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61385533, 61385533, 61385533…. I had even been sure to memorise my poor old mum’s registration number in an attempt at a swift and speedy purchase of a ticket for this wannabe Glastonbury goer. Alas, after nearly two hours of repetitive-strain-injury-inducing redials and refreshes it was all over with a meagre tweet from Michael and Emily Eavis.
Prior to the one-hundred-and-forty-character statement that shattered my Mother’s fervid festival dreams for 2013, I had begun to wonder when it became so fucking difficult to have organised fun. As one finger pressed to refresh a very unfriendly looking browser and ‘User Busy’ winked back at me for literally the hundredth time from my mobile screen, the lure of wellies, mud and booming music started to wear thin. But the golden tickets I sought were not for me and with the tenacity of Veruca Salt’s father, I tarried further.
My Mum is a nearly-retired midwife who has spent the past 30 years delivering the youth of today, yesterday and the day before that. Undoubtedly, she would have delivered at least one of the people who got luckier than she did in today’s ticket draw. As a retirement present, her and a friend had decided to try (yet, again) to get Glastonbury tickets. Perhaps inspired by Beyonce’s fabulous bouncing breasts or even the all-seeing experience of the BBC’S ‘red button’, they were excited. So excited, in fact, that my Mum cut her annual holiday to Greece short, just to be in the running for a ticket.
It may read twee, but why should these great women be denied a few days next June where they can indulge in their inner hippie and tap their feet to music they have never heard of, just because they are not that technically savvy? Back in t’ day, and as a 13 year old, my Mum was once known to skive off school to join an avid queue of Rod Stewart fans to get tickets to his Leeds 1970 tour. Try explaining then, that today, tickets for such concerts require less enthusiastic excitement – despite standing in freezing rain – and more sitting at a computer for three hours clicking a button on the off chance the Google God will shine down on you.
Oh, and even if you do get through, the word ‘Proceed’ may change its previous progressive linguistic meaning and now results in an “Oops” error page… Maybe around festival sales season the world should create an honorary synonym in the Oxford Dictionary. Sassiness aside – and these may be the words of a bitter ticket-free woman – I would like to propose a solution to the Eavis’.
Why not employ desperate wannabe festival goers, like my mother, in some massive pop-up telesales building to face the multitude of calls on days like the 7th of October? Heck, it could even be in a field. And The XX could play. And the workers could wear wellies and drink cider to get them in the mood for cheaper incentive tickets while they face the battlefield of eager attendees.
Ladies and gentlemen, wouldn’t that just be so much ‘nicer’ than what happened today?
In the meantime, I’ll gear myself up for springtime re-sales and brace for my mother’s disappointment with the idea that ‘Bestival’ could be better, I guess.
By Jessica Lever