Hooray! After an enforced three-year hiatus (there was that pandemic thing – I can’t get into it now), Glastonbury is back! The older I get, the more I like this music festival of music festivals, its noise, its mud, its people. Knowing that I have nothing to endure becomes more pleasant with each passing year. The sheer Jomo of it all goes far beyond the delights of birthdays (they start to pale once you’re seven, and I’ve been 40 since then) and even Christmas (so worknow that I have a child of my own and can’t slip into a mimosa-bellinis-prosecco stupor during the day).
But this week, I can sit in my warm, mud-free home, reveling in the blessed silence, solitude, and lack of exposure to the elements. I can wrap myself in a warm, dry duvet on a spring mattress and hug myself knowing that no one will ever try to force me to leave again. No common experiences for me now, ever. I am so happy. I always wanted to be left alone.
Moaning isn’t really part of the female orgasm, according to a study published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, and should be removed from the official scale used to measure these things by people who publish female orgasm studies. in the Journal of Sexual Medicine.
“Copulatory vocalizations” are, according to surveys of 637 women aged 18-82, at least partly under the conscious control of women and should therefore not be considered alongside involuntary responses such as flushing of the skin. , sweating and increased heart rate.
One word, please. And that word is – duh. Moaning is indeed at least partly deliberate. In real sex, it’s a real guidance system. You complain when he (or she? I can’t speak for everyone) succeeds at something because it’s less mood-hostile than shouting “Yes!” This! Finally, Christ! “. Happy to help.
That said, I suspect we Guardians are much closer to the brink of orgasm with the arrival of RMT boss Mick Lynch into our lives. If you haven’t had the pleasure yet, go online and find one or all of the interviews – there will be highlights compilation videos now, but I suggest you sort out the feel for as long as possible by watching the originals whole – in which he hands various presenters, pundits, ministers and MPs their puffy asses on a plate.
Piers Morgan (“Is this the level you’re throwing this at, Piers?”); Kay Burley (“Don’t you know how a picket line works? Your questions border on nonsense”); Chris Philp (“It’s a straight lie”) all touched the ground.
It’s just glorious, though somewhat tempered by the realization that much of its appeal – completely calm, completely unwavering (“We’ll picket them. What do you think we’ll do?”) – stems from the fact that he is above his brief, believes in what he says and fights for and doesn’t care to show pontificators who don’t. It’s just another step between looking at Lynch and entertaining the idea that collective action itself might be something we’ll start trying again. Rumors of strikes are now being heard among teachers and the NHS. Guffing asses today, the world tomorrow, comrades.
Today was my real Glastonbury. Today, as part of the celebrations of Independent Bookstore Week (and, to be fair, to promote my first novel, Are We Have Fun Yet? – look, I’m doing it again! – which comes out in paperback this weekend), I spent most of the afternoon at Phlox Books in east London, selling, storing and – in the end – buying most of their wonderful selection of books, resurrecting old skills learned 20 years ago on the till of Waterstones, Bromley, and even in acquiring new ones (Phlox also sells coffee, and I’ve mastered how to make an americano on a good coffee machine). I realized that I might still be vaguely employable once print journalism ended.
The Mangan family mobilizes. My mother and her sister, who are both as weak as each other in – very unfortunately – exactly the same way, go to the Eagles concert in Hyde Park on Sunday. It took my aunt down from Preston by train, quite a difficult feat even without the disruption caused by the strikes (not that I’m complaining, Mick! I love your work!) and wanting to eat her seven cheese bars and drink eight canned gins without taking off his mask.
But she got here and now all we have to do is figure out how to get them to Hyde Park without them causing a major public transport incident by their refusal to accept the public transport systems common sometimes result in a) jostling, b) noise, and c) occasional sightings of bearded and/or long-haired men, none of whom should have their misdeeds discussed within earshot, no matter how Nordic tones warm and melodious might otherwise be found.
Then in the concert, when the tickets are online only and neither of you has a smartphone and wouldn’t, no, not if you paid for them. Then exit Hyde Park and head home despite the lack of clear signage every six feet from J17-18 seats to the nearest station to guide them.
We don’t have any answers yet. But if someone goes there on Sunday, could they keep an eye out for two figures from a deleted Victoria Wood sketch staring at street signs and berating hipsters, and flag them down for a cab? Ideally, one who will accept Willy Eckerslike’s TB shillings and mementos and mother’s teeth instead of card payment, as it turns out they don’t have either.