By the way that their jaws dropped open, it was clear I had gained not only their respect, but also their admiration.
‘Electric kettle socket,’ said one of them, softly.
‘That’s right,’ I nodded. ‘We do have an electric kettle. These are the 1960s, you know.’
‘Right,’ they both went. ‘Yeah, right.’
It took a lot of cable, but we finally reached my back wall. I shinned over, climbed through the kitchen window, pulled out the kettle lead and plugged in Brentstock.
I was rather pleased with myself and as I walked back to the stage (you will note that I walked and did not shuffle) I ignored the foolish titters and behind-the-hand remarks. These fellows knew they were dealing with a natural superior and I’m sure that it must have irked them greatly.
Peasants!
On my return to the stage, I was glad to find the first band already setting up. This was Astro Lazer and the Flying Starfish from Uranus. Chico had recommended them to me. They were a mariachi band.
They looked very smart in their national costume: sleeveless denim jackets, headbands and tattoos. I watched them as they tuned their trumpets, flugelhorns, ophicleides, comets and euphoniums. I wondered whether it would be a good idea for me to go out in front and do a couple of one twos into the mic. just to get things started. And then it occurred to me that someone should really be introducing this festival.
And that someone should be the Doveston.
I found him around by the mixing desk and I must say that he looked the business. He wore a long flowing white robe that reached to his ankles and, what with his lengthy hair that was parted down the middle and his wavy little beard, he put me in mind of— ‘Christ!’ went the Doveston. ‘What do you want?’
‘Karl Marx,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘You put me in mind of Karl Marx, 1818 to 1883, the German founder of modem communism in England from.., oh...’
My running gag was cruelly cut short as I spied out the floral-haired hippy chick who was kneeling down before the Doveston and giving him a— ‘Blow!’ went the Doveston. ‘Scram! Clear off!’ ‘But I thought you’d want to go on stage and officially open the festival. It is your festival, after all.’
‘Hm. A very sound idea.’ He waved away the hippy chick. ‘You can finish adjusting my yo—yo later.’
I viewed the Doveston’s yo-yo. ‘You’d better put that away before you go on stage,’ was my advice.
‘What?’
‘Well, you don’t want to trip over the string.’
Imust say that the Doveston’s opening speech was a blinder. The style of his oration owed a lot to that of another famous
German. The one who had given all those stirring pep talks to the Aryan nation at Nuremberg before the last war. There was much cupping of the hands over the groin area, stepping back to let a point sink in, beating the heart with a fist and so on and so forth and suchlike.
I couldn’t help thinking that the little FOhrer might well have enjoyed an even greater success had he been able to adopt the Doveston’s technique of spicing up his speeches with a yo-yo trick or two.
The Doveston spoke of love and peace and music and how it was our duty to make the very most of every minute. And when he broke off suddenly to light a cigarette and ‘enjoy a Brentstock moment’, I realized that I was truly in the presence of greatness.
He left the stage to thunderous applause and joined me back at the mixing desk. ‘What did you think?’ he asked.
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘It will be worth at least three paragraphs in the biography. Although I do have one criticism.’
‘Oh yes, what?’
‘You didn’t go one two, one two into the mic. before you started.’
Friday evening was a gas. The bands played and the beautiful people danced. And they ate and they drank and they bought Brentstock cigarettes. Chico and some of his buddies moved amongst the crowd, targeting any out-borough pushers and teaching them the error of their ways. The sun sank low behind the mighty oaks that lined the riverside and I felt sure that this was going to be a weekend to remember.
It was.
I was rudely awoken from my bed rather early on the Saturday morning. I rolled over, expecting to see the beautiful face of the young woman I’d met the previous evening. The one with the blond hair and the colourful bikini top, who had been sitting on the shoulders of a bloke right near the front of the audience. Her name was Litany.
But Litany wasn’t there. Because Litany had told me to piss off.
‘Wake up,’ shouted Norman. ‘We’ve got troubles and they all begin with P.’
I groaned. ‘Troubles always begin with P. Remember my Party, everyone came as something that began with a P.’
‘Really?’ said Norman. ‘How interesting. But this lot all begin with P. Private Property, Public order offences, Police Prosecutions and Poo Poo.’
I took to groaning some more. ‘Go on then,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Tell me about them.’
Norman took a deep breath. ‘Urgh,’ he said. ‘You’ve farted.’
‘All men fart first thing in the morning. Tell me about the bloody troubles.’
‘Right, yes. Well, firstly no-one got permission to hold the festival on the allotments. They’re private property, the council owns them. Then there’s all the noise. Most of the nearby residents have complained and so the police have come to close the festival down. And then there’s the poo poo.
‘Tell me about the poo poo.
‘Well, there’s two thousand people camping out there and most of them need to take a dump. Would it be all right if they used your outside loo?’
I scratched at my tousled head. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I expect so. I’ll have to ask my mum.
‘That’s all right then.’
I leapt from my bed. ‘No it’s bloody not!’ I shouted. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I thought I might just run away and hide somewhere.’
‘We can’t do that. We can’t let the Doveston down.’
‘Why not?’ Norman asked.
I gave this some thought. ‘Where would be a good place to hide, do you think?’
‘How about South America?’
I shook my head. ‘We can’t do it. We can’t let all those people down. We can’t disappoint them.’
‘What, all those people who’ve come to see Bob Dylan and Sonny and Cher?’
‘What’s the weather like in South America?’
‘Very favourable.’
The Doveston now entered my bedroom.
‘The weather’s looking favourable,’ he said.
Norman and I nodded our heads. ‘Very favourable,’ we agreed. ‘So,’ said the Doveston. ‘Any chance of some breakfast? I’ve spent half the night bonking away with a bird called Litany and I’ve worked up quite an appetite.’
‘There are one or two problems,’ said Norman, carefully. ‘What, not enough eggs? Never mind, I’ll just have some bacon.’ ‘The police are surrounding the allotments. They’re going to close down the festival.’
It was another one of those special moments. The ones that separate the men from the boys, the knights of honour from the ne’er-do-wells, the lion-hearted from the lily-livered, the bulldog breed from the— ‘Bollocks,’ said the Doveston. ‘I think I’d best pass on the bacon.’ He rose to the challenge, though, left my house, shinned over the back wall and marched out to meet the policemen. The Doveston had long since ceased to shuffle and as he moved through the crowd, now all sitting down and many with their legs crossed, they cheered him and rose to their feet. It was quite stirring stuff really — almost, dare I say this, Biblical.