A wordy record?

Where were the sub-editors when music writer Neil McCormick filed his feature for the Daily Telegraph on the Glastonbury Music Festival? Here is one of his sentences, all 102 words: The reality is that it is pot-luck what you actually see at a festival, with multiple stages spread across huge tracts of land, where catching acts involves carefully scanning bills and trudging up and down hills, only to squeeze into the back of an overpopulated marquee full of people trying to get out of the rain, or seek shade from the sun, to catch the dying notes of a favourite song that you barely recognise because it’s mingling with the sounds of another band starting up on an adjacent stage, and a bit of techno pumping out a dance tent over the hill. Phew! So many ideas and so few full stops.
Then there was this 91-word whopper in the same article: Glastonbury is celebrated not so much for offering a diverse bill of musical entertainment on a dairy farm in Somerset as for the mysterious unity that can somehow emerge in a vast surging crowd encamped for days on end in the countryside, as all kinds of magic involving ley lines, body paint, costumes, altered state, alcohol, sleepless nights, exhaustion and, yes, music converges on a hill in front of a stage shaped liked a pyramid when some particular shaman with a guitar and a microphone and delivers release. And phew again.
Seems the sub-editors were among that crowd of altered state revellers.

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