Hello world, welcome to my patch.
I know, I know, all I will say is I've been struggling and leave it at that. Sorry.
Welcome world, this if my patch of the universe, put on the map once a year, which is more than it deserves to be honest.
Tis the weekend of the year in sleepy Somerset when the world descends upon a small village more accustomed to Baling twine and farmers with elbows up cows arses than famous rockers, seas of tents and enough weed to last Bill and Ben until afterlife and it's killing me, as it does every year.
You see, I, like the rest of the world can watch Glastonbury festival live from my living room, either on tv or webcam, but I, unlike the rest of the world can open up my front door and hear it too. You know how much it sucks that I can hear some of the best bands in the world playing right on my doorstep, but can not see them? S.U.C.K.S.
I know they sell a certain portion of tickets for local people and I know they have disabled camping areas, but people, you hear about the storms and the rain and the washing away of tents and the 5 foot mud baths? I don't care how much of a pretty penny I paid for my wheelchair, it ain't no friggin Land Rover and it ain't got the suspension of a monster truck, which is a bloody crime considering that apparently people in wheelchairs get to sit RIGHT AT THE FRONT, within touching distance of Kaiser Chiefs, Razorlight, Fatboy Slim, Kasbian, The Zutons, The Killers and... and....AND...... fucking CHRIS MARTIN! Weeep I tell you weep buckets... Waaaa.
So, the forecast says no more rain, ha, tonight I will be dancing naked, under the stars chanting my 'wash out the lucky buggers that got to go, in a Great Flood like motion picture spectacular' mantra, firstly, so that I can laugh and point at them in the local shop tomorrow, looking like drowned rats slowing dying from pneumonia, but more importantly, who doesn't want to pop outside into the street and save a floating past Chris Martin?
Me? Bitter? Not much.
