posted
Back to the grindstone. Am constantly redailing (only to be told "Sorry, there is a fault") and have got as far as the order page on the mirror site. Keeps getting "timed out" though.
quote: Thank You for booking online with Aloud.com for your Glastonbury 2004 tickets
Thank you for your order
You have ordered: 2 ADULT 17+ 1 CAR PARK for Glastonbury 2004
Your reference number will be emailed to you along with confirmation of your order Please allow at least 2 hours for this to be delivered.
To receive additional Glastonbury approved information direct from Aloud.com, please sign up to the free Glastonbury Info Mail Service, click here to enter your details.
posted
Well there looks like there's potential for a GlastoMeat™ afterall. It's too good an oportunity to miss, we'll have to meet for a couple of cans of lager at least.
So far we have:
Me H1ppyChick Fish Ben Lucid Bailey? Gav?
Anymore for anymore?
Now, to put in that order for a high powered rifle for when Oasis are on stage...
[Edit] Just seen this on BBC news:
quote: He [Eavis] blamed the heavy demand on the fact that details of headline acts - including Oasis and Sir Paul McCartney - had been leaked.
Really? I'm not sure you can attribute 300,000 people trying to get tickets at once down to those two acts. It's not the bands causing the demand, it's because it's Glastonbury and you'll get the demand no matter who plays.
Am that D and I have tickets but that none of the other people we were going to go with have.
Check out this cocksucker. "Have decided that McCartney sucks." Yeah right, you piece of shit; like you spent then entire night up redialing and refreshing only to decide you didn't care for Fab Macca.
I think the weasley attempt to appear non-mercenary makes me even more angry than if it had just been a bare-faced tout.
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quote:Originally posted by ben: Check out this cocksucker. "Have decided that McCartney sucks." Yeah right, you piece of shit; like you spent then entire night up redialing and refreshing only to decide you didn't care for Fab Macca.
Who the hell would pay £650 (current bid) for a pair of Glastonbury tickets?
Made a couple of half-hearted attempts on the phone last night, but quickly realised that this was such a lottery that the chances were good that I wouldn't score any - like the sellers of these tickets (purportedly), there was a group of us planning to go. Only two of them got tickets, which they have already sold-on at face value. Watched the Eastenders repeat on BBC3 and thought no more about it. Oh well.
Great news all of those of you who did successfully navigate the Eavislabrinth. Enjoy!
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H1ppychick
We all prisoners, chickee-baby. We all locked in.
posted
I'm glad to see the bidders are exerting their own form of justice here.
My group is luckily still viable - of the six people who wanted to get tickets, four of us have definitely managed it (strange website behaviour notwithstanding), I'm not sure about the other two, haven't heard from them. But the four includes the three hardcore Glastos (if you can call hardcore the fact that we've actually been before), so I'll be shaking spiders out of my tent. That sounds rude.
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quote:Originally posted by H1ppychick: Tickets go on sale 8pm Thursday 1 April 2004. Cost is £112 plus booking fee and P&P.
I can't understand why anyone would want to pay £112 to go to a festival. Then you have got to pay for your food on top. What happened to free festivals? There used to be a few of them many years ago and not just one day events either like the forthcoming legalise cannabis event. I know the Stonehenge one got stopped, but what happened to the others?
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posted
I have been to enough festivals to last me a lifetime (i.e., 1). Never again.
Last August, there was Reading Festival. That was my adventure. It made me think things. Like: I am not a festival lover. I spent more time watching grey scenery rattle past train windows than I saw bands playing on stages. That was ok: the bands, on the whole, were distinctly missable. I was determined only to fight for Placebo; and fight I did, almost to the front, and through a two-rows-thick wall of arms I managed to see Molko fall over onstage half-through the very first riff of the very first song. It felt momentous. I pointed and laughed and mocked and then felt guilty. Bravely they played on. Soon I fell down in the churny mud and got my fingers trod on and the crowd swung over me like a wave and I had to climb up someone's legs to save my life. I concentrated so hard on not being crushed that I don't even know which songs were played. Moshing is overrated.
So are tents. Tent life is fragile and mucky, like a mucus bubble you blow. You feel as though at any moment the world might burst, or rip open, and you might fall out; or, worse, in. You make bandages of your surroundings: your body all knotted inside the sleeping-bag which you've pulled up over your eyes like gauze; and the canvas arc of the tent rippling and rustling and seeming to unravel around your head. Yes: very like bandaging. You imagine being mistaken for a knife wound, and your lips peel back a smile. Now your mouth could be a gash someone has torn in your face. You giggle. Then you hear the voices, deep and drunken, they are looping and looming louder and closer, you have to draw yourself in like string, tucking your head into your knees, away from the edges of the tent in case the drunk boys stamp on you as they pass. Now their hips are rustling on the walls and you're thinking if they slip in the mud and fall onto your tent it will rip and the boys and the noise and the whole wide world will fall clean in through the rent tent and you just will not know what to say. And then the boys are past and fading, and you are breathing again.
Sometimes, I left my tent. I ventured out. Even though my breath was all brewy from drinking, my jaw stubble-spiky. Even though my hair was thin with grease, and lank strips of fringe triangled my eyes. Even though my t-shirt smelled of smoked salmon and my jeans had a muddy bum. I went out.
Morning. In tent city ... Intensity! Ha. No one had told me it was going to be intense. I had expected to float through the weekend. It was going to be hazy and loose and sort of drifty. I had imagined lots of smoke. Or water: it would be like living under the sea. I had not thought it would be raucous and swarming and choked with gangs of people. I had not thought this through.
I put on my brave face, secured my bag to my hip, and I walked, forwards, trying to look like I was going somewhere. All the boys had bright colours in their hair, or wore face-jewellery or black t-shirts printed with names of nu-metal bands I hated. All the girls wore chunky studded belts in black or white. And everywhere I looked: couples. Couples couples couples. Holdsy-handsy, kissy-fondly, puppy-eyed, pink-cheeked goddamn couples. I felt the loneliness rising, the dangerous kind, insidious as a germ; and then the envy, like fish-hooks in my chest. I walked, single-file, along the metal walkway, weaving between the chaos of conversation and smiles and meshed hands, and I felt like a frayed thread coming undone. I looked up at the signs above the shopping stalls to see what was being sold. Hats. T-shirts. Studded belts. Pipes and bongs. I searched all over but I could not find the stall that sold boyfriends. It must have been in a secret place.
Nights were better than the afternoons. John made a campfire and I lay half-in, half-out of my tent, talking to him and his girlfriend and the people we'd camped beside. A girl called Sammy took a tantrum because the fire was too close to her tent, but then she seemed to change her mind and threw lighter fluid in the flames. She was full of shit and her own importance, but she had drugs, so I didn't mind. I smoked until my belly filled up with a big helium bubble and my limbs felt disconnected and weightless. I went to bed.
The web of firelight shifting on the canvas, the distant popping of fireworks, the English-shaped sounds of vowels and the occasional lager-flavoured laugh, and I realised that maybe I just wasn't a festival-minded kind of person, and maybe that was ok. Maybe I would find my group somewhere else; I just had to figure out where to look. Three little boxes appeared in my head, a question beside each. Spent time with John? Experienced festival culture? Witnessed Brian Molko falling on ass? And, still queasy from the smoking, I grinned against the sleeping bag and thought, Tick. Tick. Tick.
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I have never done the festival thang. Although I did used to camping, lots, and can relate to many of your points. But in a good way, weirdly. I went in big groups, innit, and we had campfires and running through woods and lying on our backs mashed out of our brains seeing giant penguins in the stars. Marshmallows on sticks. One time I filled my water bottle up with gin from my parents' drink cupboard instead of water. That was actually a bad idea. Spin the bottle. Endless cards. Waking up as the sun dappled the tent-canvas and blinksquinting in the glare of country sun. Gas lamps and torches and 'oh fuck you've killed my night vision!' Clambering into sleeping bags cold and shivering and wet and miserable. Getting down the wrong end and humping round the tent like loons. Fight! Glow-worms. Bats. Rolling down impossibly steep slopes. Someone went down in a tyre and almost broke their neck. Endless cigarettes.
I love camping, even though it can be the shittest thing in the world. Mmm, nostalgia. I wanna go again!
Sorry, festival diversion.
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posted
You make camping sound fun! How did you do that? I think the thing about camping is that it is only fun after the event. When reminiscing. But during? In the thick of it? I just want to wash the grease out of my hair. Posts: 1083
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posted
Hmm, hair washing in tubs or braving cold shower consisting of hose (if lucky). Modern campsites have proper wash facilities! But they are full of families and flower borders and aren't half so fun.
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Lucid
It's six o'clock somewhere, I'm having crisps !
posted
I had a dream about Glastonbury. I didn't enjoy it. I have just sold my tickets. To two mates at face value + £20 to charidee.
I spent my entire dream trying to get backstage, or meet up with people, find my tent, avoid trench foot, or attempting to 'enjoy' seeing 4 stick figures (or a large telly version thereof) from 300 paces and hear poor quality sound version of something I can listen to crisply at home whilst very tall young people mill about in litter, step on my toes and chatter in front of me. I'm not good in crowds. I like to sit down on a sofa once in a while. I don't mind sprawling on a blanket on the grass, weather permitting. Tents are for mountains or anywhere where the merits of being damp and either a)woken at dawn panting like a doginacaratasummerfete in searing heat or b) forced to endure 14 hours of tedium and darkness, are outweighed by scenery, ice climbing or astonishing sunrises.
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quote:Originally posted by Boy Racer: Dude I'm not going to Glastonbury this year, but you can get two of those three there.
also, they have sofas! last time i went they were giving away free flavoured smirnoff vodka, and we sat on a selection of sofa coming up on jefferies and talkingveryquickly for an hour before going to throw monkeyshapes at shut up and dance! at 4.30 in the afternoon. you are so going to regret that sale, stupidlucid.
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Lucid
It's six o'clock somewhere, I'm having crisps !
posted
possibly. but I guess I'll never know. Additionally, I am a renown rain god with an aversion to flapping canvas and mud bordering on the pathological, inculcated (hey, reader's digest expand your word power fans) by family holidays in Scotland. I have checked my Farmers Almanac and it's a bad month for peas and throwing shapes in the church of dance apparantly. Besides I am old and have frightful lumbago.
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H1ppychick
We all prisoners, chickee-baby. We all locked in.
posted
Just thought I'd refresh this thread to remind people that Glasto 2005 tickets are on sale from 9am on Sunday, and to basically grovel to Lucid (if he's still lurking) and anyone who found out about the mirror site last year to post the URL here if there's a similar set up this year?
Thank you very much.
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posted
through first time, and second, booked some ofr my mum and her bf. anyone desperate lemme know and ill drop you phone number to put cc details in
H1ppychick
We all prisoners, chickee-baby. We all locked in.
posted
Similar good luck story here - my friend Richard went down to his office to use their big fat bandwidth and got tickets for himself and my other friend Richard within 5 minutes. He then phoned me up and ordered for me and my other other friend Richard (just don't ask) whilst I was on the phone to him.
So looks like I'm going to Glasto with three Dicks!
Fingers crossed for those email confirmations....
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H1ppychick
We all prisoners, chickee-baby. We all locked in.
posted
Now I don't know what to do with myself - I'd girded my loins for a long drawn-out engagement with the enemy and it took all of 20 minutes!
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posted
Well it took me 50 minutes of F5 and redial, but suddenly got through on the net, entered details and SUCCESS! Then miraculously got through again to get Fish and Sky's tickets!
Hurrah, now I can spend the day just being happy!
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![[Frown]](frown.gif)
![[Cool]](cool.gif)
![[Smile]](smile.gif)
that D and I have tickets but ![[Mad]](mad.gif)
that none of the other people we were going to go with have.
![[Embarrassed]](redface.gif)
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
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