You have come back from Glastonbury, you walk through the door and sit down, nothing you thought was real is. At 9pm you leave your desk job and all you can hear is the thumping sound of the Pyramid in your head, you go to your local night club and all you can think is how much better shangri-la is. Your friends who all went to V-fest or Wireless say they understand how you feel, and why you always look so sad, they dont. They dont know what its like to get 2 hours sleep a night, in the fields of Somerset, with nothing but a fiver tent and ten crates of cider. Eventually you lose sight of everything, all the dates that matter in your life are when the tickets go on sale. You eventually have to get counselling, with the counsellor wandering why you keep on saying Michael Eavis under your breath. Soon you live in the stone circle, no amount of police force can prise you out, the fields of Pilton Farm are your sanctuary. For the remainder of your days you change your name officially to Glastonbury and wait for the sacred date: where you can do acid at 5am and no one cares. Having PGSD is a sad, sad life.
Jack: Have you seen how sad Jim looks lately?
Tony: Yeah I know! I think he just came back from this hippie-fest in Somerset and has Post-Glastonbury stress disorder.
Tony: Yeah I know! I think he just came back from this hippie-fest in Somerset and has Post-Glastonbury stress disorder.
by william reid July 5, 2015