Glastonbury- By Wheelchair

Same Difference

I first went to Glastonbury in 1983, when I was 19, and continued going for five years, like a rite of passage. It felt like a rebel enclave, an escape to a utopia prepared to stick two fingers up to the Tory tyranny which was sweeping the country. It felt highly political – all proceeds went to CND – a kind of gathering of tribes and people who had an alternative swing on life who, when they were there, could forget their troubles and express themselves freely. Some people walked around naked, others sold Killing Joke badges pinned to their underpants, many indulged in the array of drugs available along its paths – a real-time Silk Road, long before the online version.

When I look back now, much of what I remember has morphed into one big bubble. UB40 on the Pyramid stage in my first year blew me away…

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