Everyone Wants To Go To Heaven, But No One Wants To Die.
Incorrect password.
Your account is blocked.
Please contact a member of IT support for more information.
Wednesday 26th of June 2024, 5.30am. The Boo Radleys break out in chorus as my alarm intensifies to the point of intolerability. My morning call to prayer, the daily serenade of the 1995 Number 9 hit song ‘Wake Up Boo’ echoes from an extortionate drafty rental in South West London. At the foot of my (slightly too small to the point that I need to lie diagonally) bed, my half-heartedly ironed blue shirt, overpriced & underwhelming ¼ zip and overzealously company branded lanyard lay idle. ‘Quarter Two’ was coming to a close and each and every fanciful and imaginary target/deadline that lined the pockets of my high ranking sociopathic, narcissistic and egotistical corporate ‘leaders’ had been hit - and indeed, surpassed. The toes off capitalism had been sucked clean and in return my overlords had approved five days of reprieve, respite & retreat – and so it began.
Somerset the location, Glastonbury the destination, Liberation the motivation.
As the train pulled out of Paddington, the pilgrimage to Worthy Farm commenced. With a lack lustre almond croissant from Pret a Manger in one hand, a dirty chai latte in the other and my trusty 30 litre Patagonia rucksack (the very same one that accompanied me when I volunteered i.e. fundraised myself a free holiday in Africa in 2016) stowed above my head, an eery and unnerving calm came over me as the reality of the mind-bending expedition ahead set in.
Nearing the grounds of Glastonbury the scene could only be described and characterised as ‘The Labour Vote’ or in other words; thousands of white middle-class flies on a field of white middle-class shit. An overwhelming, slightly nauseating yet oh so familiar stench of ‘affluenza’ tickled my nasal canals. A psychotropic aroma that would almost make you reach into your bio-organic tote bag for your iPhone 16 Pro to post a story akin to ‘Glasto Get Ready #FuckTheTories’. After queuing for what felt like as long as a slice of Bambino’s Hot Pep Pizza on a Saturday afternoon we were finally through the gates to the land of unadulterated indulgence, foolishness, odyssey, magic and more. With my tent pitched (thanks to my Microsoft Excel steeled tipped fingers) all was set to let five days of unhygienic liberal lunacy loveliness unravel.
Each day was a strict diet of perspiration, dehydration and rhythmic consumption. The reverberations of sound became one with my inner core as I was metamorphosing into a semibreve (a whole note for those not classically trained). Scanning around the sea of people I was transfixed by the groovy coloration, luminosity and fluid patterns that would cause an epileptic episode to the un-lubricated mind. As a collective we were delicately riding the serotonin induced wave of joyfulness and splendor. Each day was started with a baby wipe of each loin. Reassuring cans of warm lager followed accompanied with heroic doses of Jeremy Corbyn propaganda and nostalgic early 2000’s pop. The problem solvers and factory re-setters provided exhilarating euphoric bursts during the 200bpm nights and bled into warm, creamy dreaminess once I manged to retreat in to my moisture laden albeit cosy tent. Mind wired, body tired. The hours melted into days, strangers into friends, reality into fantasy and finally intentions into penance - the end came and so did the death march to the train station.
I spent the train ride home and the next 48 hours virtually bereft of life in a self-induced sensorial deprivation pool of my own sweat and self-reflection hoping that death makes more sense than life. Amidst the life-threatening anxiety, monstrously vivid hallucinations, mind numbing depression and far too frequent short circuits of my frontal cortex I began to philosophise:
It became clear that the last five days was in essence an escape mechanism to push back against everything that is imposed upon us in corporate society. We are churning in a capitalistic froth, week after week, year after year, pre-destined to a predefined cycle with only brief respites. These brief pauses where we lift our heads above the parapet and momentarily free ourselves spiritually and emotionally, allowing ourselves to question the ‘why’ in what we do. But is the system and corporate structure pushing us down or do we want/need to be suppressed into a monotonous routine? For these magical, ecstatic and euphoric weekends of utter and absolute release wouldn’t touch the sides if the majority attending them weren’t subjugated to a constant tyranny of mundanity before and after.
So, is it the chicken supreme or the egg mc muffin? Who needs who?
You know what I mean, dopamine.
Wednesday, July 3rd at 8.00am. I’m seated at my desk.
Incorrect password.
Please try again.
You have one more attempt before your access is blocked.