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The Whites-Only Healing Field and a Spitfire flypast: My dream of a right-wing Glastonbury

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes we can kill two birds with one stone by making Starmer the Shah of Iran

THE crowd before the Pyramid Stage is in a frenzy. Then He strides on stage and they lose it. The whole attendance of Pilton Farm, chanting ‘Oh, Nigel Farage’…

I’m not sure what tune they’d chant it to. Something with five notes in a descending motif. That’s not important. Our national shame is this could never, ever happen.

It should. Eavis is a farmer, for Christ’s sake. He should be so right-wing he gasses badgers to get himself off. But due to the pernicious influence of West Country weed, the Somerset Sinsemilla, he’s a leftie and so’s his f**king festival.

Imagine if he was sensible and gave over his fields to the right: to the rioters, to the Reform voters, to those who dedicate their lives to going through video footage frame-by-frame to prove a migrant did it. It could be like this.

Ignore what’s on at the Pyramid Stage. That’s not the real Glastonbury, as Guardianistas irritatingly tell you when you hadn’t asked, and anyway we’ve had a real dearth of top-tier artists this past 60 years. Tony Hadley’s not convincing in the legends slot.

No, dance past Jacob Rees-Mogg’s Puppet & Skiffle Performance Theatre, through the arms fair and anti-insurgency interrogation techniques live demonstration, and to our own personal Shangri-La: the Whites-Only healing field. You’ve never breathed so free.

Take in a Leni Riefenstahl classic, enjoy a turnip cider, meditate on monetarism or simply get off with a hedge fund manager. It’s up to you. Visit Quornhenge, buy cocaine from one of the roaming Michael Goves or join a traditional fox hunt.

You’d be energised, invigorated, indoctrinated. Late nights discussing your favourite South American military juntas, long days of flash-mob goosestepping. All building up to that magical moment the headliner takes the stage, and the crowd sings ‘Oh, Nigel Farage…’

I’ve got it. You can sing it to the ‘So Sally can wait’ bit from Don’t Look Back In Anger. That’s all we needed for 100 hours of fascism live on the BBC. Go.

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A confused millennial tries to… aura farm his way through a job interview

By Josh Gardner, who put ‘manifesting’ under the skills section of his CV

DUE to the vagaries of late-stage capitalism – I believe in giving back, so I subscribe to eight OnlyFans – I needed a job. WFH of course, I’m not a freak. 

That meant logging into LinkedIn, which means automatically joining 10,000 LinkedIn newsletters, sifting through business twats’ stories of B2B marketing epiphanies at Angkor Wat, and applying for positions with a covering letter laboriously written by ChatGPT.

And thanks to an algorithmically-generated statement that in hindsight I should have fact-checked, I got an interview! Now all I had to do was aura farm through it and I’d be on the minimum-wage gravy train.

Don’t know aura farming? It’s being cool, mysterious, striking a pose and holding it. Bending others to your will by sheer rizz. Wearing a tie and a backwards baseball cap, like I did to the interview.

But rather than my goated flex being recognised, it was met with indifference. I had to aura farm harder, so I made the clutch move of bottle-flipping the water they gave me. Even that didn’t blow away these corporate sigmas.

Panic set in. From scared reflex I started to dab again and again. Yet somehow I was haemorrhaging aura points instead of racking them.

By rights I should be going viral right now. I was looking based. I was feeling peak. If I were a YouTube thumbnail I’d have ‘MAN DESTROYS JOB INTERVIEW USING 10,000 PER CENT OF HIS BRAIN’ plastered over me and millions of views. Instead I was dying harder than nuanced online discourse.

Dissociating like a ketamine flashback, I spat bars of corporate jargon. Dropped word bombs of synergy and cross-platform integration. My flow was unstoppable as I drilled down on the actionable variables I could bring that would really move the needle.

I’m shook, but it worked. No cap. I’m starting tomorrow at a zero-hours entry-level job with no pension plan. Finally my degree is paying off.

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