My Glastonbury experience

Today is the final day of Glastonbury, a statement to which I shall add the comment, thank god.

It is probably just me because the thing usually sells out of tickets before they go on sale (or something like that) and the BBC must attract very healthy ratings (or why else would they send more people to sleepy Somerset than they did to the World Cup in Brail?).

But - and this is me judging the thing on the BBC coverage, never having been - I have been bored out of my mind with much of what I have seen (and heard).

On the positive side, I thought Metallica were excellent, even though I hardly knew any of their tunes.  They were very smooth, too smooth if anything, but they know how to press find the G Spot of a festival audience.

The type of Metal banged out by the band is not always my cup of tea but I know a good band when I see and hear one and, despite my constant misgivings about lead singer James Hetfield's part time hobby of shooting dead large bears and supporting the NRA, I managed to tap my foot to the songs I knew.  I would be lying, though, if I said I wasn't waiting the whole set for Enter Sandman.

The Manic Street Preachers were on a side stage (I do not know which stage, nor do I particularly care) and they too were excellent.  They are not exactly in the first flush of youth, although they are compared to me, but they were terrific.

And Robert Plant.  What can I say?  Class is permanent and Robert, with a sublime backing band, is still very classy.  Still on the age front, it did seem like the average age of the audience was as old as me, maybe as old as Robert himself!

But there was a lot of what us grumps call crap on view as well.

I look at Elbow and think, why?  Guy Garvey, they say knows how to work an audience, but then so does Daniel O'Donnell and he's still rubbish.  I sat through a few minutes of their turgid set and switched over to Sky to watch an obscure golf tournament in America.  Well, what else is there to watch on a Friday night?

The oldies were there in force too.

Bryan Ferry did a set of Roxy classics and solo stuff and thanks to his blistering band he just about got away with it.  But the truth remains, after 40-odd years into his career, he still can't sing; his quiet voice having to be heavily amplified above some backing singers who definitely could.

I can't knock his thinning hair - it happens to us all, especially men - and he doesn't look like a man well into bus pass territory, but it was another 'why?' moment.

Blondie played a set too.  Debbie Harry suffers in the media much more than Ferry because she is a woman and women in showbiz are not allowed to become old.  Of course she is not - and I am sorry to describe her in such terms - the four tissue job of the 1970s (I had friends who really said that; friends, honest) but she can still sing.  They were all right and so much the better for the fact that they are a band still making music.

Part of my attitude to it could be explained by old age, although I have never fancied sleeping in a field with tens of thousands of others and needing a piss at 4.00 in the morning. Or queuing for a number two with the possible increasing of tension and desperation that might bring.

There are of course lots of other things to do, I'd imagine.  I may be making this up but I am guessing there might be face-painting, fortune-telling and jugglers.  And ethical burger stalls and bars selling expensive cider in plastic glasses.

And it is pretty obvious that the people there are thoroughly enjoying themselves, or at the very least good at pretending they are enjoying themselves.  I can report that during Metallica's set, the traditional pretty young woman with small breasts covered, regrettably, with a bikini top, sitting high on the shoulders of a muscled young man was picked out repeatedly by the director. She plainly knew none of the words - maybe like me, not even the tunes - but she looked happy, which is probably more than the people who were standing behind her.

I have decided against watching Dolly Parton this afternoon because whilst I acknowledge her brilliance and towering presence in country music, I don't much care for the music or her voice.  I am fairly sure that it is illegal to not be a massive fan of Dolly, who is playing in the Sunday afternoon novelty act spot occupied in previous years by legends such as Bruce Forsyth, Tom Jones and...er...Rolf Harris (who is currently unavailable).

I won't watch Kasabian either on the simple grounds that I don't know a single one of their songs, which makes me sound like one of those High Court Judges ("Now just who are The Beatles?").

I could watch Jo Whiley all night (and frequently do, in my dreams) and the funny one from Mark and Lard is an excellent presenter but I suspect the BBC's coverage does not do justice to Glasto, as the kids seems to call it because if they do, it's not very good.

I am guessing most people will be coming home tomorrow, knee deep in mud and god knows what else, with sopping wet belongings, no money and stinking to high heaven.  And probably happy, looking forward to next year.

Metallica were this year's Jay Z so I suspect Michael Eavis will return to the safe old favourites of AOR next year, like Coldplay, but maybe he might surprise and drag the festival back to how it used to be and maybe still is given that I have never been and never will.