JUSTIN DUNN’S ROOM 101 WHAT’S ANNOYING HIM THIS WEEK? Glastonbury: A 3-day advert for Labour
LIKE most people, I spent the weekend with the remote control in hand trying to find anything to watch that WASN’T the Glastonbury festival.
The BBC had its usual wall-towall coverage of the pretend hippy outing lasting a mere three days and costing many millions of our licence fee pounds. This is all entirely deliberate. The Beeb is obsessed with the goings-on at Worthy Farm because it’s firmly lodged right up its own fundament.
Left-wing, right-on, queer as folk, f**k the Tories, f**k Boris – and all before the watershed designed to protect little ears.
Because it’s okay for kiddies to hear “f**k the Tories” being bellowed from a stage by a bird with pins in her face to tens of thousands in front of her and a few hundred thousand watching at home.
For three days, it was a non-stop barrage of spouty, whiny, uber-leftie, up-the-workers diatribe delivered over and over again by all the usual suspects.
Harrowing Sometimes, just to break up the seemingly endless Marxist lectures and protests about a vote in the United States that has literally nothing whatsoever to do with us, there was the odd tune, too.
And when I say “odd”, I really mean odd.
Like Sir Paul “Fab Macca Thumbs Aloft” McCartney strangling the hell out of some of his back catalogue, according to some critics.
But Glastonbury isn’t a music festival any more. It’s not even a love-fest. It’s a three-day political statement and, like all party political broadcasts, it should bloody well say so.
That it’s designed for £24,000 yurtdwelling trust-fund millionaires from the shires, with tickets starting at £260 for entry, that’s fair enough in itself – whatever floats your boat.
If you want to swig champagne with other pretend socialists while gazing loftily down at the little people from the harrowing north wallowing in mud, that’s up to you.
But it’s not fair enough when the
Beeb pounces on it as an example of how the British people think, just because that’s how Beeb people think themselves.
God only knows how many people the corporation sent to the festival but it can’t have been a bad gig for them, could it?
Not for them staying in rain-soaked tents in a sodden field.
No, they’d have been higher up the food chain nearer the showers and the hot water and within spitting distance of the organic falafel stall and black lesbian stilt performers.
There were quite literally hundreds, if not thousands, of BBC bods – it was, after all, a massive outside broadcast on its radio, TV and website outlets – in attendance.
And ALL of them being paid to be there by us, the mugs at home.
Alas, my grumpiness meant I missed out on Macca, but it also meant missing the Ukraine president’s plea for unity to the roaring crowds, who are so brave they wore Ukrainian colours on their faces.
But at least his message held an element of importance.
I also missed odd little Greta Thunberg, who still looks like someone in desperate need of a normal teenage life.
And still keeps saying the same thing, even though we were all meant to die in a fireball last year and the year before that, weren’t we?
Next year they might as well call it “the Labour party conference” and have done with it.