Because I've just got back from Glastonbury 2015 and I'm in the midst of of the post-Glasto comedown, I thought I'd post a brief extract from the start of my new (and yet untitled) book.
It's early days yet and there's a lot more to write, but fingers crossed, it should be finished and out in the big wide world before the end of this year.
This is unedited and in draft for now. so it may be culled in the end; but for now-enjoy!
It’s just because since the first
time I went, at the ripe old age of 48, in 2010, I can’t imagine sitting at
home in June, without a ticket, watching it all happen on the BBC. I have to
recognise that somewhere along the way, at some point in the future, then
that’s bound to happen. There will be a year when I can’t go, either because of
sheer circumstance, or events beyond my control or simply because I’m unlucky
and don’t end up with a ticket.
It might even be next year.
Without becing overly morbid, I have to face the
prospect that each year might be the last ever time that I go to Glastonbury.
And because of that every second, every minute, every hour at Glasto is
something to be remembered and treasured.
Not every single moment at Glasto can be special-it is frankly
ridiculous to expect it to be so- but it’s important to remember the mundane
and even the boring moments (which of course there are.) Because, as in life,
what makes the special moments “special”, are the boring and mundane bits in
between.
And those special moments happen
more at Glastonbury than anywhere else. I suppose it’s all different for
everybody who goes, but for me, there’s been hundreds of them. They are all
simple things, yet the simple things are usually the most beautiful.
Walking
through the gates on the first day and realising that you’re back.
The feeling
of a sort of homecoming.
Grass underfoot as you walk.
Waking up in a tent after the first night,
not really aware of where you are for a few brief seconds and then remembering.
Seas of smiling faces.
A cup of tea in a proper mug and a piece of toast.
Sitting under clear blue, crystal blue, blazing hot skies with Amy and seeing
The National for the first time.
Talking to people. Just chatting.
Watching
Thomas’ reaction when we stood at the top of the hill by the campsite and
seeing how truly staggered at the sheer size of it all.
Fireworks exploding in
the night sky.
Stevie Wonder.
Sitting in my fold-up chair and gently
dropping off on a Sunday afternoon after working for four days in 2011; shift
over, mud drying up and the sun shining very brightly.
So many memories.
My previous three books about Glasto are all available here either as Kindle e books or in paperback;
