For those who aren't aware, Glastonbury is the best festival.
Out of all the festivals, that is. I've been three times, and I'll be there again for the last weekend of June 2013, some six weeks before the surgery. But this post, I'm going to talk about the last time I was there: the summer of 2010.
It was the third time we (my crew of assorted wreckheads) had scored tickets, and we thought we'd steal a march on the (reasonable but still pricey) on-site booze setup. You can essentially bring onto the campsite anything you can drink. Or, you can let other people bring things, and then buy the things, then drink those things. We decided to buck the trend by buying 24 litres of Burrow Hill scrumpy cider, letting the brewers bring the tubs onto the site (where they have a bus they sell from) then picking them up. It was a flawless plan, and it went off exactly as we'd hoped.
We arrived on the Wednesday. The festival takes place on the Friday-to-Sunday but we're a keen bunch, so we got in early, set up our tents, and trekked through the blazing sun to the Burrow Hill bus. There was already a queue of overheated revellers queuing for expensive pints in a paper cup. Their faces were a picture as we sidled past them and around the bus, then emerged carrying four big cardboard boxes, and wandered back towards our tents, a good half mile away.
By the time we were back, it was certainly cider o'clock. We set down one box, ripped off the tape, and unfolded the cardboard box lid. The next bit, as the sun illuminated the contents, is best explained by Mr Tarantino:
We were happy. Lids were unscrewed, glasses were poured, cider was necked. Everything was perfect, except one thing. I was still getting over a mild bout of tonsillitis, and the glowing amber goodness was like battery acid on my throat - I physically couldn't swallow it. Disaster.
I went and saw the on-site medic and had a word. After peering down my throat, it was her opinion that I was probably on the mend, but as she put it, 'things don't heal here'.
Doctor: "So basically, you'll be okay. Enjoy your festival, but..."
Me: "...don't get smashed to bits?"
Doctor: "Yes. Don't get smashed to bits."
And I didn't. I couldn't touch a drop of our awesome, cheap cider (or any other alcohol for that matter) and I spent the whole festival sober as a judge. Don't get me wrong, it was still brilliant, and I saw so much excellent music, but it was one of the many times my tonsils have done their best to spoil a weekend. So roll on the surgery.
Out of all the festivals, that is. I've been three times, and I'll be there again for the last weekend of June 2013, some six weeks before the surgery. But this post, I'm going to talk about the last time I was there: the summer of 2010.
It was the third time we (my crew of assorted wreckheads) had scored tickets, and we thought we'd steal a march on the (reasonable but still pricey) on-site booze setup. You can essentially bring onto the campsite anything you can drink. Or, you can let other people bring things, and then buy the things, then drink those things. We decided to buck the trend by buying 24 litres of Burrow Hill scrumpy cider, letting the brewers bring the tubs onto the site (where they have a bus they sell from) then picking them up. It was a flawless plan, and it went off exactly as we'd hoped.
We arrived on the Wednesday. The festival takes place on the Friday-to-Sunday but we're a keen bunch, so we got in early, set up our tents, and trekked through the blazing sun to the Burrow Hill bus. There was already a queue of overheated revellers queuing for expensive pints in a paper cup. Their faces were a picture as we sidled past them and around the bus, then emerged carrying four big cardboard boxes, and wandered back towards our tents, a good half mile away.
By the time we were back, it was certainly cider o'clock. We set down one box, ripped off the tape, and unfolded the cardboard box lid. The next bit, as the sun illuminated the contents, is best explained by Mr Tarantino:
We were happy. Lids were unscrewed, glasses were poured, cider was necked. Everything was perfect, except one thing. I was still getting over a mild bout of tonsillitis, and the glowing amber goodness was like battery acid on my throat - I physically couldn't swallow it. Disaster.
I went and saw the on-site medic and had a word. After peering down my throat, it was her opinion that I was probably on the mend, but as she put it, 'things don't heal here'.
Doctor: "So basically, you'll be okay. Enjoy your festival, but..."
Me: "...don't get smashed to bits?"
Doctor: "Yes. Don't get smashed to bits."
And I didn't. I couldn't touch a drop of our awesome, cheap cider (or any other alcohol for that matter) and I spent the whole festival sober as a judge. Don't get me wrong, it was still brilliant, and I saw so much excellent music, but it was one of the many times my tonsils have done their best to spoil a weekend. So roll on the surgery.
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