Friday June 22nd, 2001, 6:45pm
We had a Tescos carrier bag stuffed with thai sticks, a large McDonalds cup full of pills, a bottle of liquid acid, three packs of co-codamol, a rock the size of a tennis ball, a bottle of ketamine and a whole galaxy of multicoloured uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and motherfuckers... in addition we thought it wise to pack two large bottles of gin, two rum, one bottle of Hennesy, three bottles of tequila, a melon, some limes, table salt, eight ten pint kegs of some horrible lager or other, five bottles of amyl nitrate, a box of Peperami, a bag of hula hoops... but the only thing that worried me was the melon. It wasn't ripe enough.
Getting in was no problem. Since young Adrian was driving us, we sailed straight past security in to the VIP parking area, unlike poor Jeremy, who got the train and was attacked by ravenous sniffer dogs as soon as he got off it. Poor fool. He is now covered with blood and has a huge rip in his shirt. This has upset him as it's his "pulling shirt", and you can tell he's got a beer gut now. Beer gut schmeer gut - I call it proof of one's investment. Anyway, whilst poor Jeremy was running away from sniffer dogs and rozzers, I was tucking into a few of our supplies. For some reason or other, there are no bands on until seven this year, which leaves one with the whole day to lounge about in the backstage bar chatting up pop stars. Adrian wanted to go and explore "the real Glastonbury", but I informed him that it smells of shit and is full of hippies, and they might rape him for having smart trousers. He is as I type cowering in the corner of the PlayLouder tent, nursing a smoothie. It's even lovelier than last year, you know. There is no mud at all, and the sun has baked the ground into cracked submissiveness. The PlayLouder tent is back again, which means big leather sofas and free smoothies for all us blagger scum. And happily The Powers That Be (those two shifty blokes who sit behind me in the office) have gone with my suggestion of free tequila shots as well. I feel a bit silly about bringing all that booze now, although saying that the tent will close at 5am, and I may not be clever enough to break in to it. Anyway, everybody is smiling, apart from poor old Michael Eavis who sped past me earlier in a little buggy looking as miserable as sin. Apparently some sniffer dogs are running riot in the Green Fields trying to eat hippies. This means that Jeremy will be wanting to eat some of my drugs. I should have bought more.
I decided to leave the ketamine/acid experiment for tomorrow, as I plan to have at least one decent conversation this weekend, so chipped off a pebble of the rock, smashed it with the base of my hip flask, and snorted it all up. I then repeated said action, but smoked it instead of snorting it. This gives you a very clever high, and is perfect for talking bollocks with press officers, which one is forced to far too often at these things. Press officers really can be a bore, and they only seem to like their own bands. They also rarely have drugs of their own these days, or perhaps they are lying to me.
I set about backstage with some gusto, and was pleased and rather surprised to see my good friend George Michael sat on the grass enjoying a terribly large spliff. George (or Georgie as me and Michael Barrymore call him) is a weed connoisseur, and Always has the best stuff. I heard Snoop Dogg rang him last time he was in England to get his dealer's number. George was a bit upset today though, as somebody had, literally, pissed on his chips. "It's not fair," he whined, "I'd only just bought them. They were very salty." Poor swine. But he should worry. If there are men out there crazy enough to piss on your chips when your back is turned, then God only knows what they'll do when the sun goes down and the beer sets in. Drunks are awfully easy targets for vindictive chip-pissers, and George tells me he plans to camp. Adrian attempted a feeble joke at this point, so I dragged him off to meet an indie bore. I figured that might keep him quiet for the afternoon until Coldplay come on.
Which they are about to, so I'll sign off now. A no doubt debauched and silly report of tonight, erm, tomorrow, dear readers. Sleep safely in your tents tonight, and guard your chips well.
"Whatt are YOU up to then, my little Glasto 2001 love bunnies? Do tell..":http://old.playlouder.com/talk/30/
