Sam Avery: Glastonbury

Sam Avery, comedian and former guest editor of 4Laughs, is a wannabe rock star and budding gourmet. As the clouds gather over Glastonbury Sam looks back fondly on festival fare…

With Glastonbury upon us I’ve been talking it up something rotten to anyone who’ll listen. Most of my friends nowadays aren’t the kind of music festival loving freaks that they used to be, so the conversation will usually turn to one of two parts of the whole Glasto experience:

a) The toilets and
b) The food.

Part A is really not a suitable topic for this site, or indeed any website (or any conversation) but Part B is one of the great parts of Glastonbury for me.

Whereas most festivals years ago were content to wheel a few battered old burger vans in for the weekend, with the more cosmopolitan amongst us queuing for hours at the oh-so- extravagant noodle truck, these days they’re much better equipped for the gourmet festival goer.

Glastonbury is better than most, with tastes from around the world on offer and all to a pretty high standard. I was pleasantly surprised at the wooden (and biodegradable, Earth-fans) cutlery which makes eating any meal a whole lot easier that using your fingers, caveman-style.

But that’s not to say there isn’t an incident or two along the way. One of my most desperate moments as an adult was in 2005 when an overnight deluge of rain had transformed the whole site into a mud bath not seen since The Battle of The Somme. As we trudged past the floating Portaloos, and the girl paddling away in a canoe (what kind of determined pessimist brings a canoe to a festival?!?), the skies opened again so we took shelter in the nearest bar. Half the punters in the South West also had the same idea so it was a little cramped to say the least as I ordered my breakfast baguette.

As the roof leaked rainwater down the back of my neck I found my usual chirpy demeanour being compromised by the foolhardy decision from the staff to include not only sausage and bacon in my open bread roll, but also a runny egg, sloppy mushrooms, and baked beans. Baked beans! In a sandwich!

I was hungry, wet, and half-cut from the night before so my anger subsided as I tried to eat this puzzling creation, moving the pieces around like some savoury Rubik’s Cube. First my friends, and then the wider public began to take an unnatural interest in my plight, as schadenfreude kicked in and everyone found a victim worse off than themselves.

As the wet sausage plopped out of the baguette and into my crotch, log-flume style, I wished I’d brought my own butties.

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