I had meant to write a dispassionate account of this year’s Glastonbury, really I had. But I’m afraid my plans were ruined by a chance encounter on the final day with my old friend Michael Eavis — the distinctively bearded dairy farmer who founded it 45 years ago.
Rather sweetly he has got it into his head — long story — that I once helped him save the festival. Gosh, I hope this is true because it would annoy so many people: suck on that, all you Guardian readers, you lefty stand-ups, you Greenpeace activists. Every time you go to Glasto from now on you must offer a silent prayer of thanks to the Prince of Darkness himself.
‘You coming to see The Who tonight?’ said Eavis. Usually, I like to leave early to avoid the traffic. But then I realised that he was inviting us to join the Eavis inner sanctum in the wings of the Pyramid stage as the closing act played.
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