Glastonbury Festival - A Quiet Word About Lockups...

A Quiet Word About Lockups...

22 Jun 2003

Don't, whatever you do, forget to collect your belongings from the property lockups by 12 noon on Monday. I'm telling you this because I like you and I assume you’ll not be wanting to go through what I had to endure on the last day of the festival back in 2000. 'Hellish' is not a word that does it justice. 'Sucks', too is a little wide of the mark. In fact shit, you’re probably better at this than I am, pick your favourite moody word and insert it here.

This is how it goes: I wake at 9am and head for the office with the intention of declaring that I’ve had enough, want to leave NOW and will email my copy from the comfort of my office at home. When I get to the backstage portacabins, however, and spy an empty computer I sit down and before I know it I’ve rattled off my final day. Job done.

Hot footing it out at 2.30pm, my wife and our friends having packed everything away, we stop off at the 24 hour lock up to collect our rucksacks and - this is so funny - find that the place is completely bare. Bugger all in there at all and no-one around either. Examining our ticket stub we read in bold print 'ALL ITEMS MUST BE COLLECTED BY 12 NOON MONDAY'. Oh how I laugh. Everybody else hits me over the head with blunt objects.

Liasing with John in the backstage compound we discuss (over the most surreal game of frisbee) the best way for me to go about getting my kit back and getting home. Turns out the left luggage gets treated as lost property and taken up to Wagonshed Welfare (at around four-ish). Mmm, right.

Welfare is the errr, wagonshed I suppose, on the side of Michael Eavis' farmhouse where people come for help of all kinds; reassurance if they're having a hard time coping with the festival, personal welfare issues and where lost children are looked after for the night. A true reflection of the festival's genuine care for it's visitors. It's also the lost property which is why I'm here. It's a hike, too. The festival site is in a kind of valley with the Stone Circle being high on the south side, the farmhouse being high on the north and everywhere between the Old Railway Tracks and the Pyramid Stage being kind of level. So uphill we go.

I take up residence under Michael Eavis' tree opposite his front door, hiding from the sun and watching Glastonbury Tor in the distance, watching my minute hand at regular intervals until 4 o clock...
When 4 o clock comes and nothing happens I do a strange little dance between the site office and Welfare, not wanting to piss anyone off but getting generally more assertive that I really have to leave, like, now. Which results in the gem that I'm now looking at 6 o clock.

Meantime my wife is on the phone giving me a quick run down on the scene; she’s with our friends waiting for me in Pennard Hill camping ground and they’re busy keeping the scavengers away from our kit with flaming torches. I advise punji stake pits and a moat. It's good that they're not bored.

At 6 o clock a rental van arrives and parks, a few of us seek the shade it offers. One of the welfare workers comes out to inform us that they're really sorry but there's nothing that can be done today. All the lost property will now be dumped in the wagonshed, sorted out on Tuesday and ready for collection on Wednesday.
'Butbutbutbutbutbutbutbtbtb' I jibber, 'car Keys..Wife..Divorce..Web team!'. Nothing but blank looks. When I start making pathetic whimpering noises they shake their heads and look pityingly at me. One makes a sly comment in the other's ear and they both laugh. Seeing as I've been working they'll make an exception in my case. And I turn into a big, daft, excitable dog again. Once I get going you have to pry me off with a pitchfork.
How will we know when the luggage turns up? I ask. 'Don't worry', I'm assured, 'You can't miss it.'

It is shortly after this point that the driver of the rental van I am cowering in the shade of casually informs me that it actually contains the lost property that I’m seeking but she’s not allowed to open it in case everyone makes a mad dash for the contents. I decide against going back to Welfare at this point in time, I’m sure they’re aware the van’s here and I need to stay on their good side. Pure torture, this. At 7 o clock, having gone through several different emotions and now resting in a state of blunted acceptance. I go back to Wagonshed and meekly enquire when I can get into this van, get my stuff and get out of here.

‘You mean the van’s outside???’
‘Erm yes, it has been for the last hour?!!!!’
‘Well why didn't you tell us?'

Red faced, I gently remind them that this is the vehicle that is supposed to be so glaringly obvious that it would be all but accompanied by the Glastonbury Town Band. ‘You can't miss it???’

Rucksacks back on shoulder and I'm off at mad scramble downhill through the Pyramid arena, sliding on discarded programs and baked beans, and tripping on hidden tent pegs. Gah!!
When I arrive back at camp I'm greeted by a sub-polar reception from my chums, especially Bailie who states the bleeding obvious in the cheerfully frank way that six year olds do: 'Tchah…we've been waiting AGES for you.' Aaahhh, bless her little heart. Look Bailie darling, I’ve got some tent pegs for you….

We're back to the car at 7.30 to join the queue and surprisingly spend only 2 hours in there trying to get out. At one point, overcome by hunger and visualising each other’s faces morphing into club-sandwiches, friend Justin and I abandon the car and walk back on site seeking food. I’m up for roasting Bailie on a barbeque with some buns and salad but Justin says hot dogs are on him. When we finally roll out of the car park at 9.30pm a cheer goes up in the car. I hear the splashy running water of my bath taps and feel the maternal warmth of a gert big fluffy towel. In spite of getting stuck behind several very slow vehicles we are soon wandering round our local 24 hour Tesco at 11pm drooling over the ‘finest’ section.

Just then an event occurs, which assuages my testy mood and compensates for the complete rear-ender of a half-day we’ve just had. My wife picks up a packet of mashed potato powder as part of our shopping which, we get home and open, turns out to contain a crisp £20 note folded in a little plastic bag from some promotion or other. Come on!
And with that, the year's experience draws to a tidy little close. Thank you Wagonshed Welfare, you did help me out in the end, I suppose. Mind you, if I wasn’t in the habit of being a gopping great woofus on a regular basis then maybe I could avoid these things.

So, in retrospect my analysis is that it's all a learning curve, and these things are sent to try us and to make us wiser, and no man is an island and blah-de-blah-de-blah, look just don’t do it again, OK? In fact let's review the handy pointers to be learned from this passage if you've been taking any interest at all:

Don't worry about it, country folk put up with that smell all year. They’ve got Slurry Pits and you haven’t
Pick up your rucksack before 12 on Monday. Always a winner
Don't shove your granny while she's shaving
For mash, get Smash

Stalker will never ever forget to pick up his rucksack on monday morning again...

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A Quiet Word About Lockups...

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