UPDATE!!! UPDATE!!! UPDATE!!!

Yesterday, I posted a list of my five favourite things at Glastonbury 2014.

Item number five in that list was a moving tribute triptych of Rik Mayall.

I was brazen enough to talk about this tribute without including a single photo. That’s how little I respect my readership.

But UPDATE!!! UPDATE!!! UPDATE!!!

Now I have a photo! Along with a bonus photo of a bonus Glastonbury Rik Mayall Tribute Mural!

I didn’t take my smartphone to Glastonbury, because I knew that to do so would result in me frantically checking every few seconds to confirm that it was a) still on my person and b) still intact. Besides, I didn’t want to go through the malarkey of having to charge my phone once or twice a day, and I didn’t want to succumb to the temptation of Tweeting my every passing thought.

“DOWN AT THE FRONT FOR YOKO #YOLO”

I’d have lost a lot of followers, and even more brain cells. I’ve few to spare as is.

Lord, how I had missed the strange stresses of being constantly connected. Rolling back to a simpler, more rudimentary handset induced a similar feeling to that felt when removing a wristwatch. Pressure was relieved, and I felt like I could breathe. I enjoyed the experience so much that I’m even considering permanently downgrading. I was never welcome in this century anyway.

But that’s a story for another day. There was one disadvantage to not having my smartphone at Glastonbury. It meant I couldn’t take pictures of the Rik Mayall memorial!

Luckily, my sister did have her smartphone, and luckily, she took a picture of the Rik Mayall wall, which she was kind enough to send to me.

Look! Here it is!

Located to the right of the gate that links the Croissant Neuf field with the Green Futures field, it’s a work of beauty. That’s Rik as Rik on the left, and Rik as Alan B’Stard on the right. It’s a little hard to make out in this picture, but the figures rowing across the moonlit lake are various other characters and affiliates.

And as a special bonus, look at this:

This one was located to the left of the Glade Stage, which meant that all weekend Rik was bestowing peace upon the mud-caked freaks who chose to rave in the woods.

Because it’s almost certainly the case that not a single note of Cliff Richard’s music was played on or near the Glade Stage all weekend, Rik’s approval would have been begrudging at best. Perhaps he would have simply admired the anarchy of the whole thing. More likely, though, he’d have complained about the noise and improvised a reactionary sound poem on the spot. It would have been called something like “NOISENIK BASTARDS ARE WORSE THAN HITLER”.

I still can’t believe he’s gone.

Many thanks to my sister for taking these photos and letting me use them.