H.I. wanted to watch Blondie at Glastonbury on catch-up last night, so we ended up watching a few other acts as well.
Debby Harry was her old self - 70 year-old self by now, I would think - and although the whole set was perfectly performed, it was just Blondie, as they always had been, albeit with a bit more grey hair and a bit more blonde dye.
We tuned into 'Haim' - the American three-girl band - and they were really very good. Although it isn't the sort of music that I would rush out to buy and sit listening to of an evening, it is so refreshing to hear modern music that isn't two-dimensional and flippant, like Lily Allen's who we also watched.
Haim wear ordinary clothes and have ordinary bodies like most of the audience, but their music is far from ordinary. The only concession to any extreme visual physicality was the bass-player's mouth. She must know how fascinating her gaping and grimacing is, because she was the only one wearing bright red lipstick - her lipstick bill must be colossal.
I get sick of watching bimbos like Mylie Cyrus flashing their pudenda on stage, so Haim deserve medals for not being pushed into that direction by their manager - their music is what it is all about.
I borrowed a friend's Triumph 500 Twin motorcycle and rode from Surrey to Somerset - well, I made the classic mistake of riding straight into Glastonbury itself, not knowing that the event was in nearby Pilton and not the town.
Somehow, I managed to get permission from the top police checkpoint to ride straight onto the field itself. I actually parked the bike right up against the side of the main stage. Try doing that these days.
I wandered about for the afternoon, looking at all the free stuff on offer - free entrance, free food, free drinks, and even free psychological counselling - the queue to the Acid Casualty tent was quite long. Now, I am told, this service is provided by The Samaritans, and is possibly the one free service left at Glastonbury.
Quite early in the evening, I decided that I had had enough, and found a large, brown-paper bag of the sort which were being issued as sleeping-bags then (also free), and crawled into it, right next to the Pyramid stage.
The last words I heard before I fell asleep came through the stack of speakers - "ALL YOU PEOPLE AT THE FRONT OF THE STAGE, KEEP AWAY FROM THOSE CHICKENS. THEY ARE GOING TO EXPLODE!" I remember thinking that they were probably rubber chickens, this being the predominantly vegetarian 1970s.
I slept all the way through Alice Cooper as well, and that's no mean feat.
Bright and early in the morning, I picked my way through the prone bodies which littered the field like WW1, climbed on the bike and rode home, burning the clutch out on the way.
These days, now I am living 35 miles away from Pilton, I get inside information about how the event has developed over the years, and some of my friends have become quite wealthy by buying concessions to run bars, etc. there. Nothing is free, and there are banks of cash-dispensers, I am told, just in case the vendors are not wired up to a card machine.
Sometimes, as I sit in an empty pub at this time of the year, I get a twinge of regret about missing out on the party, but it doesn't last long.
I had just such a twinge last night, then there was an almighty clap of thunder, followed by about one inch of rain in fifteen minutes. I ordered another pint of beer and allowed myself a wry - if unworthy - smile.
Why is it that nobody ever feels sorry for the festival-goers when it rains?
(I have just been looking through images of Haim to find the ones above and below, and was deeply disappointed to find that - in many of them - the girls are sticking their tongues out. Stop that right now! Do you hear me?!)