You can do Glasto straight, despite the entreaties from Snoop to smoke some weed, there is no need. Because here, for me at least, it really is, to use the hoary old cliché, all about the music (man).

It’s music that drives this annual apparition, this illusion of a city, this future fantasy in field more used the rain and the occasional chomp from a cow.

So, it’s forty years since it all started, back in the mists of legend either as some channelling of energy and spirits of the Vale of Avalon through that great pyramid and out into the world or as a way for Michael Eavis to pay off his mortgage, depending on which account you read. The first story is more likely in the hazy confusion of hippy 1970. Now, of course, it’s mostly a big machine to make money, like everything that’s still going in 2010, but at the heart of this middle aged beast there is still the music, without the music and the people’s love of music and the artists’ desire to make a new variation on the theme there would be just cows in fields here to feel the pulse of those ancient vibe-lines.