Glastonbury as a worker. People do it all the time, bit of stewarding, security, et cetera. So what about a food stall? Selling fish to the masses? And allowing myself to become a dirty, greasy, smelly (more than your average Glasto hobo) ball of chip fat. Me? With my reputation? But wait, I have no reputation! Bring it on…

But quelle surprise, it’s greasier, dirtier, smellier and longer than I thought. And I have no wellies. Fuck wellies. Wellies are undignified, I decide. They make one look clumsy, ungraceful, never succumb. Two Glastonbury’s on and I stick by this, despite the sores. Anyway…

Day One. Wednesday. Is the only fish day of note. The rest: a blur; but today, I learnt some stuff. Like, what I was selling. As follows: grilled tuna steak with chips, tiger prawn skewers with chips, smoked poached salmon with potato salad, calamari and chips, smoked salmon bagels. If you bought any one of these from a tired, grumpy man with small amounts of stubble, a blue hat, and a boiling hot oil-soaked body, it was probably me.

“Aioli sir…?”

We worked in shifts, us fish sellers, so we got four hours on the fish van, four hours off. This meant no choosing of bands, which was fine. Exploit the window of opportunity, use my time wisely, no resting on my laurels, go hard…

“D’you want tartare sauce with that…?”

Friday. Bright Eyes are on the Other Stage, all decked out in white, every member emulating Conor Oberst’s Jesus complex, but they do look kinda groovy, and even though he’s being particularly whiney, his genuine great Americana anthems sound grand in the melee. Even grander, in their own way, were !!! on Dance Stage East with their sex laced, bass heavy dance-funk-punk-rock-disco-schtick. So spiced up was Nic Offer’s particular brand of sublime showmanship that they rendered The New Pornographers on the John Peel Stage all flat and boring. I reckon some bands who take the trip to the fest don’t quite know what do with the conditions they’v plunged themselves into: the mud, the rain, the cold, the cider, the people. Confused, subdued, bemused. Feelings resurrected when watching The Coral, who’ve gone from being a genuine ‘hot prospect’ five (ish) years ago, to a proper ‘festival’ band (Feeder, Ash et al). They pull this most common trick of mediocrity off quite deftly; they have the hits, the good-time feel and the necessary wackiness to pack an afternoon-y punch. You know what you’re gonna get, and if it’s good, the people are happy. In contrast, no-one, anywhere, could possibly have been prepared for Bjork’s headlining of The Other Stage. I missed the Arcade Fire (fish), and they sounded fine from a distance; but the Icelandic goddess of quirk was a genuine revelation. The lasers, the backing dancers, the way the show started as something quiet, sensuous, eerie and ethereal and ended as a bombastic onslaught of electronic beats and maddened shrieks will surely be noted in Glastonbury folklore.

“Slice o’ lemon madame…?”

Saturday. My fun suffered. The fish took its toll. The hours, long. The mud, heavy. My feet, fucked. Pick carefully… Go and be surprised by the actually-quite-good, filthy tongued (“If you’re gonna fuck someone at a festival they might as well have a big dick”) and controversial (“Fuck America!”) Lily Allen who ushered two members of The Specials onto The Pyramid Stage to play together after years of animosity for a ska-backed romp in the mid-afternoon haze. Lovefoxx, of fronting CSS semi-fame, doesn’t give one solitary shit what time of day she’s on, as long as the multi-coloured, lycra body-suit gets a run out. And she rocks, with all her little heart. From the safety of my clearing area I catch noisy snippets of The Long Blondes sounding massive and Iggy And The Stooges sounding every bit as good as they were. Later, I catch Brakes up on the Leftfield stage for a wee ‘after hours’ acoustic set awash with: “Porcupine or pineapple… Spiky spiky!!” And five second long punk fun. Notable miss of the day: Scotch Egg Band. Next time, signor egg.

“Ketchup and napkins down there sir (pointing, grimacing)…”

Sunday. Work is over, forty-five hours, done. Jazz World stage. Beirut. Zach Condon, a rare talent. The band, equally so: the accordions, the violins, the beauty, the joy, the freedom, the honesty. Then, somewhat annoyingly: Pendulum. Probably the most mainstream a drum ‘n’ bass act has ever been, they had Dance Stage East over-spilling with un-imaginative types who went to see The Chemical Brothers and left the rare pleasure of a half empty tent for Carl Cox. The guy is an animal. I may or may not have enjoyed him more than is healthy.

This then, was Glastonbury. Not your average festival experience, but one with a tad more anecdotal value. What I’ve learnt: fish stinks, calamari is disgusting, Peaches Geldof bought it anyway, tuna is delicious, herbal highs actually work, Killers fans are literally morons, Amelia was there, I didn’t see her, I thought she might buy fish, I don’t think she did.