There are only three reactions to the mention of the word Glastonbury: “I can’t wait to get there”, “I’d love to be going”, or “I can’t think of anything worse.” It is the most Marmite of things. I’m very much in the “I can’t think of anything worse” camp. Music is a massive part of my life and I would love to see most of the acts on this year, but you couldn’t pay me to show my face.
I have searched deep into my past for the origins of this. The furthest I have gone back so far is a camping trip in the late 1970s. My dad took me and my brother to a campsite on the banks of the River Wye, somewhere near Hereford. I was about 11 and my brother was eight. My brother was, and is, more competent than me in most ways. As we set about pitching our tent, I got in a muddle and started flapping about something or other. My dad, I’m afraid, lost his temper and said: “Ade, you’re about as much use as a bucket of shit.” Sadly, I walked away and went and sat by the river. It was hurtful, to be sure, but I had to admit he had a point.
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