Digested week: the joy of missing out on Glastonbury, and why moaning works

Glastonbury makes me revel in my sprung mattress, from where I can watch RMT boss Mick Lynch dressing down media pundits

Hurrah! After an enforced three-year hiatus (there was this pandemic thing - I can't get into it now), Glastonbury is back! The older I get, the more I love this music festival of music festivals, its noise, its mud, its people. The knowledge that I don't have to endure any of it gets sweeter with every passing year. The sheer Jomo of it all far outpaces the delights of birthdays (they start to pall once you're past seven, and I've had 40 of them since then) and even Christmas (so much work, now that I have a child of my own and can't slip into a mimosas-bellinis-prosecco stupor over the course of the day).