Glastonbury Up the Bum

I was put off of Glastonbury early on this year. I caught a bit of the BBC's live coverage on Friday night when I waiting for a repeat of The Avengers to begin. Unfortunately, Jimmy Cliff (who I was sure was dead), was over-running. Badly. As I was shouting "OK, you've had your five minutes of fame, now fuck off, I want to watch young Diana Rigg in her kinky boots", when I thought I recognised someone in the audience. My heart sank at the sight of this bald twat clutching a trumpet. "It can't be.." I thought as the camera panned away from the apparition. Just at that moment I heard some familiar notes blown from a trumpet - it was him. 'Him' is one of my neighbours. He's one of those people who likes to describe themselves as being 'big in the local music scene' . Around here that's like saying you are the biggest turd at the sewage farm. The reality is that it means he plays in pubs a lot, thereby ruining other peoples' nights out. He's also well-known for forcing his way onto stage at various gigs and concerts and attempting to play his trumpet. Twat.

Anyway, as I walked past his house the next morning I took satisfaction from the fact that he'd obviously forgotten to cancel his milk, and he had two pints of milk and a pint of orange juice curdling away in the sunshine on his doorstep. Happily, they were still there today. I must admit that when I saw on the news yesterday that Amy Winehouse had allegedly hit someone in the audience at Glastonbury, I prayed that it was my neighbour. "That'll teach him to go around thrusting his horn at young women", I thought. "Hopefully, she shoved it up his arse." Sadly, I found out today that it wasn't him after all. Bugger. It means the bastard will be back tomorrow, playing his bloody trumpet at all hours. People like him are precisely the reason I avoid music festivals - utter twats.