Weird, innit. Being at home. Thursday night, Solstice weekend. You feel kinda restless. Itching to feel a squelch between your toes. Strange urge to shout ‘Alan!’. Expecting every passing bus to be dispensing cider, for some reason.
Yes, every other year of the decade, at this very moment, we’d all be cronking our twats off together in a field in Somerset to a DJ Dogburger set in the Arsehole Of Albion tent at Glastonbury. But in 2012 there’s a massive Somme-sized hole in all of our summer calendars. You might be tempted by the many and varied Glasto replacement services being put on this weekend in your area, but just because Billy Bragg is playing (he’s contractually obliged to play them all) doesn’t a Glasto make. Instead, follow these simple rules and enjoy your personal Glastonbury from the discomfort of your own utterly destroyed flat.
First of all, flood your bathroom. We understand buying in the required amount of compost, manure and congealed chip cartons to concoct an authentic Glasto Gloop is costly and inconvenient, so a simple three-inch layer of ground water will be enough to give you that encroaching-pneumonia-while-watching-Massive Attack feeling. Next, nail your loft shut – this will become important later. Then you need to sabotage your iPhone so that it can only receive calls for three minutes every hour and just slightly unplug the power supply to your internet connection – Twitter should be an erratic little bastard until Monday.
Next, assign your Glasto Zones. If you’re ‘lucky’ enough to live with a hippy – ideally one who both plays guitar and juggles - label their bedroom ‘Acoustic Stage’ and ‘Circus Field’, then lock them in for the weekend, you won’t be visiting either. Your fridge should be marked ‘Market’ and filled with Old Grouty’s Twigs’n’Foreskin Cider and fajitas made from dog food so old and rotten it might pass as ‘ostrich’. If you have any bipolar friends or relatives, invite them round, confiscate their medicines, put them in the bathroom with a cow costume, a unicycle and the complete works of Beckett and you have yourself a ‘Theatre Field’. Again, lock them in – to recreate the Glastonbury ‘long-drop’ you’ll be shitting out of the window this weekend.
To recreate the true quality of Glastonbury narcotics, convince a local shopkeeper to sell you a box of Paxo ‘hash’ for £30 an ounce. Skin up and smoke this while watching the sun come up on Friday morning, feverishly ‘popping’ the ‘legal high’ of a Haribo Fantasy Mix and any mushrooms you can find down the back of your cooker from that enthusiastic attempt at a bolognaise in 2006. To make you feel as though you’re doing this in the Green Fields, put on a Chumbawamba album in the background and pay your local homeless community to decorate your back bedroom with phallic sculptures they’ve made out of roadkill and thump away at a Tupperware ‘drum circle’ while offering you a ‘holistic massage’ – i.e. beating you about the head and body with an empty can of Special Brew. Serenity.
No Glastonbury is complete without an early afternoon student-friendly retro novelty turn – yer Rolfs, yer Shirleys, yer English National Operas, yer Adeles. So call up your nearest British Legion and offer to host a warm-up for whatever their evening’s entertainment might be. Et voila! Your flat is (i)Phoenix Nights(i) for an hour. Note: this works even better with a stinking Wine Bar hangover, so prepare by drinking the entire contents of your local corner shop’s 5 Bottles For £5 vinegar bucket 24 hours earlier.
Having gawped at this year’s spectacular new features – a ‘Wall Of Death’ made from a hamster in a blender perhaps, or an ‘Block 9’ recreated by throwing an old train set at a giant Jenga – the afternoon should be spent at your own John Peel Stage checking out the hottest new talent. Simply download a track by Django Django onto your iTunes and listen to the first ten Genius Bar results it generates. Alternatively, if you happen to live in Dalston, open your window and throw a stick down the street, you’ll hit 10 bands willing to play in your kitchen that day.
At 4.30pm, start a rumour with yourself that Radiohead are playing a secret gig in ten minutes in your loft. But you’ve nailed your loft shut! There’s no way in! Spend the next two hours scouring your erratic Twitter for reassuring reports that it was shite anyway.
Glastonbury is your one annual excuse to get #ketsmacked off your mongoose and rat-wank yourself e-tarded to high-end Mongolian scrubstep all afternoon. Or you might like to go and dance to electronic music. So – overdose be damned, Margery! – avoiding the performance of Waiting For Cowdot going on in your bathroom, neck everything you can find in your bathroom cabinet at once and go bonkers to Battles on a Listerine and citalopram bender.
Come sundown, saw off the two top corners of your flatscreen, bung on a live video of your favourite massive heritage act and you’re practically at the Pyramid Stage. Although to fully live the Glasto dream you should first plant several thousand left-over Jubilee flags directly in front of the screen, obliterating the view so it feels like you’re watching Stevie Wonder from the back of a Crusade.
Tough one, this. How to to re-live the nightly post-headliner Glastonbury ritual of heading up to the underground 26th century Japanese metropolis crushed full of maniacs that is Shangri-La? Your best bet is, once suitably inebriated, to break into your nearest crèche at 2am and stamp the fuck out of all of the toy aeroplanes, rocket ships, Barbie nightclubs and Battlestar Galactica set-ups, while trying to torch everything by breathing fire using mouthfuls of vodka and a Zippo. If you make bail, repeat until Monday.