Always Read the Label Chapter 25 A Fayre Trial

There wasn't a lot of chance getting back to sleep after that call. It turned into one of those fights with the sheets as they grew warm and tangled. When I did finally win, exhausted from the effort, the morning immediately came and laughed so hard it woke me. Already too tired to face the day, I got up only to avoid this taunting.

The rehearsal room was as untidy as usual. But I was the first one there for a change, having no choice after a sleepless weekend. My drums sat shiny in a silence which I wasn't about to break.
The muffled sound of other bands tuning up started to leak through the whitewashed breeze blocks, an unwanted accompaniment to my unexpected wait.

When Moose and Russell turned up we chatted about Paris and it sounded like we'd been at different places. While I'd been out, they'd been writing songs in the hotel. Songs which were different from our usual style. They wanted to make some changes. The more I asked, the more it got hinted at that I wouldn't like the new style. Eventually I asked outright if they thought I could play them.

"Look. Some of it's you and some of it's us. We want to do different things and reckon you don't. We need to step up a gear and try new styles. It's slower stuff which I know you struggle with. We've given it a go in rehearsals before and it doesn't work that well. We want to give someone else a go, so decided we want you to leave the band. It's all about the music, not you. We've talked to Howard and Ray and they agree. We'll sort you out with some money and you can keep the drums".

I walked out to hide my attempts to keep my dignity. It took ages to wander back to the flat on autopilot, surrounded by nothing, feeling like a different person. All I could think was why - and where was I gonna store the drums?. I started blaming myself, but realised I didn't really know the rest of the band like friends. It was convenient for us all to pretend on tour and in interviews, on records even. There was no gang really, just a rude introduction of business to what I'd thought was art. I needed tea and sympathy. I didn't even get through the door before I realised any chance of sympathy was lost to the letter Johnnie was stood reading in the hall.

"I've got a court date. Just called the solicitor and he says I should plead guilty. Looking at 2 years if I'm lucky. It's only 3 weeks till the case gets heard".

The day was a write off for both of us before the morning was even over. I went in the kitchen and while making tea spotted what looked like some banknotes down the side of the fridge. It was the money roll I'd thrown there just after Christmas. A small chink in the bad news, but it means we can go out and forget about all this shit for a while.

We expected to be the first in the Fiddlers Elbow but had been beaten by half a dozen others and by the look of it, half a pint. It's a different kettle of fish being in a pub so early. No music or loudness, just a communal closed door on whatever you're trying to avoid from the world. The newspaper laid out on the table absorbing and hiding thoughts, giving tips the bookies next door is glad to receive. Before the beer got to work on empty stomachs I spotted a small story about the woman who was running Glastonbury and how she'd managed to get loads of good bands playing and was now sold out. After finding out the food on offer extended to only those crusty rolls with either ham or cheese which required too much chewing for too little reward, we moved on along Camden High Road.

Which was full of shop and office workers who looked like they'd rather be at home. Or heading off on a pub crawl like we were. None of them followed us up Parkway into the Spread Eagle though and we found ourselves drinking alone until we left to get some food at the cafe across the street. The food soaked up the booze and set us up for the Good Mixer and the company of a few more daytime drinkers. One of which kept putting a track by the band I was in until this morning on the jukebox. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry but wished they'd save their money. That Glastonbury article had got me thinking. It's the week before Johnnie's due in court so would be ideal for the last party. I head off to call the press office. Or as I get quickly reminded, former press office, who emotionlessly read out a statement that they're about to release to the press about me leaving the band, before saying they can't get Glastonbury tickets. At least not for me is the undercurrent. I do get the number for the woman who books all the acts though.

The rest of the afternoon's drinks oil a plan to call and try to go to Glastonbury as performers. We can't pretend to be a band as we'd have to be famous, so Johnnie suggests jugglers. We decide we've never seen a show of just juggling and then try human puppets, living statues and knife throwing, before hitting on the solution.

"Hi, is that Arabella? Hello I'm calling about my theatre group to see if we could perform at your festival? It's only a small group but we thought our ecologically based play would be ideal. We've been performing it since the end of last year. Yes, loads of reviews. We're called the Seen to be Green Theatre Company and the plays called 'From Trees to Coal'. Yes, the way we all use coal without considering it was once a living tree and the journey that tree has made to fuel our fires. Oh yes, a very important message. How many performers? It's just four of us on stage and two operatives for lights and the soundtrack. Yes a little singing. We try to encourage participation. Very easily yes, we have our own van which we've been touring in. Of course I can. We have a whole book of clippings and reviews. We're due to play a few dates over the next week. Would it be OK to send them after that? Great. I'll make sure they land on your desk. You think you could squeeze us on the bill at the theatre field? Two daily performances? Not a problem. Oh that would be absolutely superb. Can't wait to convert some more to the cause and make them 'seen to be green' ha ha. All the instructions for performers will be in the pack then? Super. My address? Sure, it's The Seen to be Green Theatre Company..."

After four days of anxious waiting, 6 performers passes, meal vouchers and a backstage camping pass for our theatre company arrived along with instructions on where we had to register as performers.

Apart from the tickets all we packed was a sleeping bag each and 2 tents which we'd borrowed from an organised nuclear family Angus knew. We managed to get a lift from Angus's friend who was working at the festival, so arrived on the Thursday before it started. Outside we sold the 3 spare tickets and split the money. When we got in I was wondering where the fence was, like at Reading. Angus pointed into the distance, about halfway up a hill and said 'there'. It was massive, but looked even bigger by being nearly empty.

The last time I'd been camping was when I was about 12, a long time ago. It seemed to take me as long to put the tent up. But I must have been doing something right as it took Johnnie even longer and then found out he could only fit either his top or bottom half in at once. Not bothering to check the tent before he set off, he now found out he'd borrowed a kid's tent, with Winnie the Pooh painted on the sides. Reminding him the plan wasn't to sleep at all during the weekend, we headed off on a sightseeing tour, promising to try to find where Tigger was staying.

The sheer size of the place left me gobsmacked. Whenever you saw what you thought was a big stage, in the next field was a bigger one. Open-mouthed, we stumbled on the theatre field, with a busy looking tent for performers to the side. After clipping on our passes we went in to eat, handing over a wad of the meal tickets. Johnnie was in the middle of complaining that the food needed meat and he wasn't a rabbit when we were joined at the table by possibly the campest performers booked that weekend, who immediately launched into a lecture about him needing greens with his face looking so pasty, which must cost a fortune in pancake, before asking when we were performing. It was bluff time which consisted mainly of 'we've just arrived'. One of them had a programme with all the performance times in it. Trees to Coal could be seen at 2pm and 5pm, which seemed to give them great pleasure as they told us their 'singular' performance time of 8pm was 'much better audience wise'. After promising to come along and see their show we sneaked out while trying to look like actors, muttering about rehearsals.

I'm terrified we'll get grabbed and thrown out or charged with fraud until we've scuttled away and hidden behind some jugglers, who Johnnie's trying to make friends with, in the Green field.

"I can juggle, can I have a go?"
"Sorry mate it's professional equipment and I've gotta perform later".
"Come on it's just some balls. I can juggle, honest."
Realising he wasn't gonna be allowed a go, he grabs the balls from mid air and tries to juggle but keeps dropping the balls, so the guys snatching to pick them up, trying to get them back one by one, until Johnnie's only got one left.
Eventually he got bored and we headed away, asking if his balls always dropped so much, heading towards the toilets.

I thought it was a practical joke and the hole in the ground would be filled with a toilet fitted when the festival opened tomorrow. I couldn't use them and left in a panic, vowing not to eat for the rest of the weekend, until I remembered seeing a toilet block backstage at the Theatre field. Finding it was a real toilet I decided it was worth the risk of being caught for not performing to us it. Even if it did have a freshly made glory hole just above eye level, which I'd spotted at the same time I'd seen there was no toilet roll. Thank God for king-size Rizla. Now lets build a fire.

One of the rickety stalls we pass on the way has a sign that says only 'Scrumpy'. It's still hot, so seems a good idea. Refreshing and not too strong, we get a cloudy pint each. Then keep on getting them until we find ourselves telling people we're performing here with an ecologically themed show. We spend so long inviting people while we drink the scrumpy we haven't realised isn't harmless, it becomes too dark to gather any wood and we have to make do with heading towards someone-more-together's fire we can see in the distance.

At least 3 of the people sitting around are stark bollock naked but seem to be unaware of the fact they look so comfortable. When they hand around a bong, I pass, paranoid with visions I'll be taking my clothes off. And someone will have a camera. The naked passer of the pipe takes the snub well and simply reaches over me to the next person along, then offers me a slurred piece of wisdom:
"Good decision mate. Best to know what you're taking. Always read the label before taking any medicine".

Maybe it just sounds more mystical in the open with a roaring fire, but something rings true. I ask Johnnie if he's worried about being sent down.

"Not really. I'll live".
I expected this sort of macho denial.
"I know you'll cope, you just have to keep remembering there's an end to it, which it must be easy to forget".
There's a silence and I know he's trying to pull himself and his thoughts together.
"I wish I'd never got involved now. I got a few laughs and a bit of money. And some mates who disappeared when it all went wrong. But what else? No future that's for sure".
"That's not true. You'll always have a future, there's just an obstacle in the way blocking your view of it. No one can take that away whatever happens. Bit of a delay, but you'll get to it".
I'm glad the dark and the jumping reflections from the fire allow us to hide. I can hear dance music starting up with a voice loudly repeating the demand we 'give it up' in the main field. It sounds like aerobics for Nazis and I know we'll be heading there soon.

As the sun comes up the tent starts to drip condensation, waking me up to the realisation I'm not alone. In the tent with me is the hangover from hell. How have apples done this? I need some water. There's no sink in the tent and the only drink is a half finished can of lager I sort of remember buying on the way back. I take a swig and fumble at the door zip as I gag at the taste of a cigarette butt. Even more heat comes through when I manage to stick my head out. Where on earth did all these tents come from? There's been a silent invasion. Where was I when they all arrived? Sticking out of the next tent are two pairs of legs naked below the boxer shorts. Looks like we all failed in the stay up all weekend mission. I blame that scrumpy. I need to taste something else to forget it and wander off to the shops.

There's still no movement from my hangover or the tent with legs when I get back. There's nowhere to hide from the sun in a field. Maybe that's why we live in houses. It's easier to get your post delivered as well. And there's running water. I'd love a bath.

"What on earth has happened to my head?"
That's the others woken up then and it sounds like I've got a couple of hours start on the same problem. They emerge both looking like snowmen to the waist and like lobsters below. The pink and white minstrel show has just arrived in town and is complaining about the accommodation.
"I'm off home. This is stupid. How did you end up with a tent to yourself? One that you can actually fit in".
I actually don't know. But am glad I did.
"My head's throbbing. Why are my legs burning?"
He sees why as soon as he looks down. Which leads to a repeat of the previous rant. It's obviously quite addictive as Angus starts to add his own variation on the same theme.

There's still talk of mutiny and desertion after breakfast until a booming voice announces Glastonbury officially open. So we decide to officially get wasted and watch some bands. Which seems to be everybody elses idea and there's only a small gateway but luckily a big friendly crowd trying to squeeze through it. Endless bands take to the stage and help us forget everything we've tried to leave at home. By the end of the weekend Johnnie even looks like he's just found the future he thought he'd lost.