Alright, la! Joey Barton Glastonbury Diary here, and have I just had a right old weekend of it or wha’? I’ve been at that Glasto Festy of the Arts, so I’ve got some boss stories to share with youse, my adoring followers.
“Without music, life would be a mistake” – Nietzsche said that, lad. Looking on at all the ****ing mud, though, another of his quotes came to mind: “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”
He didn’t say anything about sticking plazzy bags on yer wellies but I’m sure if they’d had Glastonbury in his time then he would have.
Friday was mint, though. We got on the lash early and headed straight to the Pyramid stage to check out Haim, whose
innokewus innoculate crap songs seemed secondary to how short their skirts were. It might have been the festival-strength pear cider talking but I’d have given them each one right there and then.
Only joking, like. I’m a proud family man now – that’s why I declined three separate invitations over the course of the weekend to join student lasses in their tents for a good fingering session.
I’m not Didi Hamann, for ****’s sake.
We then stuck around for Jake Bugg, who I thought was ****ing boss. One of our lot didn’t agree – “skiffle for 12-year-olds”, he said – so I punched his face a few times and jabbed a spliff in his eye.
It wasn’t my spliff, because youse start asking, although I was quite hepped up on poppers by that point.
This Guardian-reading speccy in our group then dragged us to the Sonic Tent to see two acts called Mount Kimbie and Gold Panda. Both sounded like s***e to me – keyboards can **** off, like, give me proper songwriters like Bugg.
Then I remembered that I’m supposed to be trying to pass myself off as a Guardian-reading speccy myself these days, so I boshed some acid and spent about an hour talking about “levels” with some crusty hippie who I wouldn’t have wanted to be within fifty feet of had I been sober.
Unfortunately, I only remembered about my new persona after I’d pulped the Guardian-reading speccy and told him to “never make me listen to this druggy hipster s***e ever again”.
I’d like to offer a full and frank apology to the lad – perhaps we could go and watch a foreign film together sometime, la.
Back to the Pyramid Stage for Professor Green, who’s a ****ing ****head if ever I’ve seen one. The soft s***e’s probably never heard a Smiths song in his life – **** knows he sampled every other ****er known to man.
I threw a bottle of my own piss at him. It missed him and hit a roadie, but it was still boss. We was all in bulk.
It was then that someone informed me I’d missed the Radical Roundup with Billy Bragg. They say not to shoot the messenger and all that, but I couldn’t resist chinning the **** anyway. He struck me as
plebian pebbly a ****ing queg, anyway.
We then took a break for chips and balloons before getting right back on it with Tame Impala at the Other Stage. I was still well buzzing off the acid, so Tame Impala’s psychedelic light show sent me well over the edge.
I must have eaten at least three people, each of whom I offer my unreserved apologies.
Next up, Alt-J, although I had to sit down at the back because by that time everyone around me had turned into a goblin.
Got a bit freaked out when my own hand started telling me to burn things, but I was just about lucid enough to applaud the Mercury winners on what was probably a boss set.
I’m sure Leighton Baines is into them, so they must be good. Then again, he told me to check out the new Miles Kane album and that was ****ing s***e.
Apparently we met up with Wazza for Dizzee Rascal but I have absolutely no recollection of that whatsoever. That’s what a heady cocktail of festival-strength pear cider, poppers, acid, balloons, “M-Cat” (whatever the **** that is) and an already complex personality will do to you.
I definitely remember being at Arctic Monkeys ’cause I can recall a) singing along to that “Scummy Man” song, and b) giving some guy loads for looking like Wazza. Thinking on, it probably was Wazza.
That would explain why I kept hearing Colleen’s voice saying “****ing leave it out, you ****ing meff”. Good thing I didn’t smack him one.
**** knows how I found my tent or why I was covered in blood when I did, but what a ****ing night.