I am always on the periphery

of whatever is happening. Just sat

watching Glastonbury on the TV

wishing I could be a part of that.

Then I consider the disgusting khazis,

shudder at the price of food and booze,

some young woman who has overpartied

would throw up over my jeans and shoes.

And some time after The Wet Leg gig,

I’d forget where my tent is located

and ask directions from a friendly steward.

But I won’t know The Other from The Pyramid,

my anxiety increasing by stages

until Sunday teatime and Rod fucking Stewart.