It’s Shakin’ Stevens o’clock here at Glastonbury. Lunchtime. Saturday, as we emerge from the first full day of hard core mud action.
It’s not my first time here. I am not wearing flip flops and I did not bring a suitcase. My first visit was in the (coughs) mid eighties. Many things have changed. Gone are the rows of blackboards advertising various alternative pharmaceuticals. No more communal showers. There are now onsite loo cleaners.
Somethings don’t change. Norman Cook in various guises. Billy Bragg is still fighting the miners strike. Rain.
The healing fields are a permanent fixture. Somehow, in order to become a member of the alternative culture there is a package of beliefs you have to buy into. Worrying about oil consumption in the greenpeace fields means that you have to empty your brain when worrying about providing health for people. GM crops. Bad. No debate. Nuclear power – nein danke.
So, I was offered Nux vomica for my hangover by a crystal therapist. I love the sincerity streaming from her. More disturbingly, I see I can get a dispossession if I have a serious mental illness.
So I am setting up the Sceptic Fields here now. There are just a few of us. With a cup of refreshment from the cider bus. We are enjoying not feeling the vibes. Should we do a double blind randomised controlled test in the stone circle? I feel a bit of a killjoy.