I hate Glastonbury. The Glastonbury thorn, before and after its branches were shorn off. Or rather, I hate what, thanks to the Glastonbury Festival, it has become in the public mind. What should be the sacred and mystical heart of England, the core of its national spirit and mystery, has become in that public mind a focus of horrible music, drug-raddled filth and ugliness and a symbol of degeneration. Or as The Guardian put it, approvingly, of course, in its case: “Glastonbury 2…
