(no subject)
I've been back from Glastonbury for a couple of weeks now and yet, for someone who periodically turns up here to spout some sort of semi-coherent cobblers about whatever they can think of, an outpouring on the subject has been proving hard to come by.
That's not to say plenty didn't happen- there was the usual mix of music, comedy, performance art, acrobats and knee-deep slurry; rather like the Edinburgh Fringe relocated to the 2nd Ypres- but every time I try to churn some words out on the subject I keep coming back to the drizzle, the aching thighs, the rubbish sound on the Pyramid Stage, the heavier rain, the seven quid pie-and-mash, the proliferation of kids and the torrential rain. It makes the whole thing, which was actually 5 days of bloody good fun, sound like hell on Earth and me like the sort of tosser who'd pay £145 to do it.
Obviously there's a rich seam of writers who like to focus on the worst parts of existence- from the huge and hellish to the tiniest, most random irritations- and obviously those sorts can get a job on Tonight with Trevor McDonald or write to Points of View. It's fine with me that I occasionally stray onto that path but Glastonbury doesn't deserve that kind of treatment and it isn't going to get it here.
Luckily, two days after getting back to reality the missus and myself went to Alton Towers and that's just the sort of experience ripe for plucking by the the sort of scribe who tends to trawl through life's buttock crevice.
In the olden days, 'Britain's No. 1 Theme Park!' (tm) was tolerable enough; you expected it to be swarming with families from the Midlands and school trips from Glasgow and to have to queue for most of your puberty to go on the good stuff. Life was simple. Then, the powers that be decided it wasn't just enough to 'unleash a torrent of fun' (tm) and set about transforming a day at Alton Towers into one long metaphor for life in a post-industrial, capitalist olgipoly that's designed to terrify any children passing through it's gates into a life of unquestioning servitude and desperate grasping at the next rung on the status ladder. You'll either come out of it as Bill Hicks or the next winner of 'The Apprentice'.
They don't even wait till you're through the entrance to get cracking. Barely have you turned off the A50 than you're being implored to stump up a tenner for 'Express Parking'- which basically means you get to park next to the ticket office and front gates rather than in the main 'pleb' car-park which costs £4, is serviced by a monorail to get you to the way-in and probably funded by UNICEF.
Once you've either demonstrated to your children that you're one of life's 'Express Parking' winners or kidded them that the monorail is technically a ride it's time for you to decide what kind of ticket you want. It used to be that there was three types of ticket- adult, child and family (which generally was a bit of a saving for 2 kids and 2 adults and always guaranteed to make skinflints openly regret having their third child). Now you can buy a normal ticket or shell out even more money for an 'Express Ticket' which allows you to skip about 80% of the length of the queues!
Really! They get pushed in right in front of the people whose life didn't quite work out the way they wanted and had to spend most of their day in the line for Nemesis listening to one of those school trips from Glasgow share happy slap videos. The message is clear: "Hey kids! Daddies who achieve care more about their kids! And their kids have a better, fuller day at Alton Towers! Your daddy didn't care enough about you to take advantage of the guy in his section who had to take 2 months off to give his brother a kidney and take his job! That kid's dad would! And he's on the ride now! And it's starting to rain!"
Add to this the fact that the kids of wealthy parents can get a personalised DVD commemorating their day and even stay overnight in the nearby hotel's 'Chocolate Room' and it's easy to see how the next generation of aspirational money grabbing cluster-fucks are being created before our very eyes. They'll resent their parents' failures, send house prices soaring further and happily sell their best friends to get a status-boosting rubber plant in their corner cubicle.
In short, the world's going to get a whole lot worse. And being the kind of writer I am, there's only one thing I can say about that.
Good.
That's not to say plenty didn't happen- there was the usual mix of music, comedy, performance art, acrobats and knee-deep slurry; rather like the Edinburgh Fringe relocated to the 2nd Ypres- but every time I try to churn some words out on the subject I keep coming back to the drizzle, the aching thighs, the rubbish sound on the Pyramid Stage, the heavier rain, the seven quid pie-and-mash, the proliferation of kids and the torrential rain. It makes the whole thing, which was actually 5 days of bloody good fun, sound like hell on Earth and me like the sort of tosser who'd pay £145 to do it.
Obviously there's a rich seam of writers who like to focus on the worst parts of existence- from the huge and hellish to the tiniest, most random irritations- and obviously those sorts can get a job on Tonight with Trevor McDonald or write to Points of View. It's fine with me that I occasionally stray onto that path but Glastonbury doesn't deserve that kind of treatment and it isn't going to get it here.
Luckily, two days after getting back to reality the missus and myself went to Alton Towers and that's just the sort of experience ripe for plucking by the the sort of scribe who tends to trawl through life's buttock crevice.
In the olden days, 'Britain's No. 1 Theme Park!' (tm) was tolerable enough; you expected it to be swarming with families from the Midlands and school trips from Glasgow and to have to queue for most of your puberty to go on the good stuff. Life was simple. Then, the powers that be decided it wasn't just enough to 'unleash a torrent of fun' (tm) and set about transforming a day at Alton Towers into one long metaphor for life in a post-industrial, capitalist olgipoly that's designed to terrify any children passing through it's gates into a life of unquestioning servitude and desperate grasping at the next rung on the status ladder. You'll either come out of it as Bill Hicks or the next winner of 'The Apprentice'.
They don't even wait till you're through the entrance to get cracking. Barely have you turned off the A50 than you're being implored to stump up a tenner for 'Express Parking'- which basically means you get to park next to the ticket office and front gates rather than in the main 'pleb' car-park which costs £4, is serviced by a monorail to get you to the way-in and probably funded by UNICEF.
Once you've either demonstrated to your children that you're one of life's 'Express Parking' winners or kidded them that the monorail is technically a ride it's time for you to decide what kind of ticket you want. It used to be that there was three types of ticket- adult, child and family (which generally was a bit of a saving for 2 kids and 2 adults and always guaranteed to make skinflints openly regret having their third child). Now you can buy a normal ticket or shell out even more money for an 'Express Ticket' which allows you to skip about 80% of the length of the queues!
Really! They get pushed in right in front of the people whose life didn't quite work out the way they wanted and had to spend most of their day in the line for Nemesis listening to one of those school trips from Glasgow share happy slap videos. The message is clear: "Hey kids! Daddies who achieve care more about their kids! And their kids have a better, fuller day at Alton Towers! Your daddy didn't care enough about you to take advantage of the guy in his section who had to take 2 months off to give his brother a kidney and take his job! That kid's dad would! And he's on the ride now! And it's starting to rain!"
Add to this the fact that the kids of wealthy parents can get a personalised DVD commemorating their day and even stay overnight in the nearby hotel's 'Chocolate Room' and it's easy to see how the next generation of aspirational money grabbing cluster-fucks are being created before our very eyes. They'll resent their parents' failures, send house prices soaring further and happily sell their best friends to get a status-boosting rubber plant in their corner cubicle.
In short, the world's going to get a whole lot worse. And being the kind of writer I am, there's only one thing I can say about that.
Good.