Glastonbury on the BBC Radio 1: Better off at home?

Pyramid selling.

Glastonbury
BBC Radio 1

“I’m not just saying this ’cos this is the BBC but I’m genuinely going to be catching up on iPlayer all week.” Huw Stephens is lounging in Nick Grimshaw’s Glastonbury tepee, comparing notes. “I saw someone at the Stones with a baby,” sniffs Grimshaw. “Newborn baby. And I thought, ‘Weird accessory to bring – a newborn.’” Children at festivals are but a heavy and inconvenient Anglo-Saxon affectation. “Who was that?” sympathises Stephens. “Dunno!” shrugs Grimmy, appalled.

Never has Grimshaw been so likeable – sucking his teeth about a day ahead of being professionally and relentlessly upbeat about bands like Noah and the Whale and possibly not being entirely honest about what he did after the headlining act last night. (“Went for a Chinese. Sweet and sour chicken with rice. Then came home.”) It made a pleasant change from Jo Whiley up in the bosom nookery smiling fondly at everyone on the roster, from Kenny Rogers to Bruce Forsyth. For some reason, it has long been the BBC’s unquestioning job to be enthusiastic and humble about everything to do with Glasto but this year the corporation plugged a tone of particularly unceasing middlebrow moral uplift. ] Even Mick was at it, tweeting pics of himself looking excited holding the door of a portable toilet or swaddled in cashmere on the helipad. Jagger – that old miser and icecold businessman – will not be taken for a fool and proved himself on Saturday yet again as a guy never to make mistakes. Only from the mouths of some was it more bearable than others. In between sets on the BBC Introducing Stage, Jen Long and Ally McCrae – both under 25 and easily the busiest and most interesting presenters delivering any radio commentary this year, sweetly cackling and melodramatic to cover their inexperience – confessed innocently that they may have seen the best of things had they stayed at home.

“I could just about catch the edge of the TV screen in front of the Pyramid Stage,” confided McCrae, “so I’m just gonna watch it all back on iPlayer.” Jen nods, feeling for a moment comfortingly together after three days snowblinded by BBC zeal and righteousness. That said, maths clearly isn’t her thing. “I was up in the tower and looking out over the sea of . . . 2,000? Six thousand? I dunno how many people were there. But lots.”

Unhappy campers: BBC iPlayer provides a festival in a box. Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 08 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The world takes sides

Photo: Tashphotography / Stockimo / Alamy
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The Negroni fools no one – it’s easy to make and contains nothing but booze

It is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

The cocktail is designed to lie about its origins; no wonder it reached its apogee during Prohibition, which forced everyone with an unrepentant thirst to lie about their cravings. Even today, when only extreme youth, religious belief or personal inclination prevents a person from draining the bar dry, the cocktail continues its career of dishonesty. It hides ingredients or methods. It provides a front for poor-quality booze. And it often dissolves, within its inscrutable depths, mountains of sugar, enabling drinkers to pose as sophisticates while downing something that tastes like a soft drink – to get drunk without leaving the playpen.

This is why I love the Negroni, which fools no one. It is easy to make and contains nothing but pure booze. Despite being a third sweet vermouth, it isn’t saccharine: the other two thirds, equal measures of gin and Campari, may have something to do with this. And it is the colour of danger, a red rag to anyone jaded by cocktail-world bull.

They say it was invented in Florence at the request of a Count Negroni, who wanted a drink unsullied by club soda – a drink stiff enough to get a man back on a bucking horse, perhaps, since this Count may have been a rodeo rider. I prefer to believe that the Count, if Count he was, came in, tossed down enough strong liquor to start telling stories about his American adventures, and, when he finally staggered out into the night, the exasperated bartender poured three straight shots into a single glass and baptised this wondrous reviver in grateful homage to the fabulist who had inspired it.

In a former glue factory a very long way from Florence or America, the East London Liquor Company now makes very good gin – Batches One and Two, the former tannic with Darjeeling as well as cassia bark, pink grapefruit peel, and coriander seeds; the latter redolent of savoury, bay, thyme and lavender. Transforming these plants into excellent alcohol seems an improvement on boiling down horses for adhesive, and the company also makes superb Negronis from Batch Two.

We sit outside, in a carpark made marginally more glamorous by border boxes of Batch Two botanicals, and marvel at the transformation of this grimy part of East London, next door to a park intended to give Victorian working men brief respite from lives all too lacking in myth or fantasy. It is a reincarnation at least as miraculous as the transformation of three strong and entirely unalike spirits into the delectable harmony of the Negroni. The sun shines; a fountain plashes. Nuts and charcuterie arrive. All is right with the world.

I leave my herbaceous bower and dangerously pleasing drink for a peek at the large copper distillery behind the bar, walking in past the fountain, a whimsical stone construction that pours vermilion liquid into two, tiered basins topped by a chubby putto clutching a rather reluctant fish.

And then I stop. And double back. Vermilion liquid? It is, indeed, a Negroni fountain. There are even slices of orange floating in the basin. I dip a finger: the taste is slightly metallic but still undeniably that potent mixture of booze, botanicals, bitterness, and just a hint of sweetness. A streak of citrus from the orange slices. It turns out that the world’s most straightforward cocktail lends itself to a decadent neo-Renaissance fantasy. There’s a message here, one forthright as a temperance tract: without imagination, we would have no lies – but no Negronis, either.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder