It all happened without me

I didn’t spend a day going to see all the bands with swear-words in their names (Holy ****! ****disco! **** Me USA!)

I didn’t enjoy the sun, wryly musing how much it had rained last year.

Jo bloody Whiley was there. Poxy Pixie Geldof was there. Jade Jagger was there. David arsing Cameron probably was too.

There were hot-tubs in Winnebagos. Celebrities looking for photographers.

But I wasn’t there. No, the festival fund got eaten up by getting married, and I had to spend my allotted hours in Canary Wharf at my workstation. On the grey carpet. With the yellow phones. And the strip-lighting.

I ate pasta snacks from Tesco. And Coke Zero from the machine, when I wanted a Diet Coke.

And sometimes the Piccadilly Line wasn’t non-stopping at my station. All of which is just about as fun as five days’ hedonism in Somerset, only in a different way. And besides, a lot of my friends have got very boring very quickly.

Some of them were even in the idiotic anti-Jay Z camp, which was so righteously proved wrong when I wasn’t there.

So I went about my life. I thought about buying a shed. And I watched it on the telly.

It made for interesting viewing. As a lot people have pointed out how, the crowd is overwhelmingly white – which isn’t something you really notice if you’re drinking heavily and sleeping very lightly.

They’ve got a point. Across a score of stages you see a celebration of the multiest of cultures, while down on the grass you get a lot of awkward dancing from a lot of middle class people, like the absent me.

And that’s probably a meaningful observation in one way or another, but I’m finding it hard to care.

I just miss the music. All the bands I didn’t know I’d like that I didn’t happen upon while I wasn't having one of the best weekends of the year.

So, sat in the discomfort of my own home, I decided that if I have to go on my own, and I have to sell my shed to get a ticket, next year I'll go.