Pulling over to fill up on the A 303 on the 24th June I decided I should get a bite to eat. I needed sustenance after paying the 99p per litre for the diesel in my car. I went into the shop thinking I would get a sandwich and a bottle of water.
It is an odd thing, how accustomed we have become, to paying through the nose. Since when did it become acceptable to us to pay £3.00 for two pieces of bread and some chicken with mayonnaise in it? And when, pray, did a litre of water that has been falling freely from the sky, cost more than the diesel that I had just bemoaned? If diesel or petrol were to fall from the sky would water be cheaper?
It certainly put the price of fuel in a better perspective, when you think that it has to be drilled and piped and refined. Then transported and stored to be transported, again, and sold. Surely the water industry is not as complicated. It would appear we Brits are complaining about the wrong things, but perhaps that is us all over.
I did not pay for the sandwich and water but instead thought that it must surely be better value if I popped next door to the Little Chef. I ordered the Olympic breakfast and a mug of tea. I was unaware that it was called the Olympic breakfast, not because of its size, but because it would take 4 years to turn up and only if your table had been successful in its bid. Still at £7.00 I thought it was better value than a litre of God's water and the Golden Goose with mayo.
The nice lady brought me my tea and it has to be said, it was the best tea I have been served in a roadside cafe anywhere. Whether this is geographical location and local water or whether this is the norm for the Little Thief I have no idea, as sadly, I have not sampled the delights of these eateries in other parts of the road network.
I had finished my tea when the toast turned up, and although I was realising that my meal was to be served in relay, to keep with the Olympic theme; I was in no hurry. While I waited to see if I was to receive my bacon next before I had the beans, it gave me opportunity to survey my surroundings.
Being June and the 24th Glastonbury was finishing and the chef was filled with muddy scruffy people that had obviously been part of the big debacle. As an outsider that did not take part in the festival, I will not carry an opinion on those that did. It does however strike me that if it is free love that people went for, then £140.00 seems a little excessive, when £50 would probably get you cheaper love in, say, Bristol.
But then it is not about the old Woodstock culture any more. Woodstock was sunny for a start, and people know that Glastonbury is usually a wash out and at times bloody cold. And yet they go. The stages are miles away and they can't see the people they have come to see, the sound is hardly CD quality and yet they go... These are not the hippies that we have a tendency to think of when a music festival is mentioned, these are quite a bit harder than that, and from every walk of life, and no matter the reason for the revellers to make the trip and pay the money, they all have that strength in common. A common bond of party atmosphere, in a harsh environment, and they are all in it together. My only bitterness towards them is that they had the weekend off and a good time, and I am on the way back to work. Where do all of these people go? Why do they not share this commonality in the rest of their life, why are they not united in other aspects of things that they must see as important? They are not lazy as they have just made a considerable effort to travel and eat and sleep rough to listen to music and meet others in a muddy field? Surely they have other common ground. Surely they are not happy about the price of water, especially as they have been living in it for 48 hours. And yet only 6 hours before I had witnessed another gathering of people that were united in a common goal and I was left with a sense of quiet and hope for the future of man, and it was given to me by 5000 women and girls.
