You’ll deduce this trip to “Glasto” happened a week before the annual celebration of ’80s pop at Worthy Farm.
Day 4 of the Somerset Surge, staying a safe 150 miles clear of Simon in Cornwall.
And a first trip to Glastonbury in nearly four years, which says just how vibrant the town GBG scene is/isn’t.
A very quiet drizzly Tuesday night, but then mystical folk don’t like to get their pashmina wet, do they ? Traditional GBG entry Who’d A Thought It appears to have the trade from folk auditioning to be Waterboys roadies, but otherwise it’s dead.
I thought I’d found a shop dedicated to BRAPA,
but it was just plastic dragons.
Actually, I’m not sure Si has been to Avalon yet, so no doubt there’ll eventually be a song written about his trip to visit a Glasto micro that still gets sung at England cricket matches in 2,000 years time.
The (lone) GBG entry is unexpectedly plain.
Inside the Hawthorns it’s all casual diner, local artwork, and gig adverts.
A group of cheery ladies I decide are teachers are finishing their curry, which smells better than the Co-op falafel wrap I will inevitably end up with that night.
Their departure leaves only a handful of regulars at the bar, and two suited blokes discussing the M5 roadworks, a debate which will later form the basis for the Miley Cyrus set on Sunday.
My Church End Goats’ Milk is rich and tasty, NBSS 3+, and notably better than the same beer in Worcester last year. #Caskbeerlottery.
I consider asking the teachers where the apostrophe in Goat’s should go, but they’ve gone.
All very pleasant and uneventful, until a discussion at the bar makes be prick up my ears, though not in a Joe Orton way.
“No Carlos ?”
“No, he broke his yoghurt pot”.
There’s a euphemism there I missed, I’m sure.