'Glastonbury Peeeeeopllllle-a!'

Yeah Baby...This is a bit more like it; Sun. Loads of. Glastonbury 2002 is large right now, so are we, so's the big yellow hoopajoop in the sky. So much so that I can feel it eating into my arms and neck. Not that I'm grumbling, given this or the downpours of 97/98 I think I'll choose sunburn every time. Don't forget your factor 6000 ladies and gents, this one's a scorcher. So it's Thursday and once again we're holed up in the portacabin in the backstage area, the preliminaries are nearly out of the way - the site's technical team have achieved some outstanding results over the last few days to provide the infrastructure we're working on and we're all beginning to calm down a bit now and start getting our creative heads on. A far cry from the hassles I had on Monday night trying to get on site to deliver some equipment, the security were just not having any of it whatsoever, and that was on a Monday. They've certainly got their shit together, I can tell you. But that's over and done with and out of the way. Now we're located just down from the catering tent (dead sophis...) where we can sit and play Playstations on big screens in comfy seats and then run next door to the Press Office and fleece them for Orange sponsored freebies, which is something of a touch... The line up this year is looking fantastic with the addition of some new entertainment areas (Experience; the new dance tent, Left Field; the alternative arena for debate and discussion amongst other things) and the site is filling up in record time. Last night on my travels and certainly throughout today I've been noticing all sorts of freaks coming out of the woodwork. Top of my 'JeeeesusYou'reHavingALaaaugh' list were the two guys last night in the long trough-style urinals in the Pennard Hill camping ground. Having fashioned a miniature boat from a beer cup they were using it as a mobile ashtray, one of them was sending it down from one end of the stainless steel valley to his friend waiting at the other end on a steady stream of urine. Absolute class. There's more but I think I'll pace myself here. In 2000 the editors came close to stringing me up for my 1000+ word pieces. If I try the same thing this year it could well be me being sent down the urinals on my very own river of piss. Hey, what an article that'd make, somebody grab a camera... Words: Stalker