A Blink of the Screen

tyres, to warm your hands and cool your porridge.
    If we all follow these simple rules we will be able to stick our chests in with pride and say that British suck and ingenuity has won the day again. Thank you. [
Breathes out slowly
.]

THE GLASTONBURY TALES

    B ATH AND W EST E VENING C HRONICLE
, 16 J UNE 1977
    Actually, I’m rather proud of this one, which has some truth in it. I distinctly remember picking up the first of the hitchhikers when going home from Bath one sunny evening. And there were a lot more hitchhikers heading to Glastonbury. Indeed, as I look back nearly all of it has some basis in reality, but as Mark Twain used to put it, I might have here and there put a little shine on things. Only he said it in American. I certainly do remember the smoke coming from the back of my van, and hastily winding down my window while at the same time keeping an eye out for Mister Plod. As it was, when we arrived at Glastonbury and I opened the back there was a kind of pleasant fog but I don’t think anyone noticed very much. They were better and somewhat nicer days. And if there is anyone out there who can prove that they were one of those in my van, I would be very pleased to hear from them – but I suppose by now they’re prime ministers and so forth
.
    A van driver there was, let’s call him me.
    A nine-to-fiver, going home to tea.
    Just outside Bath, observant as they come
    He spied a hippie – travelling by thumb.
    Beside the sunny road the lad stood baking
    His hair was dripping sweat, his feet were aching.
    Not cool was he, so broiling was the day
    The poor man’s grass was turning fast to hay.
    ‘Glastonbury’s where I’m bound.’ ‘Hop in,’
    I said. He gave a weary grin
    ‘Right on,’ he said, ‘this hitching is a drag.’
    And then he rolled himself a sort of fag
    And told me all about how the next day
    Would be specially good vibrations all the way.
    ‘A Festival of Sevens’, and the Tor
    A sort of dustbin full of cosmic lore.
    Some miles further on we stopped again
    To pick up four more lurking in a lane,
    A woeful band, a travel-weary tribe
    Without the breath to raise a single vibe
    Between them. In the back they went
    With two guitars, three rucksacks and a tent.
    One believed in UFOs, one said ley
    Lines were mystic traffic signs and they
    All met at Glastonbury; also she
    Was really deep into astrology.
    ‘You’re Libra.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, Aries?’ ‘No.’
    ‘I’m never wrong,’ she said. ‘You must be Virgo.’
    ‘No,’ I said; she thought a bit, then – ‘Leo?
    Oh dear, I’m never wrong. Um, Scorpio?
    Pisces? Taurus?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s me.’
    Bells tinkled as the lady laughed with glee,
    And clapped her hands, and said ‘I’m never wrong.’
    And then another pilgrim joined our throng.
    Black-clad she was. ‘I always get a hitch,’
    She said, when climbing in, ‘’cos I’m a witch.’
    ‘Oho,’ said Ley-line Joe, with fancies lewd
    A-thinking of her prancing in the nude.
    But I thought, yes my girl, I’ve met your kind
    At parties, where you always seem to find
    Strange lines on people’s hands and put on airs
    And then go and be sick upon the stairs.
    With seven in the van plus tents, the tension
    Was getting rather tight on the suspension.
    The wheels were giving mystic sort of whines;
    We went round corners hopping in straight lines.
    And then as I must quickly now relate
    The seven of us nearly met our fate.
    ‘You see, inspector, as I drove along
    Listening quite astonished to the throng
    Discussing miracles, I think, and Re-
    Incarnation – it’s all Greek to me,
    Your Worship – I think that when I die
    I’ll come back as a corpse, but this is by
    The way. I’ve got to tell you (honest) now
    How come we very nearly hit a cow.
    The herd came surging out across the road –
    I braked, but trouble was, I had this load:
    The road was hot, the tyres too and so
    We did a mystic skid. And, er, you know
    The van it sort of grit its teeth and lunged …
    The occupants went white with fear and plunged
    Very nearly in my lap, bags, beads and bells,
    Ropes, sandals, Levis and assorted smells;
    On, on we slewed, and how I hoped that seven
    Didn’t mean my number’s up and me in Heaven.
    The witch said “Jesus!” which just goes to show
    It pays to hedge your bets. You never know.
    And then with one heroic braking judder
    We halted seven inches from an udder.’
    I’ve got to say that generally the town
    Of Glastonbury always