Late June, when a middle-aged man's thoughts turn, not to Wimbledon, but his golden years and his forays to Glastonbury.
I've done my time at Pilton and, all those memories notwithstanding, I'm capable of remembering it purely through rose-tinted spectacles. I even entertain, briefly, ideas of returning when the dust has settled on the early years of the kids.
Fortunately, Charlie Brooker has penned a piece in the Guardian that has washed away the cataracts of delusion and left me blinking, in full recollection, at the reality of festival weekends and, more importantly, how massive a transition would be required for me to return there...
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2 comments:
I remember with some clarity through acid scratched eyes meeting you and alex and dyl.
Yes, that was at about 2am; post-Radiohead in 1997. Christ, you were VERY wired!
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