I Tried to Break into the VIP Section at Glastonbury

Getting into Glastonbury is a whole mission. Not only are you battling against hundreds of thousands of other incredibly hungry festival-goers, all with at least two or three laptops open every time they release tickets to the public, but they also have some of the strictest regulations when it comes to press passes, plus ones, hangers-on and every other type of “Come on mate, you remember me, from that after party? I played some really good tunes on YouTube?” vibe that you can normally swing at other festivals.

Luckily for me, VICE had a ticket at the very last moment, and they also know I’m the exact kind of person who would drop everything else in their life at the very last minute just for four sweet, pulverising days at the world’s largest, muddiest and greatest emotional rollercoaster on earth.

But… maybe simply going to Glastonbury is not enough. If I’ve already somehow done the hard part of getting into the festival, why not go one step further and try and sneak my way into the VIP section? I’m already here aren’t I, so I might as well. After all, the VIP section (which, apparently, is a bit of grass behind a fence with some Winnebagos and a toilet that flushes properly) is where the crème de la crème hang out. It’s where the rich kids go to mingle and where you’re most likely to encounter someone from a previous Love Island or an indie frontman who was absolutely huge in 2009.

What if I meet Dane Bowers? Or Wayne Lineker? There’s literally no telling what horrifying celebrity networking I could do back there, all waiting for me behind the tallest Heras fences and the henchest security guys you’ve ever seen. So, armed with nothing but a few outfit changes and a lukewarm beer, I embarked on my journey to enter the promised land of Glastonbury VIP.

After observing Dapper Laughs leave with his entourage, I felt confident that the security liked to encourage and enable loud, annoying and niche internet micro celebrities, so my confidence was high. My initial plan was to just saunter in and act the part (a loud, annoying and niche internet micro celebrity). Unfortunately for me, the bouncer, who looked like he ate at least six to eight raw eggs for breakfast, swiftly told me to fuck off.

Right. OK, that was my first plan scuppered. But wait, hench, raw egg-eating bouncer didn’t notice that there appeared to be a tiny crevice in the side of the fence. For a moment, there was a tiny sliver of hope, a small glimmer of possibility that I could soon be mixing it with the likes of Dean Gaffney and maybe Dermot O’ Leary, if I was lucky.

Peering into the gap, I caught a glimpse of the promised land: Loads of bored, disinterested, but really fantastically fit and tanned people all swilling around in Stone Island rain jackets and clutching expensive looking cocktails. God, I wish I was there with them. Unfortunately, just as I tried to sneak my way into the tiny space, another bouncer – who looked like he ate three Ginsters pasties as a light snack – accosted me with the force of Dave Bautista preparing someone for a powerbomb. My second plan was very clearly well and truly scuppered.

I felt desperate at this stage. I just wanted at least a full view of Olly Murs, Jason from 5ive and the rest of the lads waiting for me in Valhalla. With that in mind, I climbed onto the nearest bollard, had a look and, readers, the Stone Island rain jackets and expensive cocktails I saw made me truly believe in the idea of trickle-down economics, such was the power of the vibe. Unfortunately, a less hench but no less shrill security guard told me to “Get the fuck down from there”, which I had to take in a negative way at that point considering my recent history,

It was a truly dejecting experience, being constantly turfed by so many massive guys with diets that I couldn’t comprehend. But ultimately, for the chance to see Johnny Borrell, Chico and possibly Danny Dyer (if I’m lucky), it was all worth it. I mean, I achieved nothing, but I dared to dream. I dared to dream.

@tomusher / @christopherbethell