Counting down to ‘Operation Glasto...’

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by Allan Crow

Must confess it’s the one remaining festival on my ‘to do’ list before I shuffle off to the home for the bothered and bewildered.

Glastonbury makes T In The Park look like a barbecue in your neighbour’s garden.

It has the big names - the seriously big names, not just The View - and, more importantly, it has a standing our ain wee home grown effort will always lack so long as its core audience is bairns in trackies all trying out for the title of who can chuck a tumbler of beer the highest and furthest.

My days going to ‘T’ expired ages ago, and it’d take a lineup of truly epic proportions to tempt me back.

Each year I look at the big names, sigh, and move on.

Each year I look at Glasto’s line-up and I contemplate which relative I should kidnap to sell their kidney for a last-minute ticket off ebay.

This year’s event was a belter - a festival that rocked and sparked debate, often at the same time.

Even from the comfort of my sofa you could enjoy the sheer scale of the event thanks to BBC’s superb coverage (well, superb minus a few irritating DJs who, surprisingly for radio jocks, had nothing coherent to say).

Where else would you get Burt Bacarach and Motorhead - mercifully not at the same time - not to mention a jaw-dropping Funkadelic mash up with George Clinton, Parliament and goodness knows who else tearing up a storm?
While all that was going on, the nation looked on in disbelief at Kanye West’s powerful, bizarre, chaotic set which featured just him and a massive lighting rig hovering about four feet above his head. It must have been like performing in a giant microwave.

West had a stage invasion, hopped on a cherry picker and then looked utterly terrified as he clung on for dear life, blagged a section of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and then forgot the words, and departed with the proclamation we’d just seen the greatest rock star in the world.

Back home with a stookie on his broken leg, Dave Grohl fell off his chair laughing, Bruce Springsteen called up his E Street buddies and said ‘‘guys, you gotta hear this one ...’’ while Elvis just rotated a full 360 degrees.

We were still guffawing at West when along came Lionel Richie and won Glastonbury hands down with a magnificent set which even had security dancing in line.

When was the last time one of these party-poopers even cracked a smile let along mastered some dance steps?

And just when it could get no better, The Who finished it off with a tour de force set.

So it’s time to go to Glasto. If I set off now I make make it to Worthy Farm, in time for summer 2016.

I’ve checked out the packages - the glamping one sounds ace, if a bit pricey. Sounds posh but you still get a compost lavvie and a communal shower, but, hey, I’ve survived the horrors of Balado’s bogs. Gross!

I’ve registered and I’m poised for the ticket scramble. It’s all systems go.

And if doesn’t work then I’ll just camp out on my balcony and imagine I’m there.

And even then it’ll still be better than T In The Park.