shirt and a dig at David Cameron. Like I said, an enigma.
Even though the Glastonbury Festival site is, I am reliably assured, the size of the city of Bath, I wonder if it's big enough to hold Bono's ego. I'm still pondering this thought when, shortly before 10 o'clock, things start to happen on the Pyramid Stage. The strains of Bowie's Space Oddity can be heard and the additional video screens fire into life; bugs and butterflies are animated in bright colours as the opening chords of Even Better Than The Real Thing fill the air.
If I'm honest at this point we're still not 100% if this is still an introduction or whether U2 are actually there; the primary video screens, usually showing the act on stage, are off and, from our place in the field, the front of the stage is obscured by flags. Eventually the video screens flicker into life and, there dressed in black, Bono strides the stage. The crowd roars, the ego has landed.
The front of the set favours Achtung Baby, an album I played to death when released but, honestly, I've not touched for many years. If the rediscovery of U2's 90's reboot album is a joy for me it's something the voice next to me is not happy about. "I don't want to hear this new shit", it says. I point out to my chum that the album is at least 10 years old (it's actually just over 20, a worrying thought indeed). Shortly after this I Will Follow has him, albeit briefly, jumping around.
For their Glastonbury performance U2 have forsaken the majority of their usual theatrical tricks; the additional video screens the only concession. Unfortunately Bono appears to have taken this to mean that he must try and connect with the audience; he tries gamely, expressing his regret that he can't watch Primal Scream at the same time as entertaining us, launching into a cringe-worthy rendition of Jerusalem, but it falls flat.
With a set straining at the sides with hits, packed with songs we all know, with nods to the weekend's remaining headliners as well, it could be that the band are trying a bit too hard. Or, then again, it could be that I've been standing in the rain for several hours, the annoying drizzle long since permeating my German Army poncho, and I've just finished my last beer.
The huge screen at the rear of the stage flickers with static and an astronaut appears, live from the ISS, linking the set back to Bowie's opus at the introduction. So much for no smoke and mirrors, I am beguiled by the giant spaceman releasing the lyrics of Beautiful Day into zero gravity and turn grinning to my chum. "That was amazing!", I say. "What was?", he replies. A 50 foot spaceman appears in a field in Somerset and he misses it. Typical. With renewed vigour, or maybe it's just my recaptured attention, the band roar into the home straight; forgiving the execrable Get On Your Boots we're swept up with Vertigo, carried along with Sunday Bloody Sunday before being left sated by Pride.
Abandoning my plan to trudge through the rain and mud to the Avalon Stage, where Barenaked Ladies are no doubt singing about Brian Wilson, I instead head back to my tent after U2's encore, sodden and too sober to enjoy it. As I pass the camp-site crew's caravan I see the weather report chalked on the door; rain until 4AM, lovely after that.
