Glastonboring

Scraping the barrel this year I see. The only decent acts worthy of casting one ear over are Pendulum, Wu Tang, Fatboy Slim, Carl Cox, DJ Shadow, Beardyman, and Freestylers. Possibly Tinie Tempah for his single awesome contribution to music thus far.

In the Washed Up And Broke tent we have Don McLean, Morrissey, B. B. King, Paul Simon (although, granted, the latter two have class), Chemical Brothers, Primal Scream, Chumbawamba, Barenaked Ladies, Graham Coxon, Deacon Blue, Hothouse Flowers, Suzanne Vega and Imelda May.

Then in the Self Harm tent we have Plan B, The Eels, Paolo Nutini, Biffy Clyro, Elbow, The Noisettes, The Streets and Jimmy Eat World. Help me!

To cap it all off, in the Suicide Cult tent we have the headliners: Beyoncé, Coldsnore and U-frigging-2. Crikey, people’ll be falling over themselves to get to the front of the special-magic-potion-that-allows-you-to-board-the-spacecraft queue.

U2 have to be the most overhyped band in existence: their insipid, delay-pedal-laden guitar riffs, holier than thou attitude and pretentious lyrics are enough to make even devout members of the cloth question their faith. And Bono’s an insincere prick too; the sort who would fly to and from a Save The Planet gig in his private jet.

The bottom line is I’m not willing to pay over a hundred quid to sit in a sodden field of piss-soaked, drug-addled losers for a weekend just to see a small handful of decent bands ruined by bad engineering and crappy acoustics.

Sorry Glastonbury, you’re as washed out as the British weather.