It’s Glastonbury week again. Huzzah! So just to kick things off, here’s a timely reminder why people like me should stay indoors and do something more appropriate instead. Like reading the pink paper or fixing a lawnmower. Kim who?
Remember last year? Me neither, which is the predominant reason I churn out this self-indulgent effluent every week. So that, in a quiet moment of the day when the wine fog has lifted, I can claw back clues as to my activities over the last three and a half years, and make out I have near-perfect recall. Yes, like that bloke out of Neighbours (what was his name?) in Memento. So, imagine my surprise when I discovered I had attended the Glastonbury festival. Quite willingly, apparently. Can that be right? And why on earth would I have agreed to such a thing, being as I am rather ancient and unsuitably constructed for the al fresco activities of youth?
I dug a little deeper, only to find out that, to my horror, I am going again in June. And that I have already shelled out perfectly good moolah for the privilege. What fresh hell is this? If ever there was a deterrent to the perils of Pinot… Anyway, my fate being sealed thus, I thought it prudent to at least find out exactly who I shall be forced to watch, and in narratively convenient fashion, the organisers announced yesterday that someone called Kanye West will be headlining on the big stage. Kanye West? Who the shoo is she? I thought it was a holiday destination for wealthy folk, somewhere near the Keys in Florida. And whilst I realise I no longer fit the festival demographic, you’d think they could at least meet me half way: The Bay City Rollers still have a bit of spunk left, and young people can mock them on the Twitter if they get bored.
Seeing as I already had my detective hat on, I discreetly asked my niece to get me up to speed, ignorance being no excuse in these matters:
Poppy: Are you for real?
Me: Yes, I think so.
Poppy: No, I mean you’ve never heard of Kanye West???
Me: I haven’t. Does that make me a bad person?
Poppy: He’s only the biggest rapper in the world!
Me: Rapper, you say?
Poppy: Yes, rapper! And he’s married to Kim Kardashian. Keep up!
Me: Kim who?
Poppy: Oh for God’s sake! Kardashian! With the massive arse.
Poppy: You really don’t know, do you?
Me: I’m afraid not.
Poppy: Have you been living under a rock for the last ten years?
Me: Of course not. But wasn’t she at Glastonbury last year with her band?
Poppy: That was Kasabian!
Me: Is there a difference?
Poppy: I’ve got to go now…
So, none the wiser then. But at least I’ve gleaned that this Kanye chap has a wife with a big bottom, which will surely hold me in good stead when I’m standing in a Somerset field, knee-deep in mud and surrounded by children who know who he is. What was it again? Kim something? I wonder if she’s from North Korea.