It is a truism that it always rains at the Glastonbury Music Festival.
That’s late June in England for you, though – a period that is sometimes susceptible to what is now known as “the European monsoon” but used more romantically to be termed “the Return of the Westerlies”.
Here are some people enjoying the deluge in 2007:
In 2005 an entire field of tents simply floated away, never to return. Somehow they got caught up in the Benguela Current and were last spotted drifting past Namibia. A stoner on an airbed washed ashore on the Skeleton Coast, where he’s still optimistically waiting for Mercury Rev’s set with a broken lighter.
You’d think that maybe they’d change the dates, right? But then what would eager journalists do for their gleeful and all-too-predictable drowning-in-mud stories every midsummer?
With a sense of resigned inevitability, festival-goers this year arrived at the village of Pilton — after a week of sunshine, mark you — just in time to watch cumulonimbus clouds climb and cavort and then dump their contents over the campsites on the very first night. Three quarters of an inch fell in 12 hours, and storms flared and rumbled like the son et lumière at a bad Zeus and the Cyclopes tribute gig. Breakfast was moist soil and drowned earthworms, washed down with pondwater.
It’s tempting to imagine that these yearly downpours are merely a consequence of the sudden covergence of 200,000 hot and sweaty bodies creating a very highly localized micro-climate in the atmosphere immediately above their heads. Moreover, the molecules of smoke from their, er, “cigarettes” would serve to exponentially increase the number of condensation nuclei around which raindrops form.
But the weather perked up through the weekend, despite no evidence of any decrease in this miasma, and of course it does not rain every year. Glastonbury 2003 is a case in point, when the sun shone each day.
Here’s somebody actually enjoying some Glastonbury sunshine, allegedly this year, while cheerfully oblivious to the ruckus provoked by the attack of that skinny Ent in the background:
Ignoring the Tolkienesque beast as thoroughly as she is, let’s take a closer look at that ‘wristwatch’ she’s sporting, shall we?
It’s sleek and shiny — but a bit chunky looking, wouldn’t you say, for a watch? Even in 1981 digital watches were more compact than that. I suspect more complex and, shall we say, ‘futuristic’ technology at work.
Let’s zoom in further:
It’s becoming clearer isn’t it? I think you can see where we are going with this; it’s the sort of Black Technology that I’ve touched on before: Personal Time Travel Podules (PTTPs), I’ll bet they’ll be called.
Clearly, this is some rogue MI6 or CIA agent on a weekend off. Annoyed at the crappy weather on her only day at Glastonbury, she has created a time-travelling bubble with her PTTP that has transported her — and perhaps the whole festival — back to that halcyon weekend of 2003. And I bet those sunglasses are really X-Ray specs as well.
So, through the tax-payers’ purse, not only can she enjoy some lovely sunshine she might get a chance to see Fat Boy Slim again.
She seems a Fat Boy Slim kind of chick.