Every person you meet among the madness at Glastonbury

The one who fell face-first into the dirt


It was an eventful year for Glastonbury, even with a crowdsurfing Katy Perry and chants for Jeremy Corbyn. You didn’t have to struggle in the mud this year, and those that weren’t living it up in the sun sat bitterly at home, discussing the terrible traffic awaiting them when they leave – desperately trying to convince themselves they didn’t want to be at Glastonbury anyway. 

But what really makes Glastonbury what it is, is the fine people who roam its sacred farm. Here’s a rundown of everyone you met at Glastonbury this year:

The Glasto Virgin

It’s. So. Big.

The Glasto Veteran

They will also walk around asking: “So is this your first Glastonbury?”, just so you will ask them back, and they can tell you they first came when they were in their mother’s womb. Yeah Amy, we get that this is your sixth year in a row. We get it that Bloc 9 isn’t the same as 2014 and that it was so much better when you could actually sit on the floor at The Other stage. We get it. They start every sentence with “last year…” and they continuously manage to make this year comparatively shit.

The one that broke in

This one’s pretty easy to spot, because they’ll be telling you – and everyone you meet – about it over and over again. Yeah we get it, you’ve got loads of cash because you didn’t have to pay for a ticket.

The one who took fourteen hours from London

Yeah, you mentioned it.

You won’t be this happy when you’re still sat there in 12 hours

People under the age of 18 who’ve already gone too far with the drugs

I just want to call your mum and give you a scrub.

The one who’s ‘glamping’

Somehow Amy’s mate from work has got them a teepee. In the months preceding Glastonbury you make out like it’s worst thing in the world. It’s not an authentic experience without a tent. By day three you are using the last of your two per cent phone battery to call Amy relentlessly, shivering and covered in cold, caked in mud, seething inside at the very idea that she has a hot shower.

The person who fell in the mud or lost a welly in it

We all saw at least one one, who still managed to find a puddle. Single abandoned wellies lie half-submerged in mud, a bit like in zombie movies when they rise from the graves. Ahead, a girl in denim shorts and a choker necklace is crying loudly about how “they were my Hunters, Immy!”

Co-ordinated and ornate fancy dress group

The sheer time. The sheer expense. How are you even attaching papier-mache wings to your body in this weather? We are all in awe.

The stone circle trolls

There are some people at Glasto who are impossible to imagine in the real world. What job do they have? Where would they live? Why is Gary from Fife walking around with a parrot on a stick, telling me there’s dragons in the bushes? Nothing is plausible. So is the life of the Glastonbury Troll: who lives in the woods, with their wood friends, and comes out once a year to terrify you while you’re trying to enjoy a lovely balloon.

The people who do the beak sign to stay together and think they’re the only ones doing it

They’re never going to find you.

The coked-up Essex boys

They spent their whole time underneath the middle of the Arcadia spider or in Shangri La. Stone Circle was never on their radar, neither was the cabaret tent or any of the mildly interesting things. The only time they’d even consider NYC Downlow was for Eats Everything. They left by Sunday night – the sheer size of the place was too much, they’d run out of pills to sell and their hair couldn’t take any longer without a wash and blowdry.

That person from uni whose name you just about remember but you only met them a couple of times in a club smoking area

“What are you up to now? What day did you get here? Who are you seeing later?” – it’s all just a waiting game until you can get the fuck out of there.

The one on crutches

Sorry mate, I’m sure it’s a nightmare getting around this place in those crutches. But hey, at least you don’t have to queue, and think of all the sympathetic looks you’re getting and friends you are making.


Literally everywhere you turn.

The one who bought an inflatable animal or flag to ‘find people’

This is why we have phones. I mean they look pretty blowing in the wind in front of the Pyramid Stage – but can anyone seriously enjoy carrying one of those around for five days?

The one who came with their mum

“Oh my gosh it’s so jokes my Mum is here, hah hah hah”. Joanna has always been lovely and never tells you to call her “Mrs Campbell”. Maybe she’ll tell us all about her old days at Woodstock or something.

It’s honestly chill.


A group text has been sent three days before we’re due to set off. “Guys” – heart sinking a little bit here – “Mum is fine with weed but please be respectful. No pills or coke in the tent.” IT’S RAINING OUTSIDE WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME.

The burning man crew

Top hat, red military jacket, silver leggings: this is the trademark of man who likes to party.

The one who thinks “Shangri La will definitely be open”

It’s 5am, you’ve had a good night and you’re discussing with your group what to do next – hit the hay and be fresh tomorrow or go in search of more action. When all of a sudden you are being ferociously tapped on the shoulder: “Hey guys, apparently Troxler is playing a secret set at Shangri La”. So you trek all the way there to find it’s at full capacity. You aren’t angry though because Glasto.

The one-off drug dealer

They walked around, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed clutching their kinder egg cases and fumbling a pill into your hand.

Big group of rowdy Irish guys who have a huge flag

They. Have. Travelled. And for their time travelling, they’re going to make the most of this experience. That means they’ve brought more crates of beer than anyone could ever need – they got the five trollies they used to transport it stuck in muddy quagmires at least three times on the way to the tent. It’s enough to put your average Glasto-goer off.

But not this lot. They stop and duck to pull it out of the mud, all working together, not giving a shit that they have to camp in South Park because Dara had to stop to be sick on the way here and they missed the good spots in Dairy Fields. Their pasty bare chested optimism drives them forward. They’ll spend all of five minutes pitching their tent and then move towards the pyramid stage. Music is blaring but they are oblivious to what’s playing.

All twelve of them have huddled under a 20-foot flag bearing the insignia “DONEGAL HOOERS ON TOUR”, screaming that either Will Griggs or Shane Long is on fire. When you lose your mates on Friday night and stumble through the dark on the way home, their hoarse “your defence is terrified” will guide you. Lovely lads all round.

Person on their own, screaming down an Alcatel burner about “meeting near the flag”

Oh my sweet summer child, how little you know of the world.

The really miserable couple

You obviously hate each other, you should have just come with your mates.

The ones who leave on Sunday

They have “had enough”.

People who go for the live bands

They will speil off endless bands you have never heard of and make you feel guilty for enjoying Craig David.

Balloon men selling TWO for A TENNER

Sorry? How much?! And even when you order five they still say £25. Unless you’re a girl who can flutter their eyelashes, you’re paying £5 for one balloon. Yeah, I know they’ve recently been made illegal, but that does not give you the right to mug off everyone in Beat Hotel.

The one who really misjudged the weather

Being optimistic, Laura wanted to pack lightly so didn’t bother bringing wellies or a waterproof, and bought a cheap pop-up tent. Despite wrapping her feet in plastic bags, she’ll ruin her Air Force 1’s to the point of no return, fall over eight times and have to fork out £40 for some ugly af paisley printed wellies.

Your new, organised mate

Literally, what what you do without them. Who the fuck needs a guide, map or app when you have Simon? It’s as if the lineup was born in their mind (or they have an immensely efficient ClashFinder) and they’ve been so many times they could get from stage to stage with their eyes closed. They know where the secret parties are, they keep your group functioning, and you will love them forever for it.

The one who would be clueless without their organised friend

They don’t actually know who’s playing when, or have a clue how to get from South East corner to Park – but that’s what their organised mate is for, right?

Written by Oli Dugmore, Daisy Bernard, Tom Jenkin, Roisin Lanigan, Grace Vielma and Isabella Eckert.