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We may spend a disproportionate amount of our time in pursuit of ghosts, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have our fingers firmly on the pulse of popular culture. In an effort to keep this blog as topical as we can, this post is dedicated to Glastonbury Festival, which takes place later this week.

For those of you lucky enough to have avoided the obligatory hype, Glastonbury is a festival of “music and performing arts” which takes place on a farm in Somerset every year. And, contrary to what people may tell you, it’s totally, unequivocally rubbish.

We hate Glastonbury Festival. We hate Glastonbury Festival without even having been to Glastonbury Festival. Anyone who goes to Glastonbury Festival, or even thinks about going to Glastonbury Festival, or who even says the words Glastobury Festival, or who writes a blog entry in which the words Glastonbury Festival are repeated ad nauseum, is an imbecile of towering proportions.

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What started many years ago as a laid back, hippie-influenced love-fest has now evolved into a corporate, money-grabbing business empire with all the soul and atmosphere of a three-day marketing conference, where a man in a grey suit talks endlessly about sales targets and quarterly reviews.

Whereas many years ago pleasure-seeking locals could simply hop over the fence (or burrow beneath it) to avoid paying the extortionate entry fee, “Glasto” (as it’s affectionately called by utter morons) now has a multi-million pound security system which makes Alcatraz look positively welcoming. The parameters are patrolled by stormtroopers, who are programmed to shoot any revellers who try to gain unlawful access squarely in the back of the head without a hint of remorse. Even if they were probably just walking past.

Things aren’t much better even if you manage to successfully negotiate the Kafka-esque ticketing process and get in, where you’ll be charged roughly £4,800 for a pint of diluted lager whilst a group of insufferable public-school types (probably called Josh, or Toby, or Izzy) will try and hug you and inform you of what a “spiritual” time you’re all having. Anyone with a shred of intelligence or human empathy will have killed themselves by the end of the first day.

As we said, we know all of this without even having been to Glastonbury Festival.

Considering that spending three days in a muddy field listening to Coldplay seems about as enjoyable as spending three days repeatedly smashing your own forehead against a rusty nail, we don’t know why all the security is necessary.  Most of the bands on this year’s line-up are so terrible that they should, to our minds, act as a deterrent to anyone who was planning on heading to Somerset during that period.

And if you’re thinking that this blog entry is just an excuse to spout anti-Glastonbury propaganda, you’re wrong. There is a ghost link, albeit it a very tenuous one:

The town of Glastonbury, according to reports which are definitely true and in no way made up by the pot-smoking, aromatherapy-admiring locals, is haunted. However, rather than a spectre that has been seen, this ghost takes the form of a smell which moves freely around the town centre.

Two words, people: Bob. Geldof.


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