Glastonbury 2010

I had been counting down for months, well in honesty, since I unenthusiastically trudged out of the farm post Blur performance last year to zombie-drive the M5 home with contacts full of dust.

After sitting through a 45-minutes-more-than-I-expected-or-hoped meeting, nodding, smiling and being as professional as possible whilst attempting the check the time subtly enough that no one picked up I was counting down the seconds to escaping the classroom, I was gone.

Well.

Almost.

First had to drive back to work to pick up the tickets I had left in the drawer. And after pinching my mum's car...complete with pillow so I could actually see over the steering wheel.

An hour and a half later (no speeding, honest) the familiar sight of shimmering hills of metal loomed up through the trees of the A361. Directed to a lovely spot in a field to park, rich with the smell of what I was later told, was a distinct smell of Turkey shite. My I'm-not-pretty-or-fashionable-enough-for-Glastonbury paranoia emerged en force as I got/clambered out of the ML to see Sienna Miller parked in her BMW Z3 two cars away, gracefully popping out the passenger seat in a floating pink top, tiny denim shorts and legs I would sell my boyfriend to possess. Speaking of boyfriend, that was the moment I lost him to the glitz and glamour of the Glastonbury celeb! He did try hard not to ogle, though...it was expected when he has a t-shirt with her face on.



15 minutes later, and a few arguments later with Mr. You Can't Camp Here Its Full, (oh yes we bloody can as we paid for it monkey man.) we were happily pitched next to some flavorsome bins already overflowing with a feeble "Take it Home" poster lying nearby...ignored...





After manic delayed messages trying to meet up with various friends we met by the Elephant in the wondrous flower and celeb filled Backstage Bar. Oh how my timberlands and Billabong top stood out from the Jimmy Choo wellies, Ksubi denim shorts and One Vintage Tunics that I would (again) swap the boyfriend for. Why is Mark a more universe currency. :(
By now our celeb spots were up threefold, Sienna, Kelly Osbourne and Dick or Dom...we weren't sure...either way, Mark peed next to him. A cider down and I was refreshed and ready to hit the fields - rocking the butch lesbian look in comfort.



Sadly we only just missed Snoop Dogg, which made the weeks of singing "snooooooooooooop" and speaking in shizzle nizzle language and bit lamebrained. We did watch Dizzie Rascal. The music I don't like, but the atmosphere was buzzing with unified chanting of daft lyrics and hand gestures. You couldn't help but join in, plus I surprised myself with my sheer knowledge of songs I don't know!



By the time Gorillaz came on stage we were feeling a little robbed of good old singalongs of Streets With No Name or Vertigo, so I don't think the mood was right in my small circle. The performance though was pretty lackluster. It was never going to be that good a performance, they were up against who should have been there (complete with songs the crowd would know and love - even the fellow Bono haters) and up againsts the memory of Blur last year, where Albarn quite bluntly kicked backside. He warmed the crowd, he had a laugh, he looked happy. Gorillaz looked like miserable pirates and left me wanting more....and cider.


Saturday
morning came, we said goodnight/morning with at the campsite bar before bedding down to dried out ground and looming back pain :)



4am was freezing. 6am was sweltering. How does that work out. So cold I put on leggings under my PJs and forced mark out of his sleeping bag to fashion a double duvet out of both our bags so I could have the normally intolerable heat of boy for my benefit. At 6am, I was sleeping with the tent zip open, indecorously in my undies whilst unbeknown of the shower queue slowly extending past my pitch, providing numerous people with a glorified view of my marks and spencers.

I overlooked the need to shower, opting for the lovely tropically scented dry hair shampoo. Much to the amusement of my happy campers, it turned me from somewhat lanky/sweaty girl to girl who resembled Fraggle.



Resorted to hat.

Dude. It was hot. Like ummm, are my contacts melting - hot. People were seeking shade in all manners of desperation. What else would make someone willingly prop themselves up in the shade of a portaloo. (Not me FYI) We walked to the Stone Circle...thinking the trees might bare some shade. Not a chance.



Finding a spot in the shade was as difficult as finding a closer and comfortable spot in the crowd 15 minutes before Muse. As I walked about the various fields with sweaty friends seeking a leaf to rest under between gigs, I distinctly regretted the choice of cheap heart shaped sunglasses. As we passed the pond in Green Futures...we fought temptation to pile on in the sludge water








Despite the burnage temperature we cheered through an immense Reef set at the Other Stage. It wasn't incredibly busy - I could see and move so that's my main gauge for field busyness. I have never seen someone look like they are having more fun than Mr Stringer. He genuinely looked overjoyed to be singing in the sun to a bunch of semi fans and hardcore-we-first-saw-you-when-we-were-15 fans. (Me being the latter...having missed 2 gigs now due to unforeseen gruesome illnesses (once in 1999, once in 2010) I was desperate to sing a long to some old favourites! It makes a performance so much better for the crowd when people seem to be enjoying it and not just doing it for the money. The fact Gary jumped off stage and struggled to get back up just tipped the scale for the cheery mood I was stuck in! I've Got Something to Say earned me a reminiscence squeeze from the boyfriend and Place Your Hands topped it all off with a big cherry thank you very much Reef, I'll be seeing Stringer Bessant very soon!





A bit of Coheed and Cambria then Seasick Steve and then...Shakira. The Goddess herself. Again her songs aren't my thing, but they're catchy, boogieable and that woman, is the freakiest dancer I've ever witnessed. Naomi and I questioned our sexuality as she straddled a monitor and spent a good majority of her time flashing us her perfect abs and pert posterior. I happily joined in with the Awoooooooo sections of She Wolf and attempted my own feeble bum wiggle.
She again, was happy, natural and warmed an already sweaty crowd!


Ok....so we missed Scissor Sisters. So we missed Kylie. It was sit down time for us after a day on our feet. It was time to change into hoodies and leggings as it was getting progressively colder. I don't like songs that are pitched so high I can't sing along.

The chill out was refreshing, we tried to eat - one of those things that tended to be forgotten this weekend. We were prepped and ready to charge the crowd for Muse.

Muse muse muse muse. Again, one of those bands I've gone through puberty with, so have a distinct fondness and gratitude for (yes...the songs were written about my life at 16.)

The days of Muscle Museum and (aptly) Sunburn were revisited, as Devonians, we cheered all the louder for proof that you aren't necessarily resigned to a life of mediocrity if you live in the country! The lighting was phenomenal, the flares incessant and worryingly close. The moment when The Edge joined Muse on stage for Where The Streets Have No Name was a show stopping moment, a lovely nod to what we should have enjoyed the night before.
They were outstanding, the type of show where you sing along and pray the camera's aren't going to catch you in full belt of Bellamy's high note ooohs, that in that overwhelming crowd moment, you really can hit. That kind of rush where as soon as I was lifted on to the shoulders of the poor broken-backed boyfriend I lost the ability to remember any lyrics as I was tranfixed by the pretty. Lazers tranformed the sky into some surreal dimension, I have lost adjectives.


Sunday.

Again, freezing. Baking. Sweaty mess. Time for crepes. Long old trudge to West Holt (Jazz World?!) where we Oxfamed it up with some lovely hippies who made me feel guilty for being a vegetarian not a vegan in food and clothing. I love hippies. My crepe disappointed me. Bits of the non stick hot plate stuck in it. We sat in the tiny patch of shade under a flag...luckily a bit more of a breeze. It was amusing to see the field spotted with random crowds of people in the shadows of flags.

We were saving ourselves for Slash. (SLASH!) so explored the rest of wonderful Glastonbury. Amused ourselves in Block 9 and The Unfair Ground for various kodak moments and spontaneous dancing.
Pictures speak for themselves:



So after the trudging we made it to Slash. Early enough to grab a place at the barrier. Early enough to witness Norah Jones. Possibly the most miserable, boring, painful banter of a perfomance. Oooh I'm from Texas. Oooh are you hot out there, I'm cool. Lets play another slow jazzy song with drawn out lyrics and a solemn expression. The applauds became increasingly more half-arsed as she whimpered on about something or other about sunrises or unicorns. Not everyday I get to support Slash, she says...and what a car crash that was. Easy listening before R&FnR?!? Well it wasn't warming up the crowd per say, but we were certainly glad to be revived by some performances with a bit of movement and smiles about them.

Myles Myles Myles, who seems to look constantly smug faced that he is singing with his arm around one of his idols - now on par...collaborating...sweating profusely. I waiting impatiently for the mellow twangs of Starlight to begin. Relished every moment. It wasn't enough. That song just rushed through me, beautiful melody, the proper love song. (Sorry Stevie)

Then the GnR songs. Amazing. Paradise City. Sweet Child of Mine. Again, I'm glad no cameras lurked on me as I belted out the songs. Slither....Velvet Revolver, it was strange to look around and not see people singing to some of the new Slash songs and the VR ones, I suppose Glastonbury crowd is a little more relaxed.

Amazing weekend. Signed and Sealed with some horrendously cheesy banter amongst some classics by the man himself. Here's to next year.

Mexico 2010

Aside from the standard and oh-so-predictable 2 week long post-holiday stomach issues, was an amazing place, though 1 week was enough for me. Not to mention the horrific journey, an ambitious road trip from Devon to Birmingham to see Bad Company (on the way getting a flat tyre and paying out the nose for a quick new one) and a speedy sleepy journey Birmingham to Gatwick to catch the very bumpy 10 hour flight.

The hotels stood alone on a long sandy stretch of beaches, each out doing each other with their entrances, who could have the most elaborate archway, who had the most outstanding water feature or the biggest armed guard. So as we rolled up to our fairly understated plain, painted concrete not so much an archway as a wall, I did have a moment of mild panic.

Luckily enough the hotel was lovely (ish) and as an extra treat we were nestled sweetly next door to an 'au naturale' resort. That was splendid. Especially when coming back from any mass excursion on a coach and hearing the rest of the coach mutter "au naturale, does that mean they walk around naked?" It was quite liberating.


Never the pair to sit on a beach and do nothing for long, we booked up our weekly plan in advance to make sure we got to see as much as we could possible cram into 7 days. In result of this, all I was reminded of was how much I hate package holiday and package tours. Being stuck next to mind numblingly annoying/boring people, or at one point a t-total preachy American who frowned upon us on choosing beer as our 11:30 complimentary refreshment. He did however give us a patronising nod of approval when we decline to buy our own bottle of tequilla, genuine tequilla with our faces on...you can't buy that class.






We got stuck on cramped coach tours and in retrospect I wish I had rented a car and got hopelessly lost than be stuck, during my Easter Holidays, on a coach full of children asking who I was, where I was from and consolidating my belief that children can locate a primary school teacher within 5 miles and attach themselves to them, in the innocent persuasion that at all times we just love talking to children. This is not the case. At all.
Chicten Itza.
Was the day I expired. Managing the heat with dodgy illness, dehydration and 30 + heat with little or no shade...I went a strange shade of purple by the time we reached the observatory.

As much as I loved the expanse of Chichen Itza and in particular the platforms where decapitions were peformed and displayed, it just didn't touch upon the sheer enchantment of Tulum. Perched on a cliff edge, pure azure water lapping a white sand beach where ruins spilled out half entangled with jungle!

We concluded the trip with various tourist haunts such as Xel Ha and a stroll up and down Playa de Carmen - during Spring Break, which is an experience I don't care to repeat. As tacky as Ayia Napa - free shots for pole dancing and all the likes. If I hear one more "Woooooo, Spring Break" I will not be responsible for my actions.

It was a shame how over touristy Mexico was, there was just no heart. Even visiting the Mayan Villages there was a sense of holding on to tradition for the sake of the visitors rather than because of their own respect for their heritage. I felt uncomfortable getting sheparded into a little Mayan Village and looking at a big TV snuggled nicely amongst a stereo in a no-doored house of sticks, next door to a concrete hurricane proof house. The schools were run down, the children were happy but there was a constant reminded of the huge financial divide in the country, and I just couldn't stomach being told that the Mayan people had no wish for monetary goods when DVDs were thrust between the symbolic 3 stone cooking hearths.













Just observe the sheer job satisfaction...