Sunday morning, 10am. Sitting laughing over the weekend’s events on the long way home. The wrong way, that almost took us via Cookstown. At least we aren’t walking, or seemingly queuing for the unopened chip van, like so many. The Goo Goo Dolls are on repeat. Four hours sleep is just sufficing and no more.
By Cahair O’Kane
cahair@derrypost.com
That’s festival life. Some come over-prepared, with a suitcase full of clothes, for all weather. What you need is a t-shirt and a jacket, with the jacket optional dependant on how hard the sun tries to shine. I doubt if there was anyone at Glasgowbury as underprepared as yours truly. Thanks be to God for Paddy Beerman’s blankie. At least when it was turned the right way, because there’s nothing worse than cold feet at 4am.
Of all the great people and all the great things that happened, a special mention must go to Laura, who brought Cheerios, milk, bowls, forks, knives and jam sandwiches. I politely declined the sandwich on account of having eaten half her Cheerios, but if I’m going back next year, it’ll be on the condition that she has to be there.
There are far, far too many memories to mention here. Ciaran O’Neill wouldn’t allow an 8,000 word report, and he hasn’t a supplement booked in. So we’ll just pick the best bits, and you can buy the commemorative DVD if you want the rest (not really).
Having stopped in Maghera cinema to see the Dark Knight along with the rest of the population of Gortnaghey (which, by the way, is brilliant), we ended up setting up our tents in the dark. Rather, Barry and Pete put them up as I directed operations (codeword for did nothing).
The tents were erected in the midst of what turned out to be the only shower of rain that the weekend saw. Grass was a luxury Oxegen ’07 didn’t afford us. There’s something conversely serene about lying about on the grass with a Magners with the sun beating off your Spiderman face (the painter was good looking, what do you expect me to do??) as local bands try to outdo each other in the ‘let’s make noisy’ competition.
The alcoholic options were Magners, Carling or wine, but when I decided to be the smartarse and ask for a pint of Magners as Gaeilge, it led to some confusion. ‘Pint amhain’ sounds like pint of wine when you say it out loud. Stupid languages. Though the barmaid was very understanding, despite my repeated (unsuccessful) attempts to get a free t-shirt. Her mate beside her had all the answers – he told me to apply for a job next year.
After hours of lying in the grass, me and Alan Healy (ahem) decided to make use of our special white armbands that got us in behind the stage, despite the rather strange attempts of the bouncers to keep us out.
Oppenheimer were on the stage when we got in. Five minutes later, so were we. Our friends in the crowd might have looked like they were waving madly at nothing, but there was a 5’9” silhouette lurking in the shadows behind the band.
That ‘let’s make noisy’ competition was probably won by ‘Fighting With Wire’, who were the second last band on stage. Maybe I was just too close but it sounded like they were just beating the bejaysus out of their guitars and miming inaudible words.
The ’let’s make singy and have people dancy’ competition was a one-horse race. Everyone was there to see Ash. Truth be told, I was sceptical of them beforehand. Partly because, as famous as they apparently were before Glasgowbury, I knew the sum total of three words of all their songs. Girl From Mars was all I knew.
That was unlike Eileen, who fought and battered her way to the front row to see Ash for what she told me was the 15th time. I looked at her at one stage towards the end and she was almost in tears.
The thronging mass was going mad towards the end. Photographers were almost jostling for position, except for official cameraman Matt, who let me use his no doubt expensive camera for a minute. It’s unlikely that my shots will make the final cut.
Then came the Girl from Mars, probably Ash’s best and most famous song. I say probably because I know nothing. I decided to venture up the ramp towards the stage, where I met the lovely Mrs Glasgow, who advised me not to fall off.
But no sooner than it seemed to have started, it was over. Despite a double encore from the headliners, Glasgowbury didn’t last nearly long enough. Cold toes forgotten and slept off, we left the memories and the tent behind us in a big field outside Draperstown. Thousands of others did likewise.
Hopefully there’ll be new memories at a bigger and (even) better Glasgowbury next year.
