Television
Glastonbury experience
James Delingpole
Urgh! I have just rolled my first cigarette of the day and it did that horrible thing where there isn't quite enough tobac- co at the sucking end and it goes all squidgy and you get a mouthful of yucky, tarry liq- uid. Not, I suppose, that you really needed to know that, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to indulge me this week. Hav- ing spent the weekend at Glastonbury, I'm in no state for razor-sharp critical apergus or ingenious construction, or indeed any- thing that requires any mental effort what- soever. Instead, I thought I'd simply bimble about, treat you to a few random thoughts on why the festival isn't quite as good as it used to be, and see where we end up.
1. Jamie Theakston: why? Jamie Theak- ston, who co-presented the BBC's Glaston- bury 2000 coverage (BBC2 Friday, Saturday, Sunday), has pointless good looks, is comfortable in the presence of celebrities and reasonably fluent on the radio or in front of a TV camera. But there his talents end. He has risen without trace and is famous purely for being famous, yet he is constantly foisted upon us by his BBC employers as if somehow we craved his company. We don't. He is the media equiv- alent of those career politicians who have never had any experience of real life and who therefore have nothing of any interest or value to say about anything. Go away, Jamie, and find yourself a proper job. You have delighted us enough.
2. Reefer madness? Some friends of mine swear that at one point in the TV coverage the camera returned unexpected- ly to a presenter and caught them frantical- ly attempting to extinguish an unusually large cigarette. Personally, I'm sure my friends were mistaken, for reasons I shall explain below.
3. Working under the influence of jazz woodbines: not a good idea. I tried this myself once, many years ago, at Glaston- bury when I had to interview Robin Williamson, formerly of The Incredible String Band. Because he was a bearded hippy, I thought he wouldn't mind. Unfor- tunately, because he was one of those bearded hippies who have long since renounced herbal solace as a false distrac- tion from true enlightenment, he seemed to mind quite a lot. Or was I just paranoid?
4. The weather. Even though it hardly rained at Glastonbury this year, the weather was still quite evil. The sun, when it came out, was the nasty, burny sort. But the real problem was the cold, blustery wind. Not only did it distort and nullify the music quite horrendously but it kept whispering, 'Don't relax! Don't relax!' And you couldn't.
5. The worst line-up ever. I don't blame the organisers; I blame the state of music generally: nothing new under the sun and everyone doing it badly.
6. Wankers' tricks. Demonstrating your virtuosity through tuneless, funky, self- indulgent jamming sessions; rendering your hits unrecognisable with overwrought embellishments; telling your audience what a good time they're having; treating every- one to brooding, slow-burn, epic intros and then denying them the thumping beats and big catchy tunes they hoped would follow; imagining that you are an artist not an entertainer. I call these things wankers' tricks and they have no place at Glaston- bury. The majority of the bands seemed bent on playing them, all the same.
7. The Pet Shop Boys. They began by playing to an almost empty crowd. By the end of their set — a rousing, tear-inducing, immaculate `Go West' — they had stolen the festival. They were magnificent.
8. David Bowie. He was pretty good too. Who would have imagined we'd ever hear him performing 'Oh You Pretty Things' again? Pity about the laryngitis which ren- dered most of the high notes beyond his reach.
9. The vibe. Noticeable by its absence this year, save in the odd corner of the Green Fields and at the small dance stage in the Glade, where the most up-for-it acts (e.g. ISM) played for the most up-for-it crowds. Problem is, unfortunately, the fes- tival is being swamped by Northern lager louts who don't understand the Glaston- bury spirit and the hippies are running scared.
10. TV's Boris Johnson. I like the cut of his jib. You might have seen him on the Sunday night edition of Glastonbury 2000 being escorted round the festival by protest singer Billy Bragg, mispronouncing Glas- tonbury with a long 'a' and declaiming the Iliad in Ancient Greek to a tentful of bemused but indulgent punters.
The point of the exercise, I suppose, was to show a stereotypical Tory being appalled (Goodness me, is that some sort of mari- juana cigarette that young fellow is smok- ing?!!') or enlightened (This peace- and-love atmosphere has warmed my steely fascist heart. From now on I'm voting Labour') by the Glastonbury experience. Boris did not play the game. He pro- nounced the event a model of capitalism triumphant, populated by natural Tories. And he's right, of course. I've attended every Glastonbury since 1990 and I love it more than words can express, but never once has it threatened to change my poli- tics. Contrary to what the Left would have us believe, hedonism, freedom and toler- ance are not inimical to Toryism; they're its very bedrock. And the sooner people like Boris (and me, I guess) can persuade the world of this truth, the sooner we'll man- age to extricate ourselves from this hideous Blairite tyranny.
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