Here’s Mud In Your Eye For Petronella’s Glastonbury Or Glyndebourne
THE Mail is at Glastonbury and the verdict is “GLYNDEBOURNE IT AIN’T.” (Pic: The Spine)
Indeed it is not. For open thing, there is less popping of champagne corks than the popping of pills and recreational medications. The only braying comes from the livestock in the encouraging field and not the well-heeled comparing riotous tales of red socks and slumming it in Selfridge’s.
For another thing there are black people present in a non-waiting, cleaning capacity. Indeed such is the caking effect of so much mud that all Glasto music fans look swarthy of complexion.
Everyone apart from the Mail’s Petronella Wyatt, a woman who famously penned her own Wikipedia entry. As she wrote: “Taking every precaution. I kept the facts on my entry to a minimum, confining myself to my academic career and the post I held on various newspapers and magazines.” The entry was vandalised and readers hears how she often rode to hounds “bare-breasted”.
All we need to know about Petronella is that she is called Petronella. And now Petronella is in Glastonbury. She’s wearing a pink suit and wellies as if about to seduce the stable lad.
Petronella calls Glastonbury a “waking nightmare”. The man on the gate asks her if she is wearing her outfit for a joke. He’s on to her. Of course, she is.
She wants a taxi to the nearest camping ground. “Are you already on something?” asks the official. She is. She’s on a Daily Mail expense account.
Petronella is hungry. But she hears the stalls are not uniformly sanitary. She decides to “wait until dinner”. Looking at Petronella’s legs, minds turn to the wimmin knitting suppositories at the Organic Medication tent. Petronella looks like the kind of woman for whom missing meals is a perk of the trip.
She says she wants to find supper but it all comes with a “side order of mud”. She looks for food, and orders a continental breakfast to be delivered to her tent. A man reacts aggressively.
Does she eat? We are not told that she does. She discovers “there is no such thing as time here”. She may not have missed lunch, dinner and breakfast at all.
And unlike at Glyndebourne, no-one asked her why she hadn’t brought a picnic…
Posted: 25th, June 2007 | In: Tabloids Comments (8) | TrackBack | Permalink
