THERE’S a white tent at Glastonbury in which hangs a large sign: “Queue here to complain that the festival is not as good as it used to be.”

You have to assume that the punishment for doing so is terrible (“This is Mr Doherty and he’s going to sing to you”), but what would be the point of moaning? Looking back at past festivals would be like comparing Kate Moss and Hattie Jacques. You can see there are basic similarities, but the first thing you notice is that they’re entirely different sizes.

The modern festival is simply vast. Apparently there were 178,000 people on site yesterday. That’s the population of York. Camping. In a field.

Some people, unable to resist a spot of social climbing, had fenced off little gardens next to their tents. Another week and they’d be building patios. If ever middle England is evacuated, this is what the refugee camp will look like.

It’s also much posher than it used to be. For £500 a party, you can book into the Hotel Bell Tent. There’s a canvas reception and each tent has its own chandelier. When I first went to Glastonbury in 1977 I slept on the ground. I didn’t even have a sleeping bag because I’d offered it to an ex-girlfriend in the hope that she might share it with me. She didn’t.

Back then the whole thing fitted happily into one field. It was free, everything was chaotic and bands seemed to come and go unannounced and, in some cases, unwatched.

These days the lineup has changed beyond recognition. Not just the big names like Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen and Blur and bands you didn’t even think were still going (yes, Fairport Convention, I’m talking about you) but oddball acts such as Rolf Harris. Tom Jones and Tony Christie are on today. Alas, Sir Noël Coward’s agent said he wasn’t available.

Rumours occasionally sweep the camp that a big star is making a surprise appearance. Emily Dickerson, 21, a student, woke up at 2am on Friday to the sound of Michael Jackson songs being sung around camp fires. Dickerson, from Oxford, thought Jackson had made a surprise appearance and was annoyed to have missed it.

By the way, the grief didn’t last long. If the festival was supposed to be at half-mast in Jackson’s honour yesterday, it didn’t show.

What’s odd is that music is everywhere but isn’t necessarily the main attraction. “The music doesn’t matter really,” said Dickerson, who was here for the first time. “It’s the atmosphere that matters. People are so friendly.”

You couldn’t really get much further than the hippie alternative society roots of the original 1970 festival.

People are so conventional now that they organise themselves into the recognisable elements of a small suburban town (“Ladies and gentleman, on stage after Kasabian - Terry and June”). The tents are on the outside and music lovers commute to the stages and the shops. Some parts of the suburbs, I have discovered, are more desirable than others.

Ray and Anne Fergie, she’s 55 and he’s 49, had found a spot in what is the Park Lane of Worthy Farm. If an estate agent could describe their accommodation (a tent) he would say it was compact and bijou, situated on a hillside with fine views of the pyramid stage.

“We thought everywhere would be pretty much the same,” said Ray Fergie. “This is like a village, but there are definitely areas that have a more aggressive feel about them – perhaps where you wouldn’t want to go at night.” It was only five minutes before I saw my first purple felt top hat. There is some sort of by-law that states you can’t hold a popular music festival unless somebody wears a purple felt top hat.

That’s what it feels like to be a visitor, but what’s it like to be one of the stars? Nick Crowe, a drummer, played here in 1999 when his band, Gaydad, were at the height of their brief and bruising brush with fame.

“We walked up the steps and suddenly there were 8,000-9,000 people,” said Crowe. “A huge cheer went up and I almost fainted. I think I burst into tears. Suddenly I didn’t feel up for it. My legs were like jelly. It wasn’t a great gig. Despite that, going on stage at Glastonbury was one of the pinnacle moments of my life.”

So remember that today as you watch your favourite band swaggering on stage. They might look like rock gods, but their legs are like jelly and they are fighting back tears of fear.

You know what I miss most about the old days? The nudity. You just don’t get the brazen naturism that was offered in the 1970s. News of it soon got about, too. One evening, what appeared to be the entire male population of the nearby villages came to watch.

So there may be a few local men who might complain that the festival isn’t as good as it used to be, but not me.

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