The Camden Curmudgeon on Glastonbury Headliners

Another year, another 'controversial' Glastonbury headliner announcement. 2010's bill is set to be topped by U2.

Not since… oh… two years ago, when Jay-Z was revealed as Worthy Farm's showstopper, has so much been said about the Eavis's choice of company for their cows. 

It's not that U2 make especially controversial music. It's just that – how can we say this politely? – a fair few people would rather drill holes in their brains than pay to stand in a field and hear the very rich Bono preach about poverty, or whatever he's preaching about this time. 

But our resident miserablist The Camden Curmudgeon, fresh from tackling The X-Factor, reckons it's not U2 that's the problem…

Complaining about Glastonbury headliners is turning into something of a British tradition. It's as uniquely from these shores as quietly accepting your lot in life, skulking off into a corner to mutter disheartened nothings to the literally no-one who cares while your pint of lukewarm bitter gets steadily cooler.

Who the headliner is matters not. Within minutes of an announcement being made, someone will have remarked upon said band's innate shitness and their inappropriateness for the headlining slot. They'll state how it obviously should have been Band Y, being as they are several thousand times less shit.

Then someone else will stick up for the headliners, and suggest the Band Y apologist is clearly the offspring 'twixt mental goat and deaf wildebeest who should retract his head from his anus before ever offering an opinion again.

Then, someone will pipe up with some statement about how Glastonbury isn't just about the headliners, man. That to truly experience it, man, you need to go and sit in a yurt in the yogurt fields while the Hungarian nose-flute orchestra play an open-mic yoga session nearby. Man.

It happens every single year. Or at least since Glastonbury stopped being a music festival and became an occasion for 'slebs to pose in a muddy field for Heat magazine while wearing £500 wellington boots.

So, no surprises when U2 were officially confirmed for this year. The vitriol rose. The backlash started. And lashed. And lashed… And didn't stop. The dissenters were loud. The consenters… eh, not so much.

After a while the dissenting stopped as well, because if there's one thing with less point than an argument on the internet, it's general agreement on the internet.

Does anyone want U2 at Glastonbury? Even Clan Eavis seemed a bit unsure. "The biggest band in the world is going to play the best festival…". Hmmm. You get that, Bono? You're the biggest. And the festival is the best.

Hardly euphoric. We all know 'biggest' definitely isn't equal to 'best'. I mean, the plague was the biggest killer of people in Europe in the 1300s. Not that we're comparing the black death to U2 or anything.

But does anyone care? Or is it just John Q Media Representative determinedly grasping onto their indie credentials by publicly slating a band who have somehow developed an hilariously massive capability for riling music writers?

I guess we'll probably have to wait until June 25th to find out. Either four middle aged Irish men in clothes at least 20 years too young for them are going to wander out to an empty field in the middle of Somerset, or a fantastically large number of slightly guilty looking souls will be packed into the Pyramid arena, avoiding each others' gaze, before pumping their hands with an enthusiasm bordering on mania for a good two hours.

Me? I'd rather chew my own foot off then see them. Bono? What a tosser. Mind you, that Achtung Baby was pretty good, wasn't it. And The Joshua Tree, obviously…

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