How low I went for Glasto…

I am 14 and she’s 12 and we are standing by the door,

We’re grunting  loudly, ‘Come on Dad, we can’t wait any more’

We’re clutching our wellies, with hot sleeping bags draped around our necks,

We have no intention of carrying them, we’re doing it for the WE ARE READY effect

‘I can’t believe this. He’s really taking the piss’ I hiss applying another layer of mascara,

She looks at me – a child with a curl of hair down her forehead – not the ideal gig partner,

But realistically she’s all I’ve got,

and to be fair, she does like him a lot.

‘I really just pray he will be on late’ she says with a very loud sigh,

‘I know, I don’t know what to do if we miss him. I will just die’ 

‘Dad come on. Come on. Pleasessseeee’

We are stamping our feet with frustration.

‘I will be ten minutes. Just be patient’

We’re in London and have three hours to get to Glastonbury’s Leftfield,

where the love of my life will be singing and our future together sealed.

We know all the lyrics to every song,

and lie on our bedroom floor singing along,

We question every word – ‘Do you think this one is about Kate?’

‘No it’s about his friendship with Karl – agh he’s so honest and great.’

We’ve seen him so many times but this will be different, I am sure.

‘I HATE Dad I say, directing my voice so it bounces through his bedroom door.

where he’s packing, running around in a towel and sifting through the sock drawer

‘Now will you two stop being such nigthmares? I’ve been at work all day’

He pulls on his socks, ‘now I am just locking up, get in the car okay?’

We grin and take his keys – this might actually mean we make it,  that we see Pete,

We pile in the car, winding the window down to let out the stench of manure and heat,

We share the headphones of a walkman and play Don’t Look Back into the Sun

and then ALL of the album, now we’re screaming from the window ‘dad come on!’

And finally mum’s in the front and it’s looking good, we might actually hit the A303,

When Dad turns back to shout  I have to water the plants, I’ll be one second, you’ll see’

Before we know it, he’s watering can in hand and we’re in disbelief.

’I just can’t believe you’re doing this to us? WHHHYYY”

We’re screaming, giant lumps in our throat, about to cry.

‘Last plant girls, I promise’ he crouches down and gets really close to a plant called euphorbia, 

Suddenly he yelps ‘AHH fuck’  he stumbles, his face is now a pained squint far from euphoria,   

‘DAD what happened?’

‘It spat at me. It spat me in the eye!’

What do you mean?’

‘It’s spat it’s juice right in my eye – I can’t drive’

‘NNOOOOO – you’re lying’ we wail and scream,

How has horticulture meddled with our dream?

But we won’t take no for an answer, we refuse to accept,

that our rendez-vous with the beautiful pete is over yet.

‘Dad please drive – we’ll go to a hospital in somerset?’

‘Alright, alright’ and soon he’s behind the wheel,

With his hand over one eye,

Will you girls call the NHS line? We do and eventually get through,

explain what happened and the nurse replies,

‘You need to get him to A&E!’ 

The emergency tent at the festival is the easiest, we all agree.

So off we go…

but I don’t think I’ve ever gone so low,

as forcing my dad to drive with one eye, all the way to glasto,

The man who gave me life definitely came second that day,

To Pete Doherty,  and when I think about it – that’s not okay.