Well, today just gets worse. Brexit was bad enough but this takes the biscuit. A bad thing has happened and I need a hug but there is no-one here to hug me. It’s kind of weird to ask your colleagues for a cuddle, right? But, oh dear, the struggle is real.
Some absolute rotter – some unconscionable gremlin, some little tinker – stole my wellies in the middle of a mud bath at Glastonbury. I’ll admit it: I’m not naturally a festival goer. I don’t like mud or inconvenience or staring at other people’s shit in the bottom of a Portaloo. But I decided to have a go. And, yes, it’s a lot of fun here. Skepta and Novelist and Section Boyz brought me a great deal of joy and it transpires that all the cliches people roll out about Glastonbury are true. There’s something intangibly relaxing about the atmosphere at Worthy Farm and Block 9, the clubbing section, is like a cross between Kreuzberg and the kind of paradise I could become a suicide bomber for. Yet it is at these moments, when you let your guard down and decide everything might be OK after all, that someone steals your wellies in the middle of a mud bath at Glastonbury.
Birmingham rapper Lady Leshurr had just delivered a killer set on the Sonic stage and there was about half an hour to kill before nice guy of grime Stormzy would begin to do the same. So I bought a pint and a plate of delicious duck confit and reconvened to the lovely bar next door. It was a sanctuary of cushions and sofas in the midst of the squalor. Punters were requested to leave their wellies at the edge of the bar and pad across the pristine carpet. This oasis seemed to float above the mud. Yet when time came for Stormzy’s set, I realised with dawning horror that my wellies were not where I had left them and were nowhere to be seen.
Panicking, I stumbled, in my socks, into the mud at the edge of bar and frantically searched for them. But they were, presumably, snugly nestling the evil feet of whatever fucking Brexit voter took them. After about 15 minutes of sloshing up and down like Swamp Thing, I asked a random bloke if I could borrow his pair and walk to buy some new ones. He agreed to do so only if I gave him my phone as insurance. Not to harsh Glastonbury’s vibe, but I hope something vaguely unpleasant happens to that man at some point this weekend.
In the end a beautiful bastard called Ben leant me his pair and I paid an inordinate sum of money for unnecessary Wellington boots. If you are the person who stole mine, know this: first I will steal your wellies, and then I will steal the wellies of everyone you love.