Alright, la! Joey Barton Glastonbury Diary here. Where were we, like?

Ah yeah, Saturday. I was still a bit wrecked from Friday, right, so I didn’t actually get up ’til about 6pm.

Although I did drag me sleeping bag over to the Pyramid Stage so I wouldn’t miss Elvis Costello, ’cause I love Elvis Costello me – he’s got some proper mint lyrics, lad, they’re dead boss you know.

Someone gave me a tap on the shoulder and asked if I was alright. I smacked him one, but only ’cause I was dreaming about smacking someone else one.

Then he asked me if I was Joey Barton, so I smacked him one again. That time I meant it.

“The true man wants two things: danger and play” – Nietzsche said that. Good, innit? Nietzsche’s got some boss lyrics and all.

My next port of call was a portaloo, ’cause I was busting for a s***e like nothing I’d ever. Must have been all the acid and lentils.

Some twerp in the one next to me was thinking he was being all funny and tha’ by singing ‘Waterloo’ by Abba but replacing each instance of the word ‘Waterloo’ with ‘portaloo’.

I made sure to finish up before him so I could kick his cabin over while he was s***ing in it.

Bet he’s got dysentery now. Soft c***.

Alabama Shakes on the Other Stage just confused me, but I liked that Rodríguez fella from that film about sugar.

Haven’t seen it meself but I can assure you that I do have a very keen interest in film, and I reckon I’d be a boss director and all.

By the time Primal Scream came on I was starting to come down massively. I must have thrown up six times.

Once while punching someone. That’s proper mortifying, that is.

Savages were pretty good for a bunch of birds, though. I mean, I was sat in mud with plazzy bags on me wellies, all shivering and paranoid from boss drugs, but I could tell their music had proper balls, knowharrameanlike?

Unlike them. Haha. I reckon I make mint quips like that about nine or ten times a day.

One day I’ll release a volume of my best situational jokes, including one about povs and another about gypos.

Didn’t see Nas like ’cause I was munching a veggie breakfast but me mate said he was boss.

Everyone went The Rolling Stones so I thought it would be iconoclassic iphonoplastic well clever of me to go see the Bootleg Beatles in the Acoustic Tent instead.

When I arrived there was no ****er there. Even the ****ing band had said “**** it” and went the Rollies instead.

The Rollies – you know, The Rolling Stones. Whaddayou call ’em, like?

By the time I’d heard that Public Enemy were on the West Holts Stage it was too late. It would have been well iconographic of me to go that instead.

Nah, that still doesn’t look right, does it?

I went the Silent Disco after that. It was a bit weird, I felt like everyone was staring at me. Probably the drugs.

We stayed up all night there on these boss pills we bought off some crustie in the Stone Circle. I made bezzie mates with a spider, I swear lad.

On Sunday we went Tim Burgess at the Park Stage in the afternoon, ’cause we’re bezzie mates now and all.

I still hadn’t slept so I kept falling to the ground unconscious, but luckily Wazza and Colleen had some smelling salts on ’em.

It was then a choice between Billy Bragg and Sir Bruce Forsyth. I well regret going Brucey, although I really enjoyed it.

Kenny Rogers played that song from that boss film – what’s it called, The Big Legwinski or something? – and then we Garethed on Smashing Pumpkins to go see Tyler, The Creator & Earl Sweatshirt with Steve McClaren.

Garethed – you know, as in ‘bailed’. It’s common to say that in footballing circles. Common as in everyday, not in the povvo sense.

McClaren was absolutely boxed out of his skull on some kind of mushroom extract, we had a right laugh.

“Hey Joey, what’s the deal with you and QPR?” he asked me in a rare moment of lucidity.

I said, “I don’t wanna go back. You’d have to be mad to go there at the moment.”

Steve was all like “oh yeah?” and “I know someone who’s got Tony Fernandes’s number, I’m well getting a job there” – he was peaking on the ‘shrooms though, like, laughing hystereocally hystereophonically dead hard.

I bought some of the extract off him and boshed it during Bobby Womack. It didn’t really kick in until about halfway through The Congos, but when it did it was proper mad, youknowharrameanlike?

That’s your ****ing lot from Joey Barton Glastonbury Diary, you pack of ****s. See you there next year!