Glastonbury

It’s Friday. It’s been raining for over 3 hours. I’m stood in a muddied field selling the Big Issue accompanied by my pet plastic heron. I’m also having an in-depth conversation on Marxism with a guy who has a large slice of gorgonzola strapped to his head, whilst another man, dressed as a pink witch, is showering me with energy from a penis shaped crystal in an attempt to rid me of a painful bout of migraine.

It’s Saturday. What a difference a day makes. The sun is out, the witch has, the Gorgonzola man has ‘gone off’ and my migraine is in remission, on this, my first ever visit to the Glastonbury festival.

I was invited to attend Glastonbury some weeks ago. Buzz, the coordinator of the Theatre and Circus field had invited me to perform a daily ‘one man show’ based on life as a Big Issue vendor. The perks of the gig being that I’d get paid £150, have two free tickets, and a back stage pass. (Life can be so demanding at times.) With three years sleeping rough and many more, homeless, I figured I was apprenticeship served, well equipped for the rigours of Glastonbury; sleeping in a tent, eating cold beans from a can prised open with a sharpened toothbrush, midnight cider around an open fire, scouring the bins for the random discarded vegetable samosa. This gig would indeed, be a breeze. But it was all a bit of a disappointment really. Not once were my homeless skills called upon. It was a bit like a guy spending six years at university studying meteorology, only to get a job in an umbrella factory. Yes, for me, It was all a bit too . . . .refined!

I was picked up from Bristol with my baggage; baked beans, sharpened toothbrush, cider, Issues, plastic heron and tent, then driven, not just to the festival, but, as a performer, chauffeured through to the performer’s camping area backstage. No queues, no hassle, no fuss, just. . . .refined. Settled in, I wandered over to visit and help put up the tent, of what could be deemed, my hosts; Richard, and Maggie Telfer OBE and their children, Caitlin and Mena. (Great family, crap campers).

It was, Yes, a refined weekend. Unlike the masses, whenever I wanted coffee, I went to the performer’s office and put the kettle on. Unlike the masses. Whenever I wanted to charge my mobile phone, one of the back-stage crew would oblige. Whenever I wanted to eat, I would simply amble the fifty yards to the ‘green room’ at various times of the day for a; subsidised, full english breakfast, fresh fruit salad, a lasagne, pint of beer and a chat with fellow performers. And this on top of well equipped showers and toilet situated adjacent to my tent. Glastonbury, en-suite. So, a weekend at Glastonbury. A weekend of indulgence.

I of course, between my performances, selling the Issue, showers, putting the kettle on, lasanga and subsidised beer, did get out and about. I did see Kate Melua, Solomon Burke, Amy, Eddy Grant, Joan Baez and the brilliant Massive Attack. I did at one point, even venture up to the hill, to watch the masses, some of them suits; financiers, bankers, who, once every year, replace their Chelsea pad and pin stripe for a dome tent, a pair of Levis, a red feather in their hair, ten tins of baked beans and a sharpened toothbrush. Poor souls.

Glastonbury is no doubt, a unique, international event. I think for me, it gives everyone, performers and public alike, the opportunity and freedom to express; to be what we’d like to be, a weekend with no confines, a weekend with no rules. A weekend of acceptance that shows us that we are all, each and every one of us, different! More importantly, a weekend where we glorify that difference.

The highlight of Glastonbury for me, was on the final night, 11.40 pm. when a 1,000 strong, lantern lit parade, along with bands, jugglers, drummers and a guy with a piece of gorgonzola strapped to his head, wended it’s way through the festival site, arriving at a special bonfire back in the Circus and Theatre field. A field that had supplied me with a wonderful, and memorable weekend. This procession, this bonfire, was in memory of Arabella Churchill, the grand daughter of Winston, and the founder of the ‘Theatre and Circus field’. Arabella had, over the years, introduced, evolved, managed, and even self-financed this new concept into Glastonbury. A concept, through her efforts, that reflects what Glastonbury is all about; Theatre, expression!

At midnight, the end of the festival, I stood by that bonfire and reflected on my weekend, wonderful. Stood by that fire, I reflected on Arabella, who died of cancer last year, aged 49. Stood by that fire, I thought of the wonderful lady, a close friend of Arabella’s, who had now taken on her role; Buzz, my new friend. Mesmerised by that fire, I wrote some words:

“And on the third night, a cold night, Arabella’s fire returned, once again supplying us her warmth. And as that fire drew it’s final breath, the very last ember released the brightest spark imaginable. It hovered in the night sky, flickering in satisfaction, before floating ever higher towards the stars; home, to rest awhile, before its return next year.
One soul, one perennial spark, one eternal flame; Arabella Churchill”.

And for me, one amazing weekend.