It's happened. I've officially become too old for music festivals.
The thought of drunken nights in sweaty tents and Portaloo roulette is simply too much to bear.
Six quid for sloppy fish and chips? You must be joking. A Sherpa-worthy trek pushing a wonky wheelbarrow full of Aldi cider? No ta.
A comfy sofa, bag of Minstrels and copious amounts of red wine is my new approach: and that's exactly how I enjoyed this year's Glastonbury.
Good job too because if I'd shelled out £200 to watch Metallica and Arcade flippin Fire, I'd be turning up on Eavis's doorstep cap in hand and furiously brandishing a copy of Prince's Greatest Hits.
No, the iPlayer is where it's at, allowing you to create your very own Glasto to enjoy as and when. That magical red button allows you to sidestep the muck - literally, and, in the case of Haim, metaphorically - and cherry pick the best. I know it goes against everything Glasto stands for - enjoying music with your fellow man, being present, living in the moment - but so does security fencing and £6,000 yurts so ho-hum.
As ever, Elbow were their wondrous, emotive selves, while Dolly Parton and Robert Plant gave everyone else a masterclass in true superstardom. And big hair.
Lana Del Ray was typically woeful. Seriously, this girl's the biggest case of Emperor's New Clothes I've ever seen. The best thing about her is the posh handbag named in her honour - a beige leather sack that posses more star power and stage presence than she ever could.
Blondie were bonkers, Kasabian bankable and Lauren Laverne and Fearne Cotton as mind-numbing as ever. See you next year.
Someone who wouldn't look out of place amongst the jester hats and incense sticks of Glasto is Simon Reeve, the hippy, happy telly traveller and author.
The Beeb finished a repeat of his Tropic of Cancer series this week, focussing on Laos, Vietnam and Hawaii. And while his Cheshire Cat grin and springer spaniel energy can sometimes be grating, there's no doubt that Reeve is a bright and bold broadcaster who isn't afraid to speak his mind. The way he barged into that awful lock-up where bears were being held captive in appalling conditions was gutsy and admirable.
Now, if only he'd stop channelling Smashie and Nicey . . .
One last thing
As ever I'm a bit late to the party here - must be all the time I spend with my Lana Del Rey voodoo doll - but I've just devoured the first series of House of Cards. Kevin Spacey is simmering, masterful and, would you believe it, ridiculously sexy as congressman Frank Underwood; Kate Mara is feisty and fearless as reporter Zoe Barnes; and Robin Wright gloriously creepy and almost otherworldly as Mrs Underwood, Claire.
There's really only one thing to say: believe the hype, this one's an ace in the pack.
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