
Sure enough, on your first day at Glasto – after three tablets of that Trepano-drone legal high has peeled back the top of your scalp and cracked open your cranium so the sunshine and seagulls can interface directly with your brain – you may feel like you could spend the rest of your life there. Later, after knocking back a five litre plastic jerry can of Agent Orange Scrumpy cider brewed on an industrial estate in Portsmouth and smoking half a joint of grass dipped in embalming fluid and Monster energy drink, it may even seem like a sensible proposition.But what if life was always like Glastonbury? How would you feel after a month? How would you feel after a year? Would the enlightenment be: “Oh my word – this experience is really very terrible.” Would the awakening be: “Gosh, this is like being trapped in the film Threads while wearing a foam hat that looks like a pint of Guinness. Lord, please smite me dead with a thunderbolt.” Would the Damascene epiphany be: “Actually, I’ve just realised that festivals are the abyssal low watermark of all of Western civilisation to date.” And would the people doing the strangest things in public include you weeping while beating a clown to death with juggling clubs in order to use his stilts to try and escape over the fence back to civilisation?Or would it be simply fabulous?Using only the most scientific of means of deduction, let us peruse which outcome is more likely.
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