Waking to a cloudless blue sky in the lush Wiltshire countryside to the sound of distant djembe drumming and the smell of frying bacon, it could only be WOMAD. As the bright Saturday morning sun creeps across the camping field heating canvas, it produces a wave of unzipping tents, tousled heads and blinking eyes. Some have already headed off for the early-bird yoga session or splashed out on a visit to the la-di-da loos or the spa with its power showers, saunas and fluffy white towels, but for most the day starts in a leisurely fashion.

Stefan Simanowitz reflects on the politics of Britain's greatest festival

“I almost didn’t make it this year” a young woman at the Glastonbury Festival tells me. “It’s so expensive and I’m saving to get my buccal pads removed.” Buccal pads?! “They are the bits of fat on top of your cheek bones” she explains pinching her attractive rosy cheeks. Back in the day you would have been hard pressed to find anyone at Glastonbury planning cosmetic surgery let alone anyone brave enough to admit to it. But Britain has changed and so has Glastonbury.