Jezza’s Glasto Takeover - How Corbyn Will Smash Glastonbury


Written by Jake Moss
20 Tuesday 20th June 2017

With Glastonbury about to kick off, the excitement is really building. But all this hype isn’t focused on Radiohead, Foo Fighters or any of the other headliners. No, no - everyone at the festival, from the sesh-masters to the cyber-goths, is there to see one man - Jeremy Corbyn. The Labour leader will be addressing his adoring acolytes, when he introduces Run The Jewels on to the Pyramid Stage on Saturday. But Jezza is never one to let a party pass him by, so how exactly will his mad weekend unfold? Well, let me regale you with a legendary tale of sex, drugs and bland acoustic folk-pop...


 Credit: NME


The Sermon on the Pyramid Stage


“Oooooooh, Jeremy Corbyn! Oooooooh, Jeremy Corbyn!”


This chorus echoes out all across the festival. All across Somerset. All across the country (except for most of the south-east, excluding London).


Jezza drops the mic and walks off stage. Some more youth turnout statistics in the bag, job done. His entourage of advisors crowd around him and usher him into the VIP area - Fearne Cotton and DJ Spoony await him. Corbyn kicks off. He’s all riled up on nose powder and homemade chutney, and he hasn’t got any time for Cotton’s shite - one more fucking conversation about Celebrity Juice and he’ll fucking lose it! No, no, this is all wrong. Why can’t he be out there with the masses, where he belongs? Man of the people. King of the cans. Lord of the lagers. Jeremy Bernard Corbyn MP.


At that moment, a silence descends upon the VIP section. Even Chris Evans has shut up, so you know it’s serious. Their eyes turn to the entrance - it’s aging hellraiser, Liam Gallagher. He swaggers over to Corbyn, his upper-body swinging more than the Labour vote-share in Kensington.


“Oy Jezza! You tryin’ to steal my fookin’ thunder or summat?” Gallagher’s fuming, his mono-brow bristling out of his green Parka. He gets all up in Jezza’s face, but Corbyn doesn’t flinch. Gallagher comes at him again: “You not gonna do nuthin then, pussay? Ya fookin’ pacifist!” Jezza just smiles, replying: “What you’ve failed to understand, Gallagher, is that I put the ‘fist’ in ‘pacifist’.” Liam stops, confused. With a sharp left hook, Jezza knocks him spark-out, sending him crashing through a table of finger sandwiches.


A mass brawl sweeps the VIP area. Corbyn takes the opportunity to slip out past his advisors. Fuck this for a laugh - he didn’t come to Glasto to eat volovants with Lauren Laverne. He came here to have a fucking good time. And that’s exactly what he’ll do...



Awash on a Tide of Strongbow Dark Fruit


The next few hours are a blur. As the sun sets, Corbyn stumbles through the massed ranks of people, like a salmon swimming upstream - if the salmon was absolutely smashed and a massive legend. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know who he is. He definitely doesn’t know the numbers behind his childcare policy. All he knows now is cans. Bags and bags of cans.


He’s just had a 45-minute conversation with a shaman, but he has no idea what it was about. All he knows is that he’s now some kid’s godfather and his chakras are aligned as fuck. He comes tumbling down over a loose peg and lands on top of a tent concealing a couple of unwashed Leeds uni students engaged in some malcoordinated foreplay. He sits there and tears come to his eyes. What’s he doing? What has it all come to?


As the couple trapped underneath him desperately struggle to escape, Jezza takes out his phone. He starts drafting a text to Diane Abbott - he has to tell her how he really feels. But then, an all too familiar sound washes over him. It’s coming from the main stage in the distance...

“I’m in love with the shape of you, we push and pull like a magnet do. Although my heart is falling too, I’m in love with your body.”


Jeremy’s eyes narrow and he crushes the can of Strongbow in his hand. Under his breath, he simply mutters, “Sheeran…”



The Curse of the Ginger Twat


The red-headed troubadour is strumming away at his guitar, with his sweet pop ballads and his folky white-boy hip-hop. The crowd is enraptured by him, losing themselves completely under the spell of this ginger Pied Piper. They’re ensnared by his catchy hooks, his shapeless porridge face, and also partially by the effects of ketamine. Every person in this crowd had assured each other they wouldn’t enjoy Ed Sheeran - he’s shit, he’s not for them. But now they just can’t help themselves; they’re lost in Galway Girl, unable to escape. “She played the fiddle in an Irish band, but she fell in love with an Englishman…” The words fill their ears and pulse through their tired, muddy bodies; what do these words mean? Absolutely fuck all. But they sing along regardless, their voices growing hoarse and weary. They have no choice.


CRASH. A guitar smashes down over the back of Sheeran’s head - their ginger overlord has been felled. A hush descends over the masses. Jeremy Corbyn stands there clutching the splintered neck of an acoustic guitar. He breathes deeply, his shoulders heaving up and down. A tear in his eye, Corbyn catches his breath and bellows out simply: “NO MORE.” A deathly silence… But then, the crowd erupts in jubilation - they’re free! The spell has been lifted. The curse of the ginger twat has been broken.


Corbyn raises his Strongbow to the night’s sky above him. Boy Better Know flood the stage. They pick Jezza up on their shoulders and cry out: “Raise a can, one and all - to the greatest hype-man Islington North has ever produced!” And once again, 150,000 people chant in unison:


“Oooooooh, Jeremy Corbyn! Oooooooh, Jeremy Corbyn!”


Riding high atop Wiley and Jme, Jezza peers out at his sea of worshippers. He smiles serenely and thinks to himself, “This… This right here is how you fucking do Glasto...” And with a flash of lightning, the heavens open to receive him.


For he was lost, but now he is found. And soon they all will know his name.


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