Wet Dirt Does Not Revolution Make
My 'friend' Whatever It Is I'm Against It had the dubious kindness to grace my breakfast with this delightful representation of primal humanity at its skivviest.
You might think these children were indulging in a soothing and rejuvenating mud-and-seaweed wrap (a pursuit which, while not exactly calculated to shake the very foundations of society, would at least have the next-best-thing effect of exfoliating their skins to a healthy glow).
Nay, friends, I am saddened to report these children are at Glastonbury, partaking of the twice-removed ersatz plastihedonism of the Modern Rock Festival.
When, I ask you, will the children learn that Glasto is not Woodstock, that Lollapalooza is not Woodstock, that even fucking Woodstock was not Woodstock (and it certainly isn't now, I can tell you that, patchouli-stinking ultratwee overpriced-pottery-flogging hippiepit that it is)?
What makes me sad about this, aside from the obvious of course, (also the perhaps slightly-less-obvious: a baseball cap with a bikini?), is how much these kids who go to these things looking for the Sixties are missing the only still-relevant point of the Sixties. All that nudity and mud and sexual liberation business was necessary, at the time. It responded to, corrected for something retrograde in society, and we're living the benefits (as well as some of the more toxic fallout) every day. We don't need to act out those rebellions anymore; they're meaningless.
The rebellions that aren't meaningless are the ones that happen at Seattle, at Genoa, at Gleneagles (gods willing, if Gordon-Bob-n-Bono don't succeed in hijacking it). I want to see these kids there, not living out some nostalgia-laundered ecstasy-fuelled safe-sex-in to the strains of Coldplay. Go to fucking Gleneagles, and if while there you still feel the need to get covered in mud, I may perhaps be inclined to view it more leniently.