Chapter sixteen - Bury Ditches Hill Fort Party -

Chapter sixteen - Bury Ditches Hill Fort Party - Part 2
Christ had been quiet so far. Focused on matters mystical, no other, Druid nor shaman, could realise. He felt transcendent forces afoot. The hill fort had a volcanic quality. Pregnant with earthly powers, pagan, older than his fathers era of dominion. Jesus rarely took life seriously. Famously, despite knowing that a grass was in their midst, a trusted member of the hardcore dozen homeless street drinking gang he led on many a jape, despite this knowledge he continued the booze party right to the wire. Most had crashed out, just three remained. Judas, his best mate, no less, a key figure in christs poverty cult looked a little shifty. Judas: "Getting low in rizlas. I'm just popping down the all night garage." Everyone knew Jesus could have stopped him by plucking a pack from behind Peters ear, but he still let him go.
The grass came back, but not alone. Indeed the rizlas get no further mention in any of the gospels, just a group of Romans. Having pocketed the silver, Judas goes straight up and dobs poor Jesus in.
There's more! When the Romans question him, rather than do the sensible thing, be polite, admit there's some misunderstanding, take a minor offence, Jesus embarks on an irritating comedy riff.
Pilate : "So! Are you the son of God?"
Jesus: "I am what you say I am."
Pilate: "Look, mate. I can't stand the Jewish priesthood. You can get off Scott free. Just tell me it's a set up. I ask again. Are you the king of the Jews?"
Jesus: "Whatever you say I am, I am not."
Pilate: "I'm doing my best, here. Are you the messiah?"
Jesus: "In my fathers house there are many mansions."
Pilate: "For Fucks Sake! Are you the son of God?"
Jesus: "Whatever you think I am, I am not. If you call me the son of God? Then I am he, or maybe not. My fathers temple has umpteen garages."
By now, Jesus was clearly taking the piss. All gospels agree. The riddles weren't even funny, never mind clever. Who knows? He'd been on the wine all night, maybe he was under the illusion he was a great comic. Many drunks do. Yet his neck was on the line. However, if you knew you could resurrect, perhaps it looked a great opportunity to show off. Certainly his theatrical sense is beyond doubt. The graphic symbolism of the cross trumps all other logos.
Lipton pondered this as he sat drinking with Jesus, Andy Brock and Bill Gable. Andy and Bill had admitted they'd been watching Lipton and Peter since they'd reached the valley. Peter had managed to stimmy their curiosity, telling them about their shamanic heroin rattle, before going off dancing at the Splat party, uphill with the other two Druid lads. Apparently Andy was the hard cunt the rest looked up to. When he'd struck, Lipton had been bragging about past rucks. In a sense he'd brought it on. Cathy, Sue and Rachel were no doubt with Peter and all. He'd not wanted a fight. But MDMA with special brew combined badly for him. After his boasts, he had no choice to respond when he'd nudged the Druid lad.
Lipton: "Sorry, mate! Fucking heaving in here, trying to get to the dance floor."
Andy: "You better be fucking sorry, pushing me about on our turf!"
Lipton had clicked these lads were Druids, and to be fair, Jesus did warn him how violent they could get. It still felt a negotiable problem.
Lipton :"It's your turf! Fair play. The fault was mine, but an accident, what say I give you and your mate a lilac a piece. I'll not hide from a square go, you and me, no blades. Surely no one wants such an ace night spoiling in that way? Take the free pills, mate. What do you say? We put it behind us?" and this looked like the end of it. Then some Black Country lads, battered looking, cuts and black eyes, who'd been studying proceedings shoved him in to Andy. From here all went mental. As is often the case, Bill looked to Andy as if to say, 'you're not going to stand for that, now are you?', Andy swung a left Lipton ducked easily yet as his head recentred a straight right caught him above the eye. Blood flowed. That was no fist. Knuckle duster.
Lipton :" Fuck this! You're going down!"
Liptons speed is electric. Right upper cut to chin dazed Brock, left hook as his head still moved. Straight finger jab to throat with his left as his right hand grabbed Brocks loosened grip on the knucks. They'd not come off easy, as Andys boot kicked his shin all Liptons focus was to level the odds. Away came 'Juds Reply' which he pocketed as Brocks right caught his temple, left jab, left, left and that overhand right agin. Clearly the lads best weapon.
But Lipton already had the conclusion in sight. An inevitable series followed. Straight rights have to succeed as they leave a fighter wide open. Soon as it was thrown Lipton unleashed a rally of blows, first raising Brocks guard opening the body, then Brocks defence lowered opening up the head area. Cheek, temple, chin, then Andy Brock, hardest lad in Clun tumbled like a sack of spuds.
Jesus :"Shows over. Move on!" Christ began to shuffle bystanders away. Bill tended to his mate but now the prime danger was eliminated Lipton found an empty side table lined by two old sofas. Slumping back, closing eyes, deep breaths. An arm around his shoulder, thicker than Christs felt good, brotherly. Opening his eyes he saw Andy Brock. Smiling in sincere warmth. A good fifteen years his junior, Lipton had been a twat on occasion at that age. Often all it took for a wild lad to descend into violent crime, or upward to creative anarchy. Imagine living in skint druidry around middle class posh kids? Life had given andy very little yet he'd found someone to trust. Someone worthy of bothering with. Lipton put his arm round Andy smiling back. Peter was big on this. Neither had children but now fifty, Peter saw a duty to point the wild at heart, away from the route to jail, instead on to adventures of mystical glory. The First World War was not won by effete swats, it was the pure hooligan animals of Britain that won. This hidden truth required sustenance of the wild boys. In times of need, when these Isles are in danger, don't look to those doing their homework. Peters vision saw a mindfulness of hooliganism. "Fucking mental, eh?"
Lipton: "Andy, is it? First, before you get all pally with me, I have a code. Any travelling man of respect would NEVER, never! Agree to a square go, then use a weapon! From Limerick to Belfast, Cornwall to Thurso, I've fought all comers. Some shite, some of fine pugilistic artistry. I don't count the number but over eighty men, I've beaten. Three knocked me out. Once before. Just once. In a Quarry in Ireland. Driven two hours to some farm, after beating seven men at Kilkenny Horse Fair, driven their by two Dids betting on me. My kid brother Bob came along. After an hour we knew it was bad, but we had no exit. Fuck knows where they drove us but Bob says there were easy a hundred Irish gypsies. Not a single face i knew. I just wanted to get Bob away safe. So. I'm sat in darkness in a transit van. Boom! Doors open and a circle of blood thirsty gambling Dids cheer as I walk from the van. Some guy, King of the Travellers. They all fucking are The True Bare Knuckle King, I know. I've never be more scared. Not this bare knuckle local legend stood ready to go. I'll fight anyone. But all I could think was if I lose, my chauffeurs do me, win and these spectators may do me in. Bob I made sit in the van. I says hot wire the fucker and go if I go down. Don't hesitate. Could be mortal fear, knowing this could be your time, but my head has never felt as clear nor calm, before or since.
I studied him for a while. Jabbing. Keeping out of reach. Strong man, he was. Details have gone now but I was cold. I don't think I opened a single attack, all counter punching. Stomach first, kidneys next, chip, chip, chip. Once his eyes showed pain at internal bleeding to the body I wasted no time. He'd lost now, both of us knew. Last gasp shots was all he had. Dropped my shoulder as his body followed his fist. Bang, bang head shots. I give him a few moments to breathe, another sailed by, so bang, bang, bang. He's down. Arms aloft, victory puffed out my chest, I scan the circle of angered Dids. Looking now to leap in the transit so Bob could get us away, when, Crack! A fucking claw hammer hits my head! After that I recall nothing.
Waking later in the van, my head across Bobs lap as he drove, stroking my hair. Bob:"Lipton! Never, ever go there again!"
I woke again at Dublin. Wrapped in blankets, waiting the ferry to Wales. I've not kicked at the head of a fallen man before or since, (policemen, yes, I accept I may have made select exceptions) and I've just Bobs version to go on. He said I lost it. Through the hammer Id grabbed into the crowd. Letting the crowd know why I was to now act. First, I Put him down again then stamped twenty odd times on the gypsy bare knuckle Kings head till I could detect no life. I recall difficulty finding stone within the soil as each stamp drove his skull deep in mud. Bingo! Stamp, crack,crack! They jeered and moaned, but all had seen the hammer. "Bob! Spark the cunt, now!" I yelled, leaped into the van and we sped off. Two grand I was promised but we left with empty pockets.
Two years on from then, we were down Tonbridge. Potato picking at Manor Farm. A few Polish, the rest, The Beenies, vast gypsy family. One night, sat smoking by the fire, Four Irish guys I'd never seen walked up. Stood looking me over, like they were buying a horse, saying nowt. "You want a beer, boys?" I asked.
One older fella asked, "Turn your head, boy?" I gave my profile. See that circle dent? That's the mark of an Estwing hammer. That was the mark they sought.
He threw me over a brown envelope. "There you go, Lipton! You'll find your fee, doubled in respect of both time in none payment. And apologies for our shame. You have my word, too, should you carry any concern over retribution. All is done. You may meet lads that dispute your decision to execute the boy, most, mind, saw justice in motion, that night. All saw him use the hammer, you had no option. After you'd gone, we buried him that night, with his hammer. The shame has hung over us these years. I hope this can go toward putting it right."
Weird fuckers, Andy! There's a lesson here for you, lad. You're a decent one. Don't do that again, though. You've the gift, mate. This bare knuckle thing. There's good money, respect, status, all sorts init. But there's a code. I rarely take interest. You may love it, for me it's work. Most you'll meet aren't like me. See, what I did that night in Ireland. Not a sole has criticised nor brought it up. Here's your Knuckle Dustser, " Lipton retrieved the old heirloom from his pocket.
Andy Brock looked at Juds Reply laying there in Liptons parm. You could see the Druid was deeply moved. Looking to Liptons eyes he asked, "Would you like it!"
This gesture was symbolic. It mattered not if Lipton liked the thing or not. He'd heard its historic value. Andy Brock was leaving this behind, boyhood complete. "Alright!" Lipton replied. Andy Brock, now a man, needed no tools.
Sensing Andy and Lipton had things sorted, Bill who'd been chatting to Liptons crusty mate, sat with the lads.


Peter had lost himself to the music. Alongside Ben and Jimmy, in the Splat zone all three forgot the girls and channelled the beats through their bodies into physical reflections. Humanoid actualisation of the sounds, operating them in pagan hive mind as every person the lilac shamans freed of ego to a human mass of dance. These rave rituals ripped all affectation, all becoming one. British cultural history has nothing that can compare to the ripple through human consciousness that MDMA delivered. Yet, after a time the body dehydrates. Nodding in agreement the trio went to seek the others, for a drink, and a rest.
Outside fresh air felt earths caress cool their flesh. Peter: "EBF tent?"
Cuts of hill in to steps tipped by old rail sleepers crated their path to their mates. The three now linked, arm over shoulder, a trio united in empathic truth. Love connected them.
Ambient sounds, Trance tunes swept to soothe them into the tent where all there closest were together. A sofa opposite beckoned. All slumped as one, lined up before Jesus, Lipton central like heavy weight champion, and Andy Brock, Cluns hardest. This table radiated power.
Andy Brock opened first: "Any notion who we are?"
Lipton :" Cluns republican Army? "
All broke up in laughter. It wasn't far off. "Any clue who we are?" Lipton bounced back.
Ben : "Fuck it! We are the first born sons of the current generation of the Clun Druids. The purest, meanest, weirdest motherfuckers of pure bloodline anywhere on the, fucking planet!"
Peter :" Fair play! Respect. However, over there sits Lipton and here sits Skree! Albions highest shamans and the sole archangels of the underworld."
The Clun lads nodded respect.
Andy Brock :"What a crew? Nowt beats that!"
Jesus lay back. Assessing the men in his company. Almost out of politeness, Ben asked him how he knew shamans?
Jesus :" I'm Jesus Christ, mate. Son of God!"
All Clun Druids laughed, unable to contain such boasting. Yet Andy soon noticed Lipton wasn't laughing. Peter looked dead straight faced.
Andy :"you're not joking, are you."
All the Clun skowered the crusty mystic for any shadow, any echo of a grin.
"Jesus Fucking Christ!"..........awe, fear, confusion swept over the boys, "Son of God!"
Druidic silence. Sounds continued, lights span patterns, girls in hardly any clothing passed by.
JC lent over the table, layed his arms down, looked at the Druids eyes, then slowly opened his hands. Gruesome holes, long healed yet cruelly scarred, through palms and wrists.
Jesus: "We need to talk!"


Rachel couldn't see the lads they'd been talking to anywhere. She'd left the floor to find a seat. Have a breather. Skin up and assess the situation. Four Brummys left a table so she swept in before any similar soul could claim it. A seat was already taken though the occupant lay face down. Either taking a sleep or a K head, deep down some K hole. She looked no bother, though. Ornamental. Sweeping off the plastic bottles, cans and joint debris into a bin, a need for order found her wipe its surface down as Sue staggered over from the crowd. Belting party, mind. Right old mix here. Cathys wide smile and saucer eyes completed the reunion.
Rachel : "Having a good one?" she asked her freinds. All agreed this was the best since the Old Priory do last summer. Maybe better. It had hit a peak around three am as the lilac shamans hit full speed in the larger number of the party. The next hour hardly a soul was sat. The hive mind had found a level plateaux . She could see more pills being taken, other drugs too. The next hour should see the second zone. A period of different flavour. Friendships secured. Much front now dropped as realisations the party was a good crowd on the whole. There were always a few weird fuckers but it all flavoured the stew,
Cathy: "I was hoping Lipton and Peter might have stuck around longer."
Sue :"They were off selling, I think. Lipton said he'd come find us once their business was done." From the darkened flaps of the tents entrance an odd trio entered. A white nigga and a suited businessman with a chimpanzee on a chain, or so it looked. Such a sight tended to draw the eye but Rachel now desperately looked anywhere but, as her initial study seemed to have been read as a welcome. Shit!
Bunsen :"Ginger! Cover Olpastures old fella, would you? These ladies don't want to see that sort of thing, now do you girls? Could we join you to rest our wearies a while?" Already sitting. Rachel couldn't refuse
Rachel :" Free world, mate!"
Bunsen :"Indeed! It's your generation that were born into Thatchers world. You missed the years prior as we were sliding toward communism! Yes, child, free world, free market. Thatcher was middle class, you know. Now all has corrected itself. A shaken snowstorm. Now all has floated to its natural place. Etonian boys across the cabinet. I dare say I've buggered one or two myself. I'm not a woofter, mind. Far from it. Red blooded male. Sit yourself down, fellows. We are amongst like minded Tories."
Rachel couldn't understand a word of that. You got these annoying comedy types at Glastonbury. Drama students who just had to get in your face. Trying to engage her freinds, she turned to Sue who looked mesmerised by the chimp. No, in the light it was an actor pretending to be a chained caveman.
Sue :" Is that a real steel neck collar? Doesn't chaff your skin?"
The caveman said nothing, remaining in character just staring round the room. The third looked like a straight guy dressed as a gangster. Heavy gold chain, capped teeth and sunglasses which in the tents darkness must, surely render the man blind.
Bunsen :"I swore to his mother I'd not let him go unattended. She'd be frightfully haughty should I lose the genius." Rachel studied this naked man. Toe nails curled uncut in curved claws. The mans legs had mottled fungal blotches, untreated scars and cakes patches of dried excrement. The loose cloth Ginger had used to hide the creatures genitals had slipped free exposing a horse like penis capped with a helmet Rachel could only compare to some grossly distorted root vegetable, a tuberous bellend. A withered torso, arms so undernourished, his bowed head of long matted hair and unkempt beard gave an almost Christ like impression. The bloodied execution scenes from the Mel Gibson viscerally indulgent film crossed her mind. These were no theatrical jokers. These were full on weirdos. Still, each to their own.
The slumbering stranger stirred a little, confirming life yet failed to wake fully.
Bunsen :"Musical genius, my old chum, here. Famous in his day."
Rachel: "Anything of his I might know?"
Bunsen: "Perhaps you may. His most notable successes were before your time yet his work sells a steady number of units per annum, fashions change. You could be of help. Recently I've had his masterwork remixed by a couple of chaps in vogue. How would one approach the DJ with a view to seeing if he'd give one an airing?"
Rachel: "Doubtful. Most have their set planned from start to finish. Most prepare divergent channels should the floor find a preference for certain sounds but getting a track played is unusual. They're artists. The tunes they link and intercut may be recorded by others but the selection, sequence and journey is the DJs art. But, who knows, maybe between sets they'd give you a brief window."
Bunsen: "Goodo! I'll take GMan and have a word. Could you keep an eye on Oldy? Just yank his chain if he starts gurgling or pulling at all."
Fuck! Before Rachel could compose her refusal or inability to help, the upper class twat had gone. Leaving her with this pity full creature. Cathy and Sue were engrossed in some memories of las years Thailand trip. Despite the dereliction of this man she felt him ease as the two he'd arrived with strode toward the decks. His head lifted to scan his surroundings. The eyes had a sparkle. Somewhere inside Rachel suspected hid a great if troubled mind. Her time working in psychiatric care had opened her to strange types. Often she'd found, if approached on the right level virtually everyone could find some common ground. Emboldened by pills she thought she'd have a gentle attempt to chat.
Rachel: "Your freind said you were musical? What do you play?"
Oldpastures turned and stared for a cold minute before speaking.
Oldpastures: "He isn't my freind. I played everything."
Rachel: "What, you could play any instrument?."
Oldpastures: "Tuberous Bellends. I played every instrument on the album. Rupert took my .......my .......my most beautiful thoughts......my music......my best work and turned it round. Like .......like taking a butterfly......to a candle..,.flame. Money. He made it turn into money. We shared it out. Now he wants more."
Rachel: "What is your name? Maybe I will know it."
Olpastures: "Mike.......Mike Oldpasture. I was well known a long time ago."


Mikron was losing the floor. Where the fuck was Webber? His set had finished on time, three hours it lasted and he'd nailed it to the second. Finishing on "Love is now!" should have seen his working of the crowd to a peak where Andy Webber took the reigns. And he'd played a blinder. Kept the crescendo balanced like a spinning plate. Looking back, calling out for someone to grab the baton. Anthone nodding to say, keep it going a minute and Webber will be here. Twenty five minutes on he was still doing anything he could to keep the momentum but he was close to exhausting all his insurance tracks. All DJs kept a few on hand to cover such unexpected hick ups but he could see the crowd beginning to drift off. The atmosphere had descended from euphoria down to impatience. If Webber didn't show soon he'd try find Devril. He'd been wandering about earlier, checking out his work station but his slot should follow Webber, not before. In desperation he dropped the fifteen minute anthem "All People as One" before racing backstage to see if anyone could help.
Mikron: "Where the fuck is Webber? I can't hold the floor much longer. If he's lost could Devril swap with him?"
Anthone, the prime mover of the Splat organisers put a calming arm round Mikron. Moments like this weren't ever fun but they passed. Keeping ones head was key. Calming others to stop any panic leaving the control point. Kids could handle a weird changeover. On occasion, if the break in music was brief, the DJ riding in like a knight on horseback to save the day, could make their name for such a feat. You had to keep it in mind, everyone wanted it to win. They were on your side.
Anthone: "Relax, bro. Webber says he's two minutes away. Check out this pair." Pointing over to a cartoon wannabe gangster stood by a tall man in a Savile row suit who smiled inanely, muttering odd upper class slang. Mikron couldn't help but laugh at the pair. Where the fuck did they come from? "They want to ask you to play a disc they brought. I had a quick listen in the cab and it's not too bad. What do you reckon? Bridge the gap till Web shows."
Mikron: "Can I wear a mask? I'm not putting my name to it blind. Deaf, I mean."
Anthone :" Whatever, mate. They saw you leave the decks. They'll most likely think it's Webbers intro. He's renowned for playing a weird duff tune only to rip through it with some utter diamond. Worst case is two minutes confusion."
Mikron looked at the grinning figure. Eyes that beamed a confidence and certainty that suggested he saw a world quite unlike the ambivalent chaos he saw. The disc thrust his way marked only with TB. His side kick must be a joke. The gold chain of a scale only Jay Z could afford, obviously a plastic mockery. The shades in this light must be some trick as seeing with naked eye wasn't easy here.
G Man :"What'up Nigga? I translate twixt you, my brother, and my homeboy, Rupert Bunsen. I can vouch for him. He's down with the G Man crew! Old school original. Motherfucker hardcore, knows da score. Can you flip it?"
Rupert Bunsen! Of course. He'd recognised him from his various TV appearances. Top business man in many fields. Who knew? Play this right and he may be taking a step out of Splat to the top league. Difficult to understand the comedy side kick, mind.
Mikron: "Rupert Bunsen! It is an honour to meet you. Enjoy my set? Middle section was burning though I was let down toward the end there. I'd like you to hear my plans for a major project I've in mind."
Bunsen was forever plagued with mediocre players convinced that their genius was only held back by under investment. Yet he'd dangle the carrot to get his goal.
Bunsen: "I'd by fascinated to hear your idea, soon after. This disc could link the digital possibilities of contemporary beats to the genius of a certain close associate of mine. I'm curious beyond belief in how the dance floor will react when you play this."
As it entered Mikrons hand he knew he would do it. Any loss of face to this rural provincial crowd was worth the possibilities Bunsen could offer. Further, to impress his collusion with the man he heald his head high as he placed in the disc, raised his hands to draw the crowd up. Priorities in life can flip so quickly.

Rachel's childhood from her first stirrings of personal individuation through till her early school years had a background soundtrack. She was an awkward baby, her mother said. Yet that album, Tuberous Bellend worked like a lullaby. Even her strongest tantrum could be softened by that album. That introductory melody rang gently through her mind again. This broken man had been the architect of that sound. That album she knew so well.
Rachel: "Sir, that album meant, still means more to me than I could ever express."
Mike looked up at this child. For so many years he had felt his gift had been soiled. Exposure of his soul. He gave himself away. This moment returned him. It had not been in vain. If only this child had felt it. If one persons life had been affected. It mattered. Rachel became over taken by such love for this broken man that without thought she took him in her arms and held him close.

Those key notes cut through the silence. Older ravers recognised its forgotten beauty. Children who had grown comforted in their prams by it responded. The break beat began under lacing its simplicity. Moments of MDMA dance floor epiphany occur. There rare timing can assemble all in to one. The straggling mass regellled. Others were drawn in. A call rang out gathering people from far a feild. Birmingham gangsters, esoteric ravers, mystical trance merchants. The Splat marquee arose in a singular call.
Anthone looked to Mikron. Rupert looked to G Man. Mike looked at Rachel. Rachel gathered her freinds. Olpastures became alive as he had not been in years. The sincere kindness in his smile drew all the girls into the thriving mass. This tribal singularity spread through all around till in a group mind all became lost in dance.
Rachel unclasped the medieval neck brace as she took hold of Mikes hands. Looking deep into his eyes she saw a sparkle so sublime, an innocense she'd never seen in a mans eyes. All around them in joyous Liberty danced naked people. Olpastures now found the party had inverted. All had become as him. His Elfen form moved with an ease to his own music, like grasses or reeds swept by the breeze. Rachel's body joined his in a singular elegegance.
Rupert felt proud in bringing this together. Mikron had never given a floor this power. Olpastures became a whirling dervish. His naked dancing, so innocent and free found others throwing off clothing. G Man even stripped off his pretensions crap. Soon every individual had become a singular human mass mind and body. A naked throng of dance. Tuberous Bellends had conquered.
Waking from her slumber, Harry as she was now known, heard this familiar noise. After that bastard had sent men to take her out, failed in doing so, worse, killing her sister! Lady Harrington knew her social circle would be stalked till she too was dead. In revealing her knowledge of Bunsens Noah project she had signed her own death warrant. Harrington had to leave everything behind. Find a knew circle of people. Change herself beyond recognition. Driving away she sort anonymity. Chance took her to a vast warehouse rave. Here she took her fist pills. Sometime that night she realised she could be anyone. Her birth need not dictate who she was. She could choose who she wanted to be. The gang she settled in with embraced her into their fold. The alternative society can be a haven for the lost. Squat life in Bristol took her in. Accent dissolved as her hair matted into locks. The emergent rave scene saw her each weekend in heaven. Class shite forgotten. Dancing to music too loud to talk made accent or other mannerisms that give away a persons class irrelevant. All were equal. Harry they called her and that was who she became. Her Bristol crew had been up three nights already at a Gloucester party prior to Bury Ditches. Losing them two hours ago she'd fallen asleep face down on this table. Then that sound. Set to a drum and bass track but unmistakeable. Mike Oldpasture Tuberous bellend. Wonder what became of him? she idly thought. The rest had refuelled her. Soon she was dancing amidst the throng. Her rave posse were no doubt close but hearing Bellends mixed in so beautifully delivered her to her youth. Her dreads swung free, plucking a further pill fro her pocket she dropped it now. Tonight's power was vast.
Elmer felt the power. Looking to Elijah and Esau they smiled. From the hill side tunnel exit they ran to join the dance, Soon all three were lost in the tribal dancing. Elmer took two lilac pills and his body took over from his mind.
Hips shuddered as the sounds animated his body. All around girls felt twinges of utter joy. Elmer s gyrations were beginning to deliver that old Presley Magic.
Sue could see the dark haired, white skinned man, moving in a way beyond any beauty she had known. Cathy caught it as a clitoral pulse that grew taking her to heights she'd never thought existed. Every female soon came into a crescendo of ecstasy. Men too in some orgasmic plateaux. The Birmingham lads could not resist. They too fell under the gyratory Magic.
Yet this was no moment of dominion but a humbling. They all, to a man dared not go close to the orgasmosis of female power that Elmer brought to The tribal mass of dance that accompanied Tuberous Bellends remix. Esau was elevated to see the fractal colours that Jesse once spread. The Presley gyrations brought such deep sexual stimulation in women, yet these mandalas of light so characteristic of Jesses underworld parties had laid dormant in recent times as Jesse aged and seldom enlivened the subterranean parties. Elijah caught Esaus eyes open in childlike wonder. Jesses reign may be in its last days. But a new king had been crowned. Elmer, King of the Underworld Rock and Roll Empire of Eternal Party. Their day may yet come. There may yet become a day when the glory of the Underworld Empire takes itself overland. They would learn from Jesses mistakes. Fine tune the old, create the new, rise up from the ground under Elmer. The King of Rock and Roll.

Peter looked to Lipton. Both knew what was afoot. Aside from the subterranean trio Only they had seen jesses powers. Only the two shamans had found their way to the underworld. Their quest, their singular refusal to give in. No overlander had witnessed this. Jesse, however, understood and knew his craft in detail, Elmer looked to be equal in power yet utterly untrained, unpracticed unaware of it. What could happen if they didn't get to work? Unrestrained this nights potential had escalated by chance to a point where anything could occur. Tonight they had a volcano on their hands. This could cause a trans dimensional earthquake across the whole molecular field. Reality saw the multiverse at potential membrane bursting points heating up, becoming dangerously thin. Elmers gyratory power unchecked could literally create a singularity. All females could reach climax at a single point, causing a tear in space and time. The effect could pierce a black hole through dimensions. Could propel all forth in to a mystical realm beyond anyone's conception. Such power could be the key to the planets salvation. Both shamans knew the environmental disaster was the conclusion of male domination. Both had discussed how the project of western consciousness was at heart, male. The planetary damage was the result of male thought, philosophy and technology. It had led to environmental disaster. Could this be the conclusion of their quest? The feminisation of humanity? The rebalance necessary. Had Gaia brought all disparate powers together on this hill tonight to save herself?
The power here was strong. Beyond any conception of the Druids they sat with.
Drawing Christ over they gathered together. This may be mother earths response. Christ agreed their discussions with the Clun Druids had to be postponed. Brock, Black and their coven sensed this was big. Besides, they'd other duties it may be an opportune moment to get on with their private job.
Peter: "Can we meet soon. Postpone our conference? This is too powerful a moment. Two days from now, can we meet again?"
Brock: "Of course, brothers. You Lipton and Christ must go do your thing! Ours can wait. But if you need us, we will help."
Jesus looked concerned. He nodded to the Shamans. All three must go to work. He shook hands with the Druids. "Two days from now. There are some issues we must discuss. Apologies but none of us saw this coming." Jesus swiftly shared mobile numbers with Ben Black and Andy Brock. Lipton and Peter did likewise. Their conference was important but it would have to wait for now. The turbulent weather of mysticism had an unpredictable volition. The combination of factors affecting the current storm meant neither messiah nor shaman could give any accurate forecast.
Brock: "Make haste. Our main plan has been centuries in the making. When you live like that you come to think most things can, if needs be, wait a little longer. Go, lads, go!"
The three ran from the EBF big top. Outside the hill was awash with ravers drawn toward the Splat party. Running through the undergrowth they headed upwards. The marquee was glowing with hysteria. Estrogen electriforms of lightning slashed the sky.
Making it to the focus of the power Lipton and Peter raced into the dancing mass. Christ in tow. Before them all bodies now naked were lost in a singular mind. Elmer unknowingly had unleashed gyratory powers freeing all of self. Females in multiple ecstatic waves of orgasmosis writhed and moaned. Men were too lost in sexual mindlessness. The earth goddess had channelled all power through the hill creating a power flow of vengeful magnitude.
Christ looked at the shamans, "Should we stop this?" Despite Christs happy go lucky nature he'd always held a position of authority amongst the trio. No ego or owt but it went unsaid that Jesus was the son of God. Shamans come and go. Yet in Christs eyes this question revealed acceptance of their more specialised knowledge. The goddess was better understood by Lypton and Peter. JCs old man was of little use as a pagan site lit up, channeled by orgasmosis.
All three considered the epiphenomena a while. Something of such power was taking place only a god could hope to intervene. Thinking they could do anything to affect what was happening was like believing that they could stop the ocean. They may be the only ones aware of what was afoot but this would play out its course regardless of any human concern.
Peter: "No way we can stop this, nor am I sure we should. But we must understand if its force is pure good. Lipton, we must go archangel. Christ? Can you keep a grip on things on the ground? You giving Elmer his intelligence was the cause of this, so take some responsibility! Just keep his gyrations within a respectable level. No Abel female orgasmobomb? Ok? "
Nunnery and monastery have used celibacy to trigger mystical States. Christ liked sex yet he had that trick. That white glow of showing the love of God was beyond sex. He must get Elmer under control. Quickly.
Christ was now grinning. Lipton and Peter too. "What the fuck is this thing? It is Fucking brilliant!"
Mystics united in this glorious moment. They lived for this shit.
The shamans began to relish this phenomena. This was their calling. Their construct. Their shamanic masterpiece. The Hill Fort party would no doubt have taken place but letting Elmer into the mix had opened it up by several dimensions. Dimensions most their could never see yet all surely felt. Smiling at Lipton, Peter with eyes of pure joy, :"Lipton, let's take to the fucking skies,"
With that they stashed their bodies under some trucks, took a pill each, then fucking wings burst out of their backs. Skree and Lipton embraced as brothers, pride in their shared vision. Flexing the power of their wings, capturing the wind, together they left the earth and flew to the skies. Archangels.

Elmer :" Jesus Christ, my main man! Good to see you again!"
Jesus:" Elmer! You too. I must insist on a private word."
Elmer:" Thank you for answering my prayers, my faith shall never waver. This party is a mental fucker, eh? Are you on one, as the saying goes?"
Jesus: "I am indeed on six if truth be known. Elmer, I have to steady you, my child. Though the pills may Implore you to dance, there are manoeuvres to your repertoire that undermine a ladies dignity. Whilst it is a gift so pure you can bring a joy many will never feel again, others, some of specific religious misconceptions, who may be left forever in guilt. Others can go off so extremely they are finished. Yes, a death of utmost beauty but not always their time. So, Elmer, I ask you keep your gyrations of a subtle nature."
Elmer:" I am most sorry, Jesus, I just want to dance. I don't want to hurt no one."
Jesus: "Elmer, lad, gifts like we have can truly be a right fucker, at times. Try to keep your moves above the waist."
Elmer:" I've got you, let's go mental! Waist up only, though!"
Less: "Indeed, Elmer! Let's go mental but no gyrations!"
Jesus Christ then took on a purity of white light. Shrouding Elmer within. Instilling a celibacy into proceedings. Not an conclusion of the parties' sexual dimension but a shading of Elmers effects. A reduction in the orgasmatic volume. All would be good.
Seeing this fall back within safe limits, Jesus returned to his earlier objective. He'd need to sort this Druid shit out. He just hoped this unseen diversion hadn't lost them the moment. Two nights ahead he thought of the Clun Council; Lipton and Skree/Peter shamans archangels, Brock, Black, Arbor Clun Druids and the three witch coven, Elmer Presley and Jesus Christ. Fucking two nights ahead. They had to nail that one once this pagan earth shit was sorted. His trust in Skree and Lipton was strong. They loved this shit really. With this in mind Christ went off to find a smoke. Some booze too. Perhaps a little female company wouldn't go amiss either.

Thermals becoming visible as the outer colour spectrum stepped over a notch or two further each way. Air turbulence man can barely feel as wind crystallised into its complexity. Flicking wings shifting both aloft in seconds as they rode the burning air of fire and human body heat. From above it could often seem unimportant as this new dimensions wonder took on values less familiar. Many an archangel has lost themselves in the wonders now open to them. Earthly problems forgotten. Circling some three hundred feet above the hills summit, the two archangels from equidistant poles scanned the scene below. Differing sensory perceptions allowed them to measure the emotional atmosphere of the collective consciousness. Neither had any real experiences to compare this with, being new to the whole angelic sphere, yet the entire hill fort felt pregnant with mystical power. Tribal people the world over since humanities dawn have channeled such powers. As shamans Skree and Lipton were well skilled in the craft. Entering other dimensions and altered states of consciousness through group drumming and chanting was part of their life's work. The diversity of branches of the field was immense, gathered from across the globe, their years of learning drew on shamanic traditions from scores of cultures. Yet following acid houses emergence in the late eighties, a reawakening of a craft long lost in mainstream Britain had developed organically. Ten years ago footage of African tribes people building up the powers through collective drumming, chanting and dancing, seeing individuals becoming entranced, overtaken by spiritual powers, had looked confusing and completely alien. MDMA and Rave culture returned such practice to these islands in huge raw parties. Numbering into the thousands, exploring this new power with no map or spiritual framework unleashed immense uncoordinated forces. Following the dispersal of the old class system that began after the war yet crumbled in the seventies as globalisation found cheaper sources of heavy industry rendering the traditional working class no more than a notion. An identity many clung onto through family history yet no longer related to a persons actions. To be working class had been actualised by the process of labour. Stripped of this all that remained was a confused notion of personal identity.
Freeing up the financial markets allowed entrepreneurs of all nationalities into the top eschelon of the super rich. The power of the pooling of wealth now saw the aristocracy joined by Russian oligarks, Arabian oils sheiks and Chinese businessmen. The philosophy of the individual against the group was advanced by Thatcher and Blair. Working class pride had brought communal honour in shared physical work. Once the major industries were gone the children of redundant parents must find new ways to earn. Private enterprise was projected as attainable to any prepared to try hard enough. Margaret Thatcher saw community as a bad concept. Greed was now good. Society no longer existed. We were all now individuals, responsible only to and for ourselves. It became a free for all. Socialist concepts like the NHS, education for the poor and helping the weak were abandoned. In the creative industries apprenticeship learning to qualify as a master of ones craft was abandoned. Instead innovation and the mythological genius individual that had grown in fine art now swept away trade standards and collaboration. We were no longer aspects of a greater whole, instead in competition against each other. This individuation, this separation from the singular group culture continues. Yet for a decade MDMA and rave culture saw the earth shout back. An animal response where love and shared joy, dancing together unbothered by financial status, class differences, gender, race or other divisional categorisation, opened a window. Time will tell if this was a last scream of rebellion against the culture of the individual, or an early warning cry that the people as one is for the common good. The concept of the trickle down effect hoped the freeing up of business to grow unimpeded would see entrepanaurial money making let wealth fall down through the mesh of society. The opposite happened. Now the gap between rich and poor is historically without precedent. Most of the planets wealth is now in the hands of a few. Richard Bunsens project being the final conclusion. But in this moment, all was good. The Archangels looked down upon the hill fort party and saw it was glowing in beauty. For many here this would be the greatest night of their lives. Why take it away? The communal glow of the hive mind radiated a golden warmth. They sensed odd pockets of darkness. Tiny flecks that marred the overall purity. Yet these were so few as to not matter. Together the archangels continued to sweep a protective circle over the mass of dancing people. Their peace lasted for an hour till its harmonic perfection shivered. A needle of pain punctured the moment. Some act of horror was taking place. Both dropped their wings and swooped down, testing their new senses, searching out this locus of fear. But as yet they were novices. Before any coherent realisations could form in either mind, it evaporated. Whoever had been in pain was no longer. In landing neither spoke. There are no words that exist to describe what they had just shared.



Gombo and Reeny had set out from Wolvo with the lads before lunchtime. Waiting in this back water town, parked up with fellow ravers, waiting for the location had been spent smoking spliffs and chatting to the party crew they knew from various West Midlands events. Some rough looking lads had tried selling them some lilac pills but they'd opted for some Mitsubishis off the Birmingham lads. Town lads tend to trust town lads. Bumpkins seemed untrustworthy. Somehow these never kicked in. They had a word with the lads they'd scored off who said they were the business. Just took a bit more time to kick in than most. Reassured by this all made sense, so they bought more. Now they were up on the hill they'd felt drowsy. Despite the wild party they'd crashed out in the car. Neither felt much like dancing, just a nap. Perhaps they should have tried those lilacs, both pondered as the sleeping tablets took them deep under.
Both looked deeply unconscious as Andy Brock opened the rear drivers side door. Ben Black slipped inside the rear passenger door where Andy joined him. They looked in each other's eyes as they wrapped the Garrotte wire around their gloved fingers. Once both felt theirs tight and secure they nodded, slipped the wire over the towny ravers heads and pulled as tight as they were able. Small gurgling noises were the sole noise as their victims clawed at the wire, squirming for some escape. A pair of drunken partners stumbled past on their way to a nearby car. It could quite easily have been them but it was Gombo and Reeny that were now dead,
Ben worked as a joiner though would be purchasing a replacement handsaw later today. His last now buried on a dark corner of the hill fort. Both local Druids knew this hill fort from playing here as boys. Their two severed fruits would not be found before they could return to collect. Andy texted the figure 2 x to the girls from his greater family reassuring them all ingredients were now located. Two days ahead lay this awkward conference. By then all would be in place yet both Andy and Ben agreed they would hear out all voices in attendance. A congress of such depth amassed without plan must have higher organisation. This must be respected.

Andy Webber finally felt the Valium bringing it under control. Being of the age that bridged the gap, he was no stranger to full strength acid. Nevertheless, these last years had found his expectations return to that of nineties rave acid. Acid house was a misnomer. LSD had nothing to do with this culture. MDMA house would have been more accurate. The pre operation Julie acid he'd taken in his teens placed a person in a head state none conducive to vast parties. A full strength acid trip required deep consideration as to ones frame of mind at time of ingestion and deep consideration on where the trip was to take place. Rave acid became available at about a third the strength. He'd become used to that strength. What Webber took earlier was of the new lysergamides. Well fucking strong. The last three hours he'd spent hiding in some travellers bender, too scared to take his slot at the decks. He was aware he was letting down not only the organisers but his many fans, nevertheless, he tripping bollocks. Seeing his predicament some old crusty had taken pity. Given him four diazepam. He'd nodded gratefully, unable to speak. Finally they were taking the edge off the acid.
Northern Soul nights fuelled on speed pills saw Webber, Mike Pickering other DJs initiate the all night dancing phenomena. Wigan casino, Blackpool pleasure beach. Their scene had been small and dying out. Yet just as it appeared all they had built would die away, unnoticed, forgotten, a magical thing occurred. A drug created in the early twentieth century that had slipped by largely unnoticed suddenly became available. Coming from house music scenes in Amsterdam, the Balearics , the U.S. .When MDMA changed the world they were ready. Picking up on new American house. As though their vision had come true. Their world became mainstream fashion leaving them perfectly placed to become the first big name DJs. Now, struggling towards where he should have been two hours ago, he just prayed his name could hold up enough to get paid. In truth his name at a rural set up was rare. They were lucky. Still, you shouldn't let them down,
Entering the Splat marquee he saw such total immersion of every person in to the sound of this drum and bass, no, it was more a break beat mix of the seventies Mike Olpasturers album The Tuberous Bellends. Tricky. If the dance floor is going mental how can you improve on that? On the other hand, they were all on one. The passion already there. His skill ought to be able to take a hold of this movement and channel it. Webber would triumph.
Anthone budged him over to the decks. This DJ free disc that by some weird fluke of fortune had captured the whole party for over an hour. No one stood at the decks yet no one had cared. Daylight was breaking. Levelling the key riff Webber began to soften it, bleeding in a little soul yet maintaining the core. The crowd went along for a while, rejostleing to the new rhythm. Only then did he realise virtually all were naked. Some acceptable readjustments saw fringers trickle off but the bulk remained. Dawn always saw self consciousness change things. But this was too strong to stop. Clothes were replaced, several had gone downhill to the EBF big top. However, Webber knew if he could keep it steady for these hours by eleven early fallers from last night would be rising. Word amongst the travellers in the bender he'd hid out in was a thirty vehicle strong convoy was heading their way from deep Wales. Tonight would have fresh impetus. Traveller crew always delivered a sense of solidarity. These people lived each day this way. Their disdain for weekenders could get a bit much but once they'd set up site, with their years of police battles, outlaw living, it empowered the ravers. Ravers returned to jobs and straight lives, travellers were the real deal.
Webber now had his head set. He'd battle on. Stand tall till the reinforcements arrived.

Craven Arms police had accepted defeat for the night. Complaints from locals had been few. These things often played themselves out and few amongst them relished entering a world beyond their understanding. Contact had been made with West Mercia. They were to take up three cars on a reccy at midday to assess the situation. If the party was on the wane they'd let nature take its course. Hopefully most would be gone by the afternoon. Plan two. If the party looked aimed for a second night, they'd have west Mercia coppers available plus Worcestershire volunteered fifty men. Most agreed it wouldn't take this. But, should these rebellious ravers make a stand, they'd meet the might of the law. On occasion the police lost a battle but, in the end, they always won.

Peter and Lipton having put away their wings took a wander. Cars lined the verges leading up to the carpark. Over the course of the night a clear route of access had been created allowing the passage of vehicles to the main marquee. Some cars were packed with ravers having a smoke, meeting up with old freinds, bonding with new. Other cars were now sleeping pods. The odd tent had been pitched and a number of small fires kept the chill off circles of ravers discussing the previous night, looking forward to tonight. Cold daylight saw much of the party still in full power. Peters mobile received a message from the Aberistwith crew who asked if it was worth the drive. Their site had remained in constant use for a dozen years now. Vehicles came, stayed a while, left to be replaced by others. Two buses that hadn't been drivable for years had become home for Jerry and Stacy who now had three kids. Between them a garden had been established to grow vegetables. Yet most used the site as a secure spot to pitch up for the winter. Repair their vehicles before travelling over the summer. Lipton had Mortimers Cross asking the same. He had family based here and a similar site. Permanent yet ever changing in personnel. Both agreed. Bring it on. If last night was any indication it would be well worth the journey. Traveller crews now were on their way.
Plans began to form as to how to both accommodate and consolidate their hold should the authorities organise to close them down.
Peter: "If we fortify the rear side of the hill with the Welsh we can block that exit. Your Cross crew can pitch up close to our camp. From here we have both routes secure. The kiddies can call up their raver mates and I reckon we can hold this for a week. I've got refill on the lilacs coming later. If we both sell our remaining stock we can keep it going till the night, easy. By then our reinforcements and fresh supplies should be here. Are you up for making this go down in history!"
Lipton:" Fuck yea! I've still to check out the ice tent and both main stages are awesome! I have no doubt the filth will respond. But if we've ours in place by nightfall they don't stand a chance. We need to get on to the young ravers. We want more kids from the cities. Hereford,mWorcester, Kidderminster all need to show some face. Wolves are talking of bringing down a battle force following Andys stupidity. Walsall, West Brom, Dudley. Come on! Let's do this!"
Between them they had three hundred lilacs left. The Birmingham drugs had proved shit. Peter got on to Bishops Castle for a reload. Then both went out, following different paths, selling pills to keep the party going strong. Putting word out to all the towny ravers to spread the message. This was going to be the big one. Last night was just the start. Bury Ditches Hill Fort would go down in history.

Having postponed the Druid conference till this party was through, Jesus went off on his own to see what was going on. The lower ice crew area felt dry and insular. Birmingham mostly but a strong Manc contingent. Cocaine was rife. Powder and pipe. A cold feeling of paranoia moved him uphill. Various smaller set ups of twenty or so sat round fires. Chilling out. Smoking and chatting. The shamans vans were now surrounded by a number of others. Many from Herefordshire. Fifteen vans and trucks around a huge fire pit where many drank whilst reconnecting with travellers from other areas. This lot were old school. Dogs ran a mock. Food was being prepared. Of all the satellite village posses this zone felt most like home. Food. Beds. Jesus lay on Skrees bed next to his dog for half an hour. Living hear he imagined how his life must be from within. Shaman. Traveller. Lysergamide enthusiast. Follower of subterranian quests. Meeting Lipton and peter, Skree or whatever he preferred, had been of such simple acceptance. Years of atseholes had plagued him yet these two had let him feel free to be himself. It wasn't all that easy being Christ.
After resting their awhile he slipped away to the EBF tent. The power of the Bellends hour had seen many seek less intense tunes. Dancing here felt much more loose, Ambient beats suited the early morning as many were tailing down off the previous nights pills. Others were rising again. The DJ dropped an old Stone Roses number that found Jesus losing himself in dance. I am the resurrection. Closing his eyes Christ let his body flow with the tune. This was all he had ever wanted. People together, dancing, love. Material bullshit meant nothing. Seldom did he now reflect on the mission that brought him amongst humanity. His message found its way to so few. Then the Orthodox Church developed using his name yet seemingly oblivious to the Christian message. Arms around his shoulders brought him to the moment. A girl in tattered dress swung her locks and her warm smile drew him close. Together they moved till she asked him if he had water. Together they found a table and sat.
Jesus: "Here you go sweetheart, take this water." She drank deep from his bottle. "What shall I call you?"
Harry:"They call me Harry mostly. This night has been so good. Daylight seems abrupt but I'm still feeling it."
Jesus:"Ignore the light. Or embrace it. Look across the land. Is this not beautiful?"
Harry:"You're right. I've been hiding so long it feels night closes me with a protective privacy.'
Jesus:"I am the resurrection and I am the light."
Quoting these Stone Roses lyrics made Harry laugh free of concern. "What are you hiding from?"
Harry:" It's a long and twisted tale. You don't want to know. You dress in rags. We all are naked underneath. My birth placed me in a hideous restriction. Since I got into this scene I've forgotten all that."
Jesus: "I can happily forget what the lottery of birth bestowed on me if you will. To me you are just Harry, I'm called.....just call me JC."
Harry :" JZ? Ok.
Christ thought that would do. From here they settled back. He put his arm around her as they settled into a sofa, she knew this was no letch, no man after her. Just a freind who cared. Snuggling closer they spoke no more. Just watched the diverse people in various states of consciousness shuffle past, dance, laugh. Soon they were sleeping. Safe in each other's arms. The comfort of strangers, unified by escaping their past to look only forward.


Christs intervention had tempered Elmers gyrations. Settling into dance in restrained manner alongside Esau and Elijah had been wonderful. He'd grasped what his powers entailed and kept it under wraps. All three had been blown away by that two hour piece. They all knew the old album most samples were taken from and developed into something majestic. All had been at raves where magic happened but not one of them had seen anything like this. Looking back they could hardly believe that five hundred people, maybe more, from all walks of life had abandoned themselves, gone naked in dance. Rumour was the naked caveman that had led the dancing was Mike Oldpastures himself. He'd appeared a trogladite at first yet as music channeled through his frail figure he became much more. A satyr. A creature from unicorn or Elfen worlds. So elegant in motion was his form, so silken his movements he became a pied piper, leading joyous children in dance.
They'd found Sue and Cathy watching in awe as their friend Rachel fell under the spell of this creature. After a while it was clear, though strange, this Olpastures was a decent person. Linking up they'd formed a five part group which handily placed sexual expectations mathematically off the menu. Elmer couldn't avoid the hovering of females who all moaned despite his reserved moves. Still, Sue and Cathy were revelling in a constant clitoral rippling Elmer emitted despite his deep restraint. Esau and Elijah kept them safe.
Shifting three sofas together the five fell into a singular bed, a group nest, clutching one another in warmth. Grabbing a few hours sleep till Rachel returned from wherever Mike had taken her.


Rupert was lost. Strolling on a hill, far from the estate. Chivers wouldn't answer his mobile. Stern ticking off, for that chap! Those lilac tiddlywinks had got him thinking all sorts of nonsense. They'd brought on some hallucination where all and sundry, peasants and paupers, had appeared his equals. Shameful memories troubled him. Had he been dancing with them? Talking, smiling, buggery! He'd lost the CD! Tuberous Bellends remix could have fallen into some rivals hands. Worst of all his suit now had a horrid stain where some penile dysfunction must have taken place. Sticky. The old fella had taken on a mind of its own. It was just as he saw those ghostly looking teddy boys that smelt of soil. Ginger, now unable to compose his GMan construct, walked with his old chum. Who was he anyway? Certainly no urban Afro American. Ginger Fortesque? Where in buggerys name was Old Pastures? Bunsens scheme had excelled. Where the rest smelled oneness and love, Bunsens nose smelt something altogether different. The money could be tasted in the air. Rupert ruminated on how Eavis must have had a similar epiphany. His genius in taking the spirit of oneness and freedom from those early festivals, stripping away its naivety, then selling it to the wealthy. Once Glastonbury had a little of its own kudos the travellers could be dispensed with. Bunsen grew frightfully hot beneath the collar. Oldpastures owed him, big time! He must recapture the ape.





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