Glastafari

Mathew Beavis of course owned the dairy farm upon which this complete and utter madness was taking place - Worthy Farm. As a dairy farmer, he’d often seen the festival as this temperamental unwieldy beast of burden. A huge and at times dangerous animal that shits everywhere, constantly runs you down, and tramples on the lives of your friends and neighbours. But now that beast had finally escaped, causing havoc at every turn, and he no longer had a clue where it was, or even how it had managed to escape in the first place. How he longed for those wonderful early years when Glastonbury Festival had been just a wee new-born calf, gently munching on a thin strip of lush pasture.

He’d often think back to Glastonbury ’71. That Glastonbury Fayre was THE ONE, transcending and surpassing everything that went before it, and since. Immersed in mysticism, transected, plotted, aligned, wrapped in sacred geometry, a Summer solstice bang smack in the heart of the Glastonbury Zodiac, with an original pyramid stage, wrapped in corrugated iron, exactly one tenth the size of the Great Pyramid in Egypt. Seven thousand people attended. The weather was mostly great. And there were no major hassles from locals, the police or nosey health inspectors. It was the ideal event. One of those rare occasions when the Great British reserve truly dissolved and everyone seemed to let their hair and knickers down, the barrier between audience and performer melting and merging, becoming one; a one that including the likes of David Bowie, Gong and Melanie. And thanks to some seriously rich and influential hippies picking up the tab, everything was more or less free. Their plan had been to concentrate the celestial fire and pump it into the planet to stimulate growth.

How far everything had come from those first days. Seventy-one was like a quaint village fete compared to the monster rock festival of latter years. Like a picturesque village that had got gobbled up by the big bad wasteful city sprawl, leaving behind a few tell-tale signs of its former rustic charm. It was hard for Beavis to imagine that where he sat, surrounded by nylon nightmares and tens of thousands of mostly miserable looking people, hippy lovers had once frolicked naked in peace to the distant sound of Family and Hawkwind.

“Top Secret” his one-time friend, Chief Inspector Ash, had told him. What the hell did that mean, Top secret? He’d expected better from him. He’d expected the truth.

Feeling impotent and betrayed, getting constantly challenged, even screamed at, he’d finally slipped the noose for a bit of R’n’R, and gone to hang out with his small army of litter pickers at Camp Trash. They were wedged between the Jazz Field and the Greenpeace Field, on the boundary between the total hedonistic excess of Babylon and the more progressive and divine pursuits of the upper fields. Switching his walkie-talkie off, he had become incommunicado for the first time in days.

Beavis loved his litter pickers. They were his New Model Army, his ear to the ground - a play hard, work hard, happy go lucky band of brothers and sisters, finding a way, and making it happen. Not even letting the end of the world cloud their cheery outlook. Even though they occupied extreme opposites of the festival hierarchy, he simply enjoyed their company. They reminded him of his younger self. If he wasn’t the multi-millionaire landowner, he could easily see himself as the type of person who’d be willing to spend many hours picking up other people’s rubbish, just to work a ticket and a regular meal at Glastonbury. They all seemed to come from crap towns, where they’d invariably be one of the only punks, Goths, hippies or freaks for miles around. None of them knew whether their crap town even existed anymore, and despite the loss of family and friends, quite a number of them would probably see that as a good thing actually. There was nothing friendly about the bombs that they’d have fall on the one crap shopping centre and the one crap nightclub in their entire crap district.

“How’s the tea?” someone asked, smiling.

“Lovely,” said Beavis, smiling back. “You always make a fine cup here.”

But before he could take another sip, one of the festival stewards arrived on the scene looking flustered and whispered something in his ear. Something disturbing. Actually, something very disturbing. As if Elton John’s helicopter had just crashed into the Kids Field.

“Oh, damn it!” said Beavis, rising immediately. “I’ve got to go. Everything’s starting to unravel.”

* * * * *

Several riot cops had started to unravel coils of razor wire across the middle of the police compound, coming under a constant barrage of missiles. While inside the maze of port-a-cabins, Fliss was thrilled to see her brother through one of the peep holes. She tore open the cell door and rushed over, becoming a strange and to some quite disturbing addition to the room.

To Pete, it was like seeing the one person you love more than anyone in the world suddenly re-appear as this wicked human/alien hybrid.

To Earnest, it was seeing someone you’d last seen fleeing from the fires of Hell.

To Blim, this was definitely one of the drug squad who had busted him in the Green Futures Field.

And to Dan Sykes, this could only be the Illuminati, come to feed off the weakest among them, like the cold calculated evil alien blood suckers that they were. So, to Sykes, it really was now or never.

“Hold it right there!” he said, pulling a gun from nowhere.

All those years spent inhaling wood glue and sticky backed plastic under the roasting lights of BBC Television Centre were about to pay off. This was undoubtedly his finest hour as a sacked Children’s Television presenter, his cardboard replica of a James Bond style Walther PPK 7.62mm every bit as realistic as that legendary mock-up of Tracy Island. The dark brown grip courtesy of much late-night gentle rubbing against Croppie Pete’s crappy jacket. One more loo roll and he would have nailed the silencer too.

“Sykes! What the hell are you doing?” demanded Earnest. There was no room for gun play at this touching brother/sister reunion.

“Nice one, mate,” said Blim, heading towards the cell door. “Let’s go.”

“You, sit back down!” Sykes yelled, turning the gun on him.

Fliss was completely thrown. Sykes had to be some kind of undercover cop. How despicable. How close they had come, only to get rumbled.

Pete was also completely thrown. Someone was now pointing a gun at his shape shifting sister. So, definitely not the best time for Keith to suddenly stick his alien neck out to find out what was taking so long.

It is difficult to know who was more startled by this. Pete with his Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or Sykes with his fake gun. But Pete was the first to pop, letting out a hectic scream. Everyone jumped, except Earnest, who grabbed hold of Sykes’ gun.

“Oh shit!” Sykes winced. His Walther PPK wasn’t supposed to be handled like that. “Let go you idiot! Let go! I will shoot you!”

But something had come over Earnest. Perhaps all the strength of St Gabriel Possenti, the Patron Saint of handguns. In the time that it takes to crush an egg, Earnest’s healing hands had crushed the barrel of Sykes’ pistol like.. a toilet roll. To Earnest, it was like he’d crushed solid steel with his bare hands. He wasn’t to know that the gun was made almost entirely from paper.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” Sykes whimpered, feeling as if he’d just flown his model spitfire into the wall. Hours of secret model making had come apart like a dud Christmas cracker, his entire master plan demolished right before his eyes.

Keith could see that he had caused this entire ugly scrap. He should have listened to Fliss and stayed out of sight. But he suddenly recognised Sykes from before on the Main drag. How could he forget the one person who’d stopped to listen?

“Hey, you’re that UFO guy!” he said, stepping forward, clawing at the top half of his costume, keen to reveal his face, and get some fresh air.

“Oh shit!” Sykes squealed. The alien had recognised him, and it appeared to be trying to execute some kind of ghastly metamorphosis.

Whilst Earnest stared in disbelief at the crumpled remains of Sykes’ gun, the former children’s TV presenter rushed the door, barging the shape shifter out of the way, and disappeared down the corridor. Blim following on immediately after, then DJ Nimbles.

* * * **

Outside, Ash’s men were still battling to seal the compound gate, holding back the combined might of the Jesus Army, a mob of soccer hooligans, and the Hari Krishnas, as they tried to ram and pummel their way in; a hail of festival detritus - bottles, tent poles, even a large empty gas bottle, raining down on Ash’s men.

“Soodha!” Beavis yelled, catching sight of one particular set of crazy eyes. Nothing said “fucked up Glastonbury” more than seeing a Hari Krishna lob a rock at the cops. “What are you doing, man?!”

He knew Soodha well, and over the years had often stopped by the Krishna tent for a spot of Daal. But the temple leader had reverted back to his old self - ASBO Terry from Dudley, reliving many a drunken fight with the police in Birmingham City Centre. The devotee was now devoted to the one task - to rescue Gita, the temple mascot.

In the distance he also spotted Captain Chuck of the Jesus Army, another familiar face that was running amok, lashing out with a large chunk of pallet wood, the thin line of Avon and Somerset police just managing to hold back the combined fury.

Beavis couldn’t believe his eyes. You’d expect such behaviour from a bunch of soccer hooligans, but what on earth had gotten into the Jesus Army? He knew them as gentle caring people, not party to such acts of wanton destruction and violence. None of this made sense. The Chief Inspector had mentioned a secret, but now, as two temple devotees ploughed a large wooden stake into the side of the compound fence, it was no longer a secret that Glastonbury festival had seriously lost the plot.

* * * * *

“Sir, I’d better get my gun,” shouted Bumstead, above the din, dodging a full can of Tenants T which exploded on impact like a brew crew tear gas canister.

“Gun!” choked Ash. “What do you mean, gun?!”

“It’s in my locker. A semi-automatic, with one thousand rounds,” said Bumstead, as matter-of-factly as he could. He’d been wanting to bring up the whole gun thing for quite a while.

“Are you mad?!” Ash was totally thrown. “What are you doing with a gun in your locker?”

“Sir, it’s our ultimate insurance policy,” Bumstead yelled, passing on another nugget of wisdom that he’d learnt from his mate in the snug of the Slug and Lettuce. “In fact, it’s the only insurance policy that we have left.”

* * * * *

Back inside the cell, Pete had retreated back into his shell once again, with his sister Fliss needing to think hard and fast to coax him out again.

“Pete, it’s me Fliss, your sister,” she said, gently stroking the back of his hand. “Look, here’s the necklace that you gave me for my 18th birthday, remember?”

It was a silver pendant showing the legendary Barbury Crop Circle formation which appeared in Wiltshire back in 1991. One of those mystery circles that none of the known practitioners at the time, not even their Uncle Ryan, had laid claim to. An especially apt formation, as it apparently showed the Divine Order, the connection of one reality to another. If anyone had conflicting realities that needed to be reconciled, and fast, it was Pete. Fortunately, the memory of that gift, and the delightful trip to Avebury that accompanied it, began to work wonders.

“Look Pete, it’s your sister,” said Earnest gently, rubbing Pete’s crap-covered shoulder.

“Fliss, is it you?” whispered Pete, tears of recognition and love filling his eyes. It had been a crazy few days. “My sister Fliss.”

“Yes,” smiled Fliss. “I’ve come to get you.”

Their two separated realities became this one amazing tearful hug. Whilst Earnest understood the significance, Dan Sykes would have found it very odd indeed if he’d stuck around. The mysterious Barbury Crop Circle had appeared on the cover of his third book “YOU CANNOT BE CEREAL!”

“Look, we’d better get out of here,” muffled Keith, breaking the spell, giving up on freeing himself from that rubbery vice, the zip obviously fused after being subjected to several hours of sweaty back.

Outside, there was simply no way for them to get through the riot. But Fliss had an idea.

“I have something to show you,” she yelled at Earnest, grabbing him by the hand.

There, down the side of one of port-a-cabins, leaning against the perimeter fence like a naughty schoolboy, was his cross.

“The wanderer returns,” Earnest beamed, patting the one cross to bear that he just couldn’t bear to be without. He’d grown really attached to this hideous instrument of torture. It was more than a mere prop, it was his trusty utility vehicle, essential for transporting all that sacrifice and unconditional love about on.

“Come on. I’ll give you a bunk up.” he said, interlocking his fingers.

“Stop saying that!” Fliss blushed.

So, she and her brother Pete left the site the same way they had arrived, clambering over Earnest’s cross like a bastard, up and onto the fence, from where they could see unprecedented scenes of civil unrest; the cops really struggling, a section of the compound fence starting to give way.

Then it was Keith’s turn, the metamorphosis put on hold due to a dodgy zipper, his rubberised alien feet and arms struggling to find purchase on the smooth waxed surface of the cross, his tinted eye sockets misting over, and the one knee tearing on the INRI.

Lastly, it was Earnest’s turn. He hitched up his robes, and began to take a run up in his sandals.

“Where d’ya think you’re going pal?”

It was Beer Gut Barry, with a special elite forces detachment of the Barmy Army, deep within enemy territory, looking to crucify the nutter who’d blown up their Glastonbury weekend.

“It seems like we’ve found our ‘terrorist’ lads,” sneered the Beer Gut, grabbing Earnest by the arm and twisting him around. Judging by the cross and sandals, Earnest had to be some kind of religious crank, both weirdy and beardy. Unfortunately, not the towel head type that they prefer, but most definitely a smelly hippy. So, plenty to be getting on with in the hatred department.

“Yeah, let’s do him,” said the elite force.

“Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do,” said Earnest, hoping that the crucifix didn’t give them any clues.

Clash man Keith tried to intervene, his Darth Vadar like, “Oi! Leave him alone!” largely lost beneath his latex exterior.

“What the fuck is that?” shouted Beer Gut Barry, clearly startled to encounter an alien ‘have a go hero’ perched on top of the fence.

Earnest had a little trick that his father had once taught him. “Aim for the leader, get your strike in first, and give it your best shot.” Never an easy thing to do in flowing robes and sandals. But while Beer Gut Barry was busy waving a blade at Keith, Earnest gave him an almighty kick in the balls, parting his bollocks like the Sea of Galilee, sending that impressive beer gut crashing to the ground like a fleshy asteroid.

“Run for it!” shouted Fliss.

Earnest ran for it, hitching up his robes and launching himself at the cross, digging his toes in and springing up towards Keith and Fliss’s outstretched hands. Down below, Beer Gut Barry was rolling around in agony clutching his groin. The rest of the squad not liking the look of it one little bit.

The thing you’ve got to know about the Bazster, he was a ‘Top Boy’ who commanded respect from an entire crew of soccer hooligans. He’d put a ‘Millwall Smile’ on the face of anyone who crossed him. He didn’t go down, he put other people down. So, getting poleaxed by a Jesus lookalike wearing a dressing gown and sandals would be very hard to explain. It was his own fault. He’d got so used to his massive beer belly protecting the family jewels that he’d often stand with his legs wide apart to evenly distribute the weight. He never envisaged a sandaled foot sneaking past his defences like some leather Star Wars X-Wing Fighter and delivering a knock-out blow to his twin moons.

Earnest had to wonder what would have happened if Jesus had had the good sense to kick someone in the nuts in the Garden of Gethsemane. But he finally made it, straddling the fence between Fliss and an alien.

“Thank God!” sighed Fliss, looking down at the tortured landscape that awaited them all on the other side of the fence.

But there was just the cross to go. Quite a heavy dead weight.

“Help me get my cross over,” Earnest implored, as Beer Gut Barry finally got to his feet. There was no time to lose. “My Cross! Help me, please!” he urged, gripping a top corner, as one of the Barmy Army managed to latch on to the one end and tried to pull it back. But a sneaky pivot or two and then a drastic swing left to right and the cross smacked him in the mouth, releasing his grip and the cross. What a relief it was to finally get it over and away.

So, Keith and Fliss’s audacious prison break scheme was looking like it had finally succeeded. A sister reunited with her brother, Earnest back with his beloved cross, and even Clash Man Keith’s face was about to get reacquainted with the outside world thanks to much pulling and heaving of rubber.

And it most certainly was an outside world, outside of all rhyme and reason; a harsh vast battle-weary landscape pockmarked and cauterised, but despite all the obvious pit falls, probably a lot safer than the actual festival site, which was clearly losing it big time. And as if to make the point, there came a sudden and unmistakable burst of machine gun fire followed by much screaming and shouting just over the fence.

* * * * *

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

That was just bloody brilliant. Inspector Bumstead had been given expressed orders not to fetch his machine gun. But now he’d not only gone and fetched it but fired it in the air. The ultimate finger to public relations. Absolutely perfect! What the hell was Amnesty International going to say about that!?

No-one had ever fired a machine gun at Glastonbury before. There’d been shoot outs of course; one famous one where two Yardie gangs had ended up chasing each other through Tent City. But this was brand new, totally unchartered waters; the day the music died edge of a very long and slippery slope indeed.

But Bumstead was loving it. How to describe the feeling of absolute omnipotence, of literally having life or death at your fingertips? He could have squeezed that trigger for a month, so hard in fact that it snapped off. Wow! He’d been wanting to do that forever. And just after a nice fat line of Charlie too.

“Say hello to my little fwend!”

“What the hell is he playing at?!” Shouted Beavis, trying to dodge the stampeding mob, watching the cop strafe the air once again like a Chinese cracker. “Is that a gun?!”

“What are you doing..?!” Ash yelled, grabbing his Inspector by the arm, his final admonishment, his last word, getting no further than the first syllable of Bumstead’s name, “Bum…” as a thousand icy daggers tore into his chest, forcing him to let out this tortured gasp and grip his upper torso like a deadly wasp sting. A massive heart attack, perhaps. Crumpled knees. A downward spin. One last terrified cry starved of oxygen.

All those sleepless nights fuelled by generous dabs of speed, the terrible diet, the endless challenges to authority and creeping insubordination in the ranks, the crushing burden of knowing that you hold the lives of 130,000 plus people in your hands, now these scenes of widespread civil unrest. It had all finally caught up with him. Bumstead’s trigger finger triggering some kind of massive seizure.

He’d always joked that the festival would be the death of him. And now it looked like the joke was finally on him. The only person who’d be laughing, it seems, would be his Inspector. The finger on the trigger. The man with the dodgy plan. Although he wouldn’t know it, suddenly a clear front runner in the Glastonbury Dead sweep stakes, with the prize of sweet steaks of prime religious mascot waiting for him in a lock-up behind the nick.

“Ash!” shouted Beavis, rushing forward towards his stricken friend, swimming against the tide of panic. “Ash!” He skipped over bits of riot debris - a trampled rainbow camo jacket, a punctured Cross of St George inflatable hammer, a tambourine, and forced his way through the busted gate, finally getting blocked by the barbed wire cordon. “Ash!”

“Sir, are you okay?” cried Bumstead, realising the gravity of the situation, falling to his knees amidst the scattering of spent shells. “Sir?! Sir!?” he shouted, grabbing hold of Ash’s gnarled death throw fingers, as they twitched in the dust, seconds from departure. Bumstead desperately trying to revive him. All the signs pointing to the Chief Inspector leaving Glastonbury Festival for the last time, taking his even-handed approach, and many years of gentle site diplomacy with him.

* * * * *

“Look, there’s a flare!” gasped Fliss, as she stood on the edge of the Abyss. “Over there.”

Everyone followed her finger. There in the distance there was indeed a most unmistakable flare, trailing and fizzing and wobbling its way across the apocalyptic sky, quite a distance off, towards..

“It’s the Tor,” said Croppy Pete, smiling. In the midst of all that wickedness and turmoil, St Michael was still somehow managing to give Satan the finger.

“Just in time,” said Fliss. “It must be the rescue party.”

It was a sign. But weird to suddenly see the Tor, somewhere so permanent and grounded, a famous and familiar tourist attraction, amongst all that ruin and drastic change. It was both a shadow of the past, and a signpost to the future.

“They’re here,” whispered Clash Man Keith, watching the last trace of flare vaporize and disappear.

“Okay,” said Earnest, grabbing his cross. “Let’s go and meet them!”

The four escapees hadn’t a clue what they’d find when they got there. But one thing had become crystal clear. They all now knew where they didn’t want to be. Where no-one in their right mind would want to be right now.

* * * * *