Fat Arsed Goddess

You know what they say. So glad to be in Glastonbury. No? That’s where I was, and first stop the Tourist Info people. Me and the Pirate had managed to pick the ‘Musical Extravaganza’ weekend to enjoy ‘Avalon’, and guess what? Jools Holland was appearing. Insincere apologies to those of you who like the gent and his music.

“Oh dear” sez the tourist lady. “Everywhere is so so, busy!” Her eyes did the round saucer thing, and she got on the phone.



“Do you” she asked “Require twin or double?” Hell's teeth, lady, all I want is to avoid sleeping in the car.
“Anything” I muttered “And sharing the bathroom is OK.”
Unwashed is not beautiful, and doesn’t get you any closer to the Goddess, believe me.

The town was full of Goddesses. Walking round the place, looking distinctly smug, and easily spotted – carrying tambourines and flowing in …um..flowing robes. Orange or red is the ‘In’ colour, and a head-dress of plastic flowers.

The Pirate thought the Goddesses were predominately fat-arsed: well they did rather fill the up the pavement.
(for you Yanks, that's the sidewalk, yep)
Even the guide at the Chalice gardens was a bit sceptical “I dunno” he muttered “Thought there was only one Goddess.” Me too.

Of course, he wasn’t just the guide. Our chappie was an Arch Druid, and ‘Very very busy’.
“Thank god I’m retired” he said happily. And proceeded to tell us about the naked ladies, that like to swim in the pool.
No wonder he’s enjoying his retirement.



I quite understood why the Arch Druid said he had to get out of the place occasionally, to keep hold of his sanity.
His eyes swivelled round behind the glasses “Of course if you touch the Thorn tree And the stone…”he paused “You go into another dimension.”
Right. I think we do.

I guess a Goddess deserves a knight in shining armour, this is Glastonbury.
He clanked down the High Street, just about managing to pick up his winkle picker shoes, followed by the obligatory maiden.



Good job none of the Goddesses got entangled with the Knight in Armour.
That would have shredded their drapes.

Very picturesque, is the George and Pilgrim Hotel. Only trouble was, finding anyone alive. Crept through the passage, nobody there; Find the restaurant, empty. Fifteenth century, it may be, but surely someone is still around?
We find the bar, lights, people, oh goodie.

I guess the staff were alive, hard to tell really - at last one of 'em bothered to look round, and looking vaguely disturbed, said the beef was off, which left the fish.
Guess what we had? So right.
We had the fish.



The cutlery and our dinner were dumped on the table with a complete lack of savoir-faire. Plonk, thump. Maybe they were feeling medieval, or something like that.
Back at the B&B that our Tourist lady found us, I inspected the lavish selection of teas, admired the tin of shortbread…
Lovely, now where was the bog standard PG tips? No such luck.

The Pirate cackled madly and went to sleep, probably dreaming of fat-arsed Goddesses.
It’s all right for some.