Comp. 3455 invited you to supply some local response (in prose or poetry) to the absence of Glastonbury Festival, which is normally this weekend but is having a fallow year. You explored the perspectives of yokels, cows, King Arthur, the faerie folk and Wiccans, as well as a man who’d rather listen to Mozart in his garden. No room to mention all the runners-up but shout-outs to Joseph Houlihan, Brian Murdoch, Sue Pickard, Andy Simpson, Alan Millard, Paul Freeman, and lastly Basil Ransome-Davies:
I shan’t be at my usual perch,
Filled with financial hope,
To sell my overpriced crap merch
And, entre nous, some dope.
The £25 vouchers go to those below.
We ancient ghosts of Camelot
Welcome to our mythic spot
The pilgrims from far-distant lands
Who come to marvel at big bands.
And in our spot of rural Heaven
Turn their amps up past eleven.
Both fetid punks and Gucci glampers,
Pass the spliffs and pop the champers!
Rock on! Until your eardrums burst!
Let Bobby Vylan do their worst.
Alive we feared no beast nor giant
Now in death we are defiant.
Full of Arthurian valour we
Can face this twenty-first century.
What’s that? No festival this year?
Well actually, that’s quite nice, dear.
George Simmers
Oi said, ‘Oo arrr,’ to Deckchair Boy,
Who said, ‘Oo arrr,’ to me.
‘So what d’ya think? This year,’ Oi said,
‘We’re Glastonbury-free!’
But was ’e pleased? Nooo, not at all,
And chuntered through some hay:
‘Just floggin’ off their cast-off boots
Brings ’arf moy yearly pay!
That’s not to mention Barbours, tents,
And sundry campin’ crud.
They leave it all and take their selfies,
Rollin’ in the mud!’
‘It’s true – they’re witless,’ Oi agreed,
‘But fear not, they’ll return:
For gormless causes everywhere,
They’ll want to show concern!’
Nicholas Lee
Times were hard in Glastonbridge. As if sensing the depression hanging over the town, the Tor stood, colossal, mysterious, brooding over it. There was to be no festival this year. The locals feared the worst. Economic ruin. The Mayor of Glastonbridge sold his wife. His children had already hanged themselves. The sheep had ended it all, drowning themselves in the river, followed by the sheepdog. The farmers had disappeared to Didderley-Squatchester. Even the local witches had flown the town. Only the fairies remained. So it was that Gwyn Ap Nudd and Morgana le Fay lay quietly inside the Tor, with only the gentle vibrations of the ley-line echoing in the Otherworld. ‘Peace at last,’ sighed Gwyn. ‘Gone, the madding crowds of pseudo-hippies, overpaid primadonnas and BBC cameras. It’s just me and you. And whenever you look up, there I shall be, and whenever I look up, there will be you.’
David Silverman
We graze, and swish our tails at irksome flies,
And daydream under tranquil summer skies.
You’d think ‘contented’ surely is the word
For Worthy Farm’s world-famous dairy herd.
No! Not a bit of it: the festival’s
The highlight of the year for Glasto gals.
No crowds knee-deep in cider-infused mud;
No drifting bass to help us chew the cud;
Instead we doze, and contemplate our hooves –
Life’s tedious without those upbeat grooves.
We’re big on funk and disco, house and grime;
Adore the Legend Slot at milking time;
Bring on shamanic drums and didgeridoos –
Not this year’s chomp of grass and indolent moos.
We love the sounds, the smells, the atmosphere:
They say it’s special weeds. Roll on next year!
Jasmine Jones
What is this life if full of care
we’re blasted by a techno blare?
But Worthy Farm has closed its gate
to see the land regenerate;
we’re spared the electronic rave
(King Arthur turning in his grave),
a pause in ‘public urination’
will give the river a vacation.
The livestock find the fallow yields
a paean of peace across the fields,
four hundred cattle can’t be wrong –
and now we hear the skylark’s song
as lapwings, curlews drift upon
the tranquil marsh of Avalon.
Don’t stand and stare – this glimpse of heaven
will end in twenty twenty-seven.
Sylvia Fairley
O Mary, drive the cattle out,
The tents are down, the five-day spree
Is off; a gap-year break has stilled
The circus that is Glastonbury,
No tents, no lineups, no long drops,
No wallets lost in effluence,
No contraceptives, earplugs, mud,
No Pyramid, no banned incense,
The pastures breathe no laughing gas,
Enjoy the silence of the Stones,
No punters litter crowded fields,
No cider, wristbands, light-show drones,
Let Worthy Farm’s hiatus come,
It’s fallow time, so don’t whine, Mary,
You miss the fireworks, flags, the vibe,
But that’s on hold, so clean the dairy.
Janine Beacham
No twangling, no caterwaul,
For fallow lies the Festival
We cattle hallows best of all
The years as rolls around.
No Soft Machine nor clogged latrine
For junkie sorts to trek between,
Just scudding skies and fields green
And hark, a lowing sound!
Adrian Fry
No. 3458: Resignation
You’re invited to submit a letter in which a fictional character steps down from the role for which they’re known (150 words max). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 8 July.
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