Rolling Stones Glastonbury 2013: Start Me Up? Oh, FUCK OFF. Neil McCormick the Telegraph Tool, Too

The Glazed and Buried festival is done.

I guess you hadda be there…like a pig in the muck. Better yet, you got in FREE, wearing your favorite silly pork pie hat that you thought was so cool when Elvis Costello wore it 30 YEARS AGO. Who's this tool? McFuckHead, dutifully standing amid the rabble, squalling and squealing about what a great moment it was…when he couldn't see a fucking thing on stage because of giant flags and hopping up and down assholes in his way…but he got the immense VIBE off the mighty MICK and the boys on stage.

Yeah, take a massive vibe, as in vibrator, and shove it up your ass, you nerdy-looking uncool tool. The retro hat and creep-glasses don't make you look like anything but a boot-sale dork. And we all know you don't get laid and when you try to wank your hand falls asleep. You know Glastonbury sucked. The Stones have been sucking since the 70's, ya know.

Oh come on, what's more tired than hearing "Start Me Up?"

People say Mick is a marvel because he's 70 and still has energy. Yeah? Energy enough to coast and do six minute versions of three minute songs….with plenty of time to allow for Mr. Negro to do a bass solo, or Mr. Sax-o-Cliche to do one, or to start talking to the audience and telling them to go Woo Woo, Woo Woo on "Miss You," which misses the point. Which is, we want YOU to do your job, don't make US do it for you, Fishlips.

PS, Mick had backup singers. The Stones had a lot of extra musicians around. Now let me put this in perspective. Horowitz and Rubinstein were playing intricate sonatas and playing concertos with orchestras into their 80's. A classical pianist has to have arms more muscular than Charlie Watts, and fingers more steely than Keith Richards, and has to do it ALONE without faking it by talking some lines, taking a breath and saying "Mean it," or pausing for thirty seconds to ask the crowd, "Feelin' all right?" No, the pianist has to do that 30 minute sonata without a break, with total concentration, and PERFECTLY because people are LISTENING and not going WOO and jumping around like monkeys on pogo sticks. The concerto? Even more tension. Gotta stay with that orchestra and battle it, and fuckin' piano pieces like that ain't a strum in the park. Some passages are loud, intricate and damn near impossible to play.

Everything was mid-tempo for the Stones, wasn't it? Not too tough a job for poor old Charlie "Metronome" Watts, who we all know is one big walking bottle of aspirin (or something stronger) and after all these years, has plenty of arm and back problems. Unlike Wrinkle Starr, the poor guy can't even cheat and have another drummer side by side with him. But at least Charlie isn't called upon to do any pyrotechnical solo or take on some song that's going to make him scream "I got blisters on my fingers."

What the fuck did Ronnie Wood do? Not much. What did Keith do? Even less, but that's cool, it's nice to see him fake playing the guitar, or snigger as he just turned his back and wandered away, or chuckle as he did some easy strum and then let that one chord go till he felt like playing another. The glimmer-ug just wickedly looked toward Mick who was doing all the work and loving it…sort of like some whore in bed getting on top while the old guy underneath relaxes and watches.

People were whining about not getting ENOUGH of these guys?

Before the Bee-Bee-You-Can't-See began puliing the plug on some of the YouTube-Google thieves who were offering the entire show…I tried to watch. Start me up? Mick, you put me to sleep.

I fast-forwarded every song. Seen it all before. My mind wanders watching this kind of shit. What's so fantastic about hearing "Sympathy for the Devil" yet again? How fucking monotonous is "Miss You?" Great, Mick is still alive. They can, if they want to, out-play the morons out there like Coldplay and Green Day and Mumps & Buns and the nitwit rappers. If they did 4 songs and split, that would've been fine with me. Leave 'em wanting more.

All they showed me was an evening of this wouldn't be worth the $200 minimum or $400 more likely for any kind of spot where you could see and hear properly, or $2000 to be where maybe you wouldn't be near an utter jackass drooling, stepping on you, or shouting like a mandrill.

No, I didn't bother to download the hour off YouTube. That would be an hour I'd never get back, and I would have gotten no satisfaction. PS, McCormick, roll up a copy of the Telegraph and stick it where the Sun don't shine.