Blonde Redhead are a band I’m sure you’ve never heard of, they’re well known and respected enough of course, it’s just you don’t, well…
Anyway, I ended up buying one of their most recent on the spur of the proverbial after watching Hard Candy last night. Watch it, don’t have any preconceptions, avoid any prior knowledge and make it happen. Listen to Blonde Redhead too, do these things, you’ll thank me.
It’s Monday, I’m feeling bolshie. I am aware that I had a heavy weekend but I’m not hungover, indeed, I cycled in this morning. It’s a stunning day, the warmest this year by far. The only thing that is spurring me on right now is this cup of coffee and the fact it’s a short week as we get Friday off to celebrate Jebus getting knacked. Hang on, there is something else, oh yes, yesterday we managed to get tickets for Glastonbury.
I say ‘we’ as it was a fucking military operation. My brother and his missus, currently sans broadband had to get up the night before in order to arrive at an office in Soho with computers fired up for the first-come-first-serve situation with the tickets due to go on sale at 9am. Meanwhile, back in Tooting, I flopped out of my pit at 8.50 (it was a fucking Sunday, literally, an unholy act) made a cup tea, strained the vegetables and plopped in front of my PC, all in time for 9. Apparently there were another 3 people in an around the London area also working for us…
A few months ago my brother lazily suggested we should register for tickets. I was fairly nonplussed, I last went to Glastonbury when I was 17 and it rained a lot. It was also the days before the police used to hang around and whilst it was a fairly pleasant weekend it was also quite, well, scary. It’s one thing to do the whole ‘fuck the pigs’ thing and another to realise that those angry skinheads ‘inviting’ people to take the horse by grabbing passers by and waving loaded smack needles in their faces are, for 3 days at least, the law. When the police did start hanging about at Glastonbury I spurned it because I was in my 20’s and really was doing the whole ‘fuck the pigs’ thing and opted for smaller festivals in various rural locations where they stayed away.
To register for tickets one had to embrace the whole corporate side of what was once a ‘hippy’ festival, Glastonbury sold out to the man shortly after I was last there (I can accept that now but for a long time the word ‘Glastonbury’ used to piss me the fuck off). So, this year, one had to take a photograph of ones face (the instructions were very specific) and send the picture along with ones name and address and in return one would be supplied with a 7-digit number. Now here it gets complicated-ish. So long as one knew the 7-digit numbers of ones mates etc., each 7-digit bearer could purchase up to 4 tickets for other 7-digit bearers.
Yesterday morning everyone involved in the operation to get Glastonbury tickets had an additional 4 sets of 7-digits irrespective of whether they knew them or not. Over 400,000 people had registered for tickets and we needed to be a little savvy. From 9 am I put my phone in a permanent state of re-dial and aimlessly clicked at the ticket website which failed to load, I did this for 35 fucking minutes, dying for a trog I hasten to add until the website that had been at least making some sort of effort to load fucking crashed. The whole process of attempting to get tickets negates what shred of hippy kudos remains in the whole Glastonbury thing, I thought, and decided to phone my bro to tell him so. I was furious at being up so early and being subject to this con… I was just about to dial my bro and vent spleen when called me to tell me he’d succeeded, it was 9.35 and I was delighted; an hour later all 137,000 tickets were sold out. Later that afternoon I met my bro and his missus in a boozer near Leicester Square and we celebrated our success.
The previous night 7 of my family met up to celebrate my dad’s 69th birthday. We had a great meal in a restaurant in darkest Surrey. The food was excellent but due to a small cock-up with dad’s order I ended up having words with the manager who decently let us have the whole fucking meal, including nearly £100 of drinks f.o.c. I got home in good spirits (after declining an invitation to Pasha by a couple of loudmouthed girls on the train back from the restaurant who were, at least, kind enough to share their drink) and watched the Hawkwind documentary I’ve been harping on about. It was nearly enough to stop me from bothering to go for the Glastonbury tickets in the first place as the band embraced the whole free-festival scene. I discovered Hawkwind alone babysitting for an old schoolteacher of mine when I was 14, they are extraordinarily special to me and I still feel a great sense of pride to know that I was a part of the scene, that I ‘got it’ as it were.
In other news the kids story is nearly finished, it’s rather good, if you all promise to fulfil the music/movie obligations outlined in today’s blog I may let you see it.
Anyone else get Glastonbury tickets? Mmmm? Anyone. ANYONE.