When did Glastonbury turn into Ascot? When did an off-centre gathering of travellers and music-lovers become part of the Season, complete with correct attire: cute frock, Hunter wellies, Ray-Bans for the fashion fascists; coloured braids, 'funny' hats, sunburn for the arrivistes? Even last year, when the weather was horrendous, the backstage area was packed with posh: mobile phone execs, telly bigwigs, Kate Moss, Harry Enfield. Vogue magazine, too, taking snaps for its diary column.
I didn't go this year. First, because at 41, and after 20 solid years of Glastonbury-going, I had got to the point where I wasn't bothered about being there. This, for someone who hates to miss a party, must be some kind of breakthrough to adulthood. Mind you, my grown-up party-poopery was much aided by the line-up. Jay-Z wasn't the problem, it was the Kings of Dull, sorry, Leon and (run, children!) the Verve. Hardly the headliners to make you sprint to your savings account to liberate the better part of £600.
Still, as someone who spends most of their time at Glastonbury not watching bands, the headliners shouldn't have made that much difference. My real problem was that, finally, it had become too much hassle. Even if you managed to get a ticket, even if the rain held off, you still had to drive to Somerset, join the queue to display your sodding passport, lug your tent and wellies and bikini and bog-roll into whichever small spot your mates had saved you. And put your tent up. Finally, when you'd done all that, plus located your vodka/chosen weekend chemical, you turned round and the whole world was there. And remained there for the whole weekend. Arrrrgh!
Years back, before going out late became a networking opportunity, a lot of Glastonbury-goers were in bed by two in the morning. There weren't any dance tents: the only post-midnight music came from Joe Banana's blanket stall and whatever tinpot music leaked from speakers powered by a hippie on a bicycle. If you stayed up, you did it for the laugh, rather than the rave. This led to camaraderie, a shared loopy humour, genuine joy at bumping into friends at 5am. Now, late into the night, the train-track cut-through to Shangri-La (formally Lost Vagueness) is more rammed than Oxford Street at midday. The Stone Circle at dawn is like the Groucho on a Thursday. There are just too many people.
Despite my bitching, I am very glad that Glastonbury still exists. If and when it goes, it will be as mythologised as the Haçienda and Sid Vicious combined. If you went, I bet it was amazing; and if I'd gone, I'd have had a great time too. But ...
To go back to my original point: when did Glastonbury go mainstream? I blame the telly. Before the BBC and, previously, Channel 4, got in on the act, Glastonbury was underground. Mucky, rough, quite uncool. People would say, 'I don't do tents' or 'Never trust a hippie' or even 'What's Glastonbury?' But a decade of Jo Whiley, of short inserts of A N Other Comedian being wacky in the healing fields, and Glastonbury has become as toothless, as normal as The X Factor. It's all entertainment, innit?
I have an idea about alternative culture: if there's something interesting going on, leave it alone. Don't whack it on YouTube, don't blog about it, don't hire a PR and get a piece in the Guardian Guide. And never invite a marketing executive to enjoy the 'experience'. Just go there, have fun, go home, shut up. Mass communication is all very well, but stumbling across culture is important too. Special is good.
