It was only as I was shuffling away from the West Holts stage, skin prickling and shirt clinging in the sticky June heat, that I noticed the first streaks of what looked like bl00d. It was everywhere—splattered across people’s arms, smeared on sunburnt shoulders, tangled in festival hair, and staining the faded cotton of a hundred vintage band tees. The chaos of Glastonbury had reached a fever pitch, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a crowd drenched in crimson, moving as one heaving, chanting mass away from a stage that had become the epicentre of something far darker than music.
For two and a half hours, I was trapped in the heart of it. I’d come to West Holts expecting a riotous afternoon, maybe a bit of political posturing, perhaps a flurry of flags and a few pointed lyrics. But what unfolded was something entirely different—a snarling, spitting, hate-filled maelstrom that left me shaken and, by the end, genuinely fearful. This wasn’t just a festival crowd letting off steam. This was a mob, and I was right in the thick of it.
It all began innocuously enough. The sun was high, the air thick with sweat and anticipation, and the crowd—already packed shoulder to shoulder—buzzed with the kind of energy that only Glastonbury can conjure. But there was an edge to it, a tension that hung in the air like static before a storm. I’d expected to see mostly young faces, but as I scanned the crowd, I saw everyone from fresh-faced students to grizzled old men in battered “Free Mo Chara” t-shirts, and even a silver-haired lady draped in Palestinian flags, her face set with a determination that brooked no argument.
By the time Bob Vylan took the stage, the West Holts field was a powder keg. Glastonbury bosses had already warned of overcrowding, but no one seemed to care. The crowd surged forward, hungry for controversy, and Vylan delivered it with both fists. “We are live on the BBC, so we have to be careful what we say,” he began, a sly grin on his lips. But caution was the last thing on his mind. Within minutes, he was leading a chant that sent chills down my spine: “D3ath, d3ath to the IDF.” The words echoed out across the field, picked up by thousands of voices, growing louder and uglier with every repetition.
I glanced at the old lady beside me. Her face was twisted with rage as she joined in the chant, her eyes wild. Around us, people of all ages were swept up in the frenzy, fists raised, mouths open in fury. It was as if the music had become a mere backdrop to something much more primal and dangerous—a collective outpouring of anger that had found its target and was now unleashed without restraint.
Then, as if on cue, the next act of the drama began. Somewhere behind me, a fire extinguisher filled with red paint exploded, showering the crowd with sticky, fake bl00d. It was a stunt straight out of the Palestine Action playbook, though no one knew for sure who was behind it. How it got past Glastonbury’s notoriously tight security is anyone’s guess, but the effect was immediate and shocking. People shrieked and laughed, some recoiling in horror, others smearing the paint across their faces like warriors preparing for battle. The symbolism was lost on no one. This was not just a protest—it was a spectacle, a statement, and a provocation, all rolled into one.
And yet, even this was not enough to steal the headlines from what came next. As the crowd roared and flares burned in the haze, Vylan launched into a tirade against the music industry figures who had dared to question Kneecap’s place at Glastonbury. He singled out his former “bald-headed c***” of a boss, and the crowd responded with a menacing chant: “Name him, name him!” The atmosphere was electric, crackling with menace and anticipation.
By the time Kneecap took the stage, the field was a seething cauldron. Palestinian flags waved like battle standards, and the band looked out over a sea of faces twisted with passion and fury. Moglai Bap, ever the provocateur, called on fans to “start a riot outside the courts” in support of his bandmate’s upcoming trial. For a moment, it seemed as if the crowd might actually oblige. The air was thick with the possibility of violence, and I found myself glancing nervously at the exits, wondering how quickly I could escape if things turned ugly.
But then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the mood shifted. Perhaps someone backstage had a word, or perhaps Bap realised just how close he was to inciting real chaos. “No riots, just love and support, and support for Palestine,” he backtracked, the words ringing hollow after his earlier call to arms. Still, the crowd was undeterred. They launched into a series of foul-mouthed chants aimed at Prime Minister Keir Starmer, who had called for Kneecap to be dropped from the lineup. “You’re just a s*** Jeremy Corbyn,” Chara sneered, a nod to the former Labour leader’s very different reception at Glastonbury in 2017.
The crowd lapped it up, their anger undiminished. Flares continued to erupt, painting the sky with smoke and fire, while the fake bl00d dried in sticky rivulets on bare skin. It was a scene of utter mayhem, a festival transformed into a battleground, and I was caught in the middle with nowhere to go.
As I stumbled away from the stage, the full impact of what I’d witnessed began to sink in. This was not the Glastonbury I remembered—the place of peace, love, and music. This was something altogether darker, a glimpse into the raw, unfiltered rage that simmers beneath the surface of British society. The lines between protest and performance, between activism and anarchy, had been well and truly blurred.
Even the BBC, never one to shy away from controversy, seemed rattled. They pledged to make Kneecap’s set available on iPlayer, but only after a thorough edit “to meet editorial guidelines.” Good luck with that, I thought. How do you sanitise two hours of open rebellion, of chants for d3ath and calls to riot, of fake bl00d and real hatred? How do you package that for polite consumption?
In the end, I left West Holts with more questions than answers. Should politics be kept out of music festivals? Is there a line between protest and incitement, and if so, who gets to draw it? What happens when the music stops and all that’s left is the roar of the crowd, the taste of fear, and the stain of fake bl00d on your clothes?
One thing is certain: Glastonbury 2024 will not be remembered for its music, its sunshine, or its sense of community. It will be remembered for the chaos, the chants, and the chilling realisation that, for a few hours on a sweltering summer afternoon, the dark side of the mosh pit was laid bare for all to see. And I, for one, will never forget it.
