‘I brought a flask of tea with me on the Sunday, just as I had done the day before, but even though I got there really early, I couldn’t get near the stage. In fact, I couldn’t even see the stage, because all this silent dancing was going on. I don’t dance a lot myself, do the Twist a bit at weddings, that’s about all. But as a lot of the girls there had taken all their clothes off, I thought I’d join in, just to be sociable.
‘So, I was sort of jigging about with this very nice girl who had the most amazing pair of Charlies—’
At this point the magistrate interrupts Norman to enquire what ‘Charlies’ are.
‘Breasts, your honour. Fifth generation Brentford rhyming slang.
Chades Fort rhymes with haute. Haute cuisine rhymes with queen.
Queen of the May rhymes with hay, and hay and barley rhymes with Charlie.’
The magistrate thanks Norman for this explanation and asks him to continue.
‘So,’ continues Norman. ‘We’re dancing away and I’m saying to her that not only does she have a most amazing pair of Charlies, she has a really stunning Holman—’
Once more Norman is asked to explain.
‘Holman Hunt, 1827 to 1910,’ says Norman. ‘English painter and one of the founders of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in 1848. He painted a lot of women in the nude. But some of them didn’t like that, so he used to put his trousers back on. He always wore a headband.’
The magistrate then asks Norman whether a Holman Hunt is a type of headband. Norman says no. ‘It’s a tattoo of a giraffe.’
The magistrate then orders a clerk of the court to strike Norman for wasting everybody’s time. Norman is duly struck.
‘So, we’re dancing,’ says Norman, once he has recovered, ‘and then suddenly everyone stops at once. Except for me, but I soon stop when I hear the shouting. Someone is up on stage bawling into the microphone. It’s a bloke’s voice and he’s going, “Now you’ve heard it. Now you’ve heard the truth. The Great Old Ones have spoken to us, their children have sung to us, what are we going to do about it?”
‘I shout, “Bring on Bob Dylan,” but nobody’s listening to me. They’re all ripping off their clothes and shouting, “Back to the old ways” and “Tear up the pavements” and “Let the mighty mutant army of chimeras march across the lands” and stuff like that.
‘I don’t know what that’s all about, but as clothes are coming off all around, I think I’d better get in on the act, so I whip off my shop-coat and fold it neatly on the ground. And I say to the girl with the Holman and the nice Charlies, “What is this all about?” and she says,
“Whenever you speak, all rainbow-coloured sweeties come out of your mouth.” Which is a bloody lie, because I don’t eat sweeties any more, although I do know all about them. I know nearly everything there is to know about sweeties — you just try me, if you think I’m not telling you the truth.’
The magistrate asks Norman how they get all the different colours inside a gob-stopper. Norman says he does know, but he’s not telling, because it’s a trade secret. The magistrate makes a huffy face, but asks Norman to continue.
Norman continues. ‘So,’ continues Norman, ‘I ask her again, “What is this all about?” I ask her. And she says, “The trees, the trees. The trees have told us the truth. Mankind is destroying the planet. Raping Mother Earth. Mankind must return to the old ways. Hunting and gathering and fornicating on the grass, because the grass quite enjoys it.” And I say, “Me too, let’s do it right away.” But she isn’t keen, she says that the trees have told everyone that they must tear up the pavements and burn down all the houses and plough Brentford over and plant loads of sprouts, because sprouts are like little planets and have lots of wisdom and—’
The magistrate asks Norman whether he likes sprouts. Norman says he doesn’t and the magistrate says that he doesn’t either and he asks for a show of hands around the court to see how many people actually do like sprouts. There are eighty-nine people present in the court and out of these only seven are prepared to own up that they do and out of these, two say that they aren’t really that keen.
Continue, the magistrate tells Norman and Norman continues once again.
‘So,’ continues Norman, ‘I say to this girl, in the nicest possible way and in a manner that I hope will not offend, that she is stoned out of her face and why doesn’t she come back to my place for a rubber—’
‘Rubber?’ asks the magistrate.
‘Rubber duck,’ says Norman. ‘Although actually I was hoping for a shag.’
The court stenographer makes a note to edit Norman’s statement down to a couple of paragraphs during the lunchtime recess.
‘But then,’ says Norman (continuing), ‘we hear the police cars. Well, I hear the police cars. The crowd with the kit off start shouting that they can see the sounds of the police car sirens. They’re shrieking, “Beware the black lightning,” and crazy stuff like that. Well, I don’t know who actually called the police, or why they did. Although I did notice a couple of furtive-looking fellows who kept speaking into their Y-fronts. Although of course they might have been Egyptians.’
The court stenographer rolls his eyes; the magistrate nods his head.
‘So,’ continues Norman, yet again. ‘Police cars come screaming up and all these coppers come piling out and they’ve all got truncheons and they all pour in through the gates and crash, bang, wallop and thud and hit and beat and bash and—’
‘Have to stop you there,’ says the magistrate.
‘Why?’ asks Norman.
‘Because it’s not very nice. I don’t like the idea of policemen beating up unarmed naked people with truncheons. It’s horrid.’
‘It was horrid,’ says Norman. ‘I was there.’
‘Well, I don’t like the way you’re describing it. It shows our police force to be little more than thugs. Imagine if the newspapers were to get hold of this. People would be thinking that we’re living in a police state, rather than never having had it so good.’
‘So what would you like me to say?’ Norman asks.
‘I don’t mind what you say. But I object to the word truncheon. Call it something else.’
‘Riot stick?’ says Norman. ‘Baton?’
‘No no no. Nothing like that. Something more friendly.’
‘Tulip?’
‘Perfect,’ says the magistrate. ‘Now kindly continue.’
‘Right. So the police rush in with these tulips and there’s bashing and crashing and blood everywhere. And people’s faces are getting smashed in and the police are ramming their tulips up—’
‘No no no.
‘No?’ says Norman.
‘No.’
‘But I’m just getting to the good part.’
‘Does this good part involve tulips?’
Norman made the ‘so so’ gesture with his raised palms. ‘Not a great many tulips.’
‘Well, go ahead then and I’ll stop you if I don’t like the sound of it.’
‘Right. So the police have, you know, with the tulips and everything, but they’re really outnumbered and the naked people start grabbing the policemen and tearing off their uniforms and soon you can’t tell who’s who and the next thing it’s all turned into this sort of mass orgy and everyone’s going at it like knives.’
‘Sounds amazing.’
‘It was quite some party, I can tell you.’
‘I went to a party like that once,’ says the magistrate. ‘Back in ‘sixty-three. What a do that was. Someone even blew up the host’s dog with dynamite.’