In the words of Jamaican-English poet Linton Kwesi Johnson “Inglan is a bitch”, England the fat woman, made of so many precious metals from every shore, lacquered in blue-green patina and bronze eyes; hollow as a bell...Toll…toll…toll...
There will be no Glastonbury next year due to the fact that there are not enough portable toilets in Britain to cope with both the festival and the Olympic games. It is difficult to grasp the scale of this festival.
Glastonbury is harder to get into than most countries. It’s not just about accreditation, it’s about finding that person who has a clue as to what the fuck is going on. Unfortunately information is unlike water; it does not follow the path of least resistance; it does not trickle down to the yelly cops at the gate matching wits with us. They lock us out on highway purgatory for three hours. My first impression of the place comes under cover of night and there is magic in the dark; wanderlust and danger. You have never seen mud like it; a seething cesspit of plague-ish mud, imagine walking through potters clay up to your knees. The whole thing is a tip; seagulls circle the sky, miles from any water at all. We setup and play immediately, crawling through a mile of shit into the spotlight at the other end.
Our second day belongs to Wu Tang, vodka and fanta, blunts and jerk chicken: a whole bird cut up, bones and all, beautifully spiced, char-grilled and served with beans, rice and fried bread. Lovely. It is a privilege to witness the phenomenon that is The Wu Tang Clan, represented on this occasion by Rza, Gza, Method Man, Ugod, Ghostface Killa, Inspectah Deck and Masta Killa. I have to explain the explicit nature of their lyrics to my folky wife “think of them as hip-hop murder ballads.”
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