Glastafari

Back at the site, it was all about choice - choice food, choice drink, and some choice words. But no choice in the matter when it came to handing everything over to the new powers that be.

Putsch had come to shove, and Inspector Bumstead’s State of Emergency had begun to slowly manifest itself; the ranks of the police and site security now beefed up by gangsters and soccer thugs.

It began with a co-ordinated smash and grab raid on a number of food and drink stalls inside Babylon. Much to the displeasure of stall holders such as Reg, the owner of ‘Greased Lightning Burgers’, who still had half a sack of quarter-pounders, and a queue of people desperate enough to pay well over the odds for a Styrofoam box packed with ground up bone and hair.

This was the ideal job for a Barmy Army Top Boy like Beer Gut Barry. He could hardly contain himself over Bumstead’s little Seize and Contain Operation. He’d always wanted to get into the catering business, set himself up with a little greasy spoon somewhere. Now he could just requisition someone else’s, and give them a state sponsored slap if they complained about it too much.

“You can’t do this!” screamed Reg, as his last sack of chips and full gas bottle were being hauled away towards the cop shop canteen.

Ordinarily not. But this was a State of Emergency, and this unholy alliance of cops and robbers could pretty much do as they wished, running over anyone who got in their way.

Bumstead knew that controlling the flow of information, and knowing exactly what is happening on the ground was absolutely essential. As all the CCTV on site had gone down, the next best option had been to put a couple of lads on lookout. From the top of the huge wicker man on the edge of the Circus Field, Bumstead could keep an eye on a massive chunk of the site, stretching from Babylon to the Jazz Field, the soggy remains of Tent City to that vast trauma counselling unit known as the Kids Field. From there he could monitor all the comings and goings and gatherings, at least during the day, and, most importantly, get advanced warning of anyone arriving from the outside world. Especially anyone in the shape of Channel Four and Greenpeace, finally putting in an appearance and properly blowing the gaff on the Glastonbury Dome Experience. They were bound to blab about that Top Secret whatever that the Chief had quite literally run into. And Channel Four would be particularly pissed when they discovered that their rushes had gone ‘missing’.

* * * * *

For Dr Suzie Meyer, and the rest of our evidence gatherers, it was indeed time to return to the site. As she slowly picked her way down the side of the Tor, Roy’s camera safely stored away in her Greenpeace backpack, she knew that she was carrying the ultimate game-changer, the tearing up of every religious conceit known to man, the final reckoning for twenty-one million Google search results for the words, ‘alien conspiracy’.

Sasha Lush stumbled down behind her, a look of real accomplishment in her eyes. Up until very recently, her career had mostly involved hanging about the runways of Paris and Milan. But it had now sure taken off, destined for great things. It was too bad about Roy, but by now her producer must have sifted through the earlier footage and begun to knock something into shape. She couldn’t wait to get back to the site.

Daryl the Dealer had suddenly disappeared; a common characteristic for a dealer. One moment he’d be right there, and the focus of everyone’s attention, the next he’d be gone. Earnest last remembered seeing him sitting alone, staring into the distance, perhaps searching for forgiveness for not warning Spike and the others about those hidden dangers down below. Or so it had seemed. Daryl had sure sucked as the Chosen Messenger. But more than likely he’d gone off in search of the remains of his van. Either way, he was no longer around, having finally dealt this odyssey with enough trippy insight to keep everyone up for days.

“What about your cross?” asked Fliss, tapping Earnest on the shoulder and pointing back towards his crucifix. The INRI was still tethered to a motionless rope.

“Oh..,” said Earnest, preparing to vocalise a huge and recent decision in his life. “I’ve decided to go it alone for a while. It’s just too heavy.”

Fliss could detect something else going on; a different kind of weighty issue. But she was sensitive enough not to pry, and Earnest recognised that, and gave her a grateful smile.

“Plus, it’s a lifeline for those wretched souls,” she pointed downwards. “You never know, they might find a way to escape.”

“I hope so,” said Earnest. “I hate to think what is happening to them down there.”

* * * * *

Down there, Spike, Wesley and the rest of the captives, had found themselves coming to in the Drako equivalent of a broom cupboard, the Tor Vision Centre having not been designed to accommodate prisoners. With the Mistress of Gore herself, Larr, desperate to keep their incursion under wraps, and out of sight of any programme regulators. Each of the men had become completely incapacitated, their battered and bruised bodies clamped to the floor like a stash of lead mannequins. Even their ability to speak had been taken away. Only their blackened eyes and bleeding brows seemed to work, with each man’s expression stuck on wide-eyed terror. Though Spike seemed to have developed a nervous tick, his eyes opening and shutting like one of those freaky porcelain dolls from the nineteenth century.

Close by, Wesley thought it best to give his colleague some space. Spike was obviously experiencing some kind of optic seizure, and Wesley tried his best to look the other way, figuring that no-one wanted to be stared at when they’re having a fit, especially if you could do nothing to help them. And anyway, Spike seemed to be looking directly at him, blinking over and over again, as if his brain was being fried. Wesley didn’t want to see that, so he’d shut his eyes, waiting a minute or two before sneaking a quick peep. But the freaky blinking was still going on. The same intensity. The same sequence over and over again. Three quick blinks. Followed by three slow, almost lazy ones. Followed by another three quick blinks.

And then, like a wasted afternoon at a seaside amusement arcade, the penny finally dropped. It was an S.. O.. S.. Spike was using his eyelids to transmit a coded message. And lucky for him, Wesley was familiar with the work of Samual Morse; the length of one dot being equal to one unit, the length of one dash equal to three units, and all that stuff. Wesley had learnt it all in the Army cadets years ago, and he quickly responded in kind with a delighted ‘LOL’, waiting the regulation seven units before exclaiming an empathetic ‘WTF!’

But Spike didn’t do social media, and Wesley just looked like he was taking the piss.

So, the conversation went something like this (obviously spread out over a few minutes) -

‘D..I..C..K..!’ Blinked Spike angrily.

‘W..H..A..T..?’ Wesley fluttered back, shocked at this eyelid outburst.

‘W..H..A..T..?’ Spike repeated, growing hopeful that Wesley was understanding this after all.

‘W..H..A..T.. W..H..A..T..?’ asked Wesley, growing even more confused.

‘S..T..O..P..!’ ordered Spike.

This was getting tiring. It was time to cut to the chase.

‘A..L..I..E..N..S.. E..S..C..A..P..E..’ said Spike in quick succession

It didn’t make for an in-depth conversation, but Morse Code had a habit of stripping everything down to its basic constituent parts; to what truly mattered.

‘F..U..C..K..E..D..!’ signalled Wesley, summing up the situation perfectly.

* * * * *

Our Mistress of Gore’s missing bad brood, Vlad and Antigen, were also pretty fucked. The action was beginning to wind down on their Alien party planet, with our two lizard liggers finally packing up and heading out into the cold light of a distant supernova.

As your typical flying saucer usually whizzes about at warp speeds, you have to wonder about the slow ones. Next time you see a UFO just cruising by, it’s more than likely that the driver is completely off their face and on their way home from some inter-galactic trance party. Vlad and Antigen certainly were, and they were doing what any sensible youngster would do if they found themselves leaving a party completely off their face whilst driving their mum’s flying saucer; that is to travel incredibly slow, actually conspicuously so, in the hope of not crashing and dying and getting dissected like those poor drunken fools at Roswell, New Mexico.

You know, they actually used to show that Alien Autopsy video in schools on Drakonis as part of an anti drugs campaign.

Vlad and Antigen were doing something else typical of your alien raver - giving a lift to a couple of alien hitchhikers. Dor-Eon and Fade-2 were both Grays from the constellation Reticulum, and notorious graffiti artists, known throughout the CBDs, underpasses and flyovers of Zeta 1 and Zeta 2 Reticuli for their subversive messaging. But the one thing that they loved to do more than anything else, especially after leaving a massive alien mash-up, was to travel down to Earth and slap down a few crazy crop circles; weird out the locals with some of the most elaborate swirls known to corn.

Their most celebrated effort so far had been the so-called ‘Crabwood crop circle’ just outside Winchester in 2002, where Dor-Eon had essentially stuck his face under a 3D photocopier, tapped in a few digits, and rolled out a massive overnight sensation. It was easy when you knew how. They loved to work the land. Especially the land around Wiltshire, Hampshire and Glastonbury.

Vlad and Antigen were certainly up for it. Anywhere sounded better than going back to their drab and empty apartment back on Drakonis, which they shared with their largely absentee ice-dragon of a mum. Plus, Fade-2 could drive and roll a spliff at the same time, which was a total score, as Vlad and Ant sucked at both. So they slapped on a few tunes, and set the co-ordinates for that largely forgotten, deeply superstitious, back of beyond, up its own arse, trailer trash of a planet called Earth.

* * * * *

“Incoming!” one of the Barmy Army shouted down from the top of the huge wicker man watch tower. He’d been ordered to train his binoculars in the general direction of the Tor. And Dr Suzie Meyer’s returning expedition had suddenly come into view on the edge of a very deep crater.

“There’s a group coming this way,” the watchman yelled.

“Oh bollocks!” Inspector Bumstead hissed, standing beside Beer Gut Barry at the foot of this massive pagan construction. He’d been dreading this moment.

“What do they look like?” Bumstead shouted up.

“Hippies mostly. Dirty punks and hippies. Six of them,” yelled the lookout, leaning forward, struggling to keep his arm steady.

“Any police or security guards with them?” Bumstead held his breath.

“No,” shouted the lookout.

“Can you see a camera crew?” Bumstead continued.

“No,” yelled the lookout. “It just looks like a bunch of dirty punks and hippies.”

“Okay,” sighed the Inspector, turning to face the Beer Gut. “Make sure to send word as soon as you spot any police, or camera crews. No uniforms or media to step foot inside this site unless I know about it first.”

“Will do,” said Beer Gut Barry, waiting until Bumstead was out of earshot before muttering, “Wanker!” As a Top Boy he wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone.

“Hey Barry,” the lookout called down again. “You’ll never guess what?”

“What?” shouted the Beer Gut, pulling out a can of commandeered beer from his back pocket.

“It looks like that Jesus bloke has come back.”

* * * * *

That Jesus bloke was indeed on his way back, returning from the wilderness yet again, without a cross to bear for the first time in ten years. And yet feeling more burdened than ever. Earnest hadn’t spoken a word for ages, but his mind was filled with uncertainty, and crammed with too many unanswered questions.

Remember, Earnest’s trip was about reminding a troubled world about the possibility of tolerance, sacrifice and forgiveness, using Christ as a metaphor. He could’ve chosen Martin Luther King, Gandhi, or any number of men who have made the ultimate sacrifice for the good of humanity. But he’d gone with Christ and never looked back. Except, that is, when people shouted, “Brian!” or “Biggus Dickus!” after him in the street. But folk were getting cleverer and cheekier, and he was finding it more and more difficult to circumnavigate his own intelligence, let alone other people’s. The plain truth was that there were just as many people out there in the troubled world who, upon seeing Earnest’s crucifix were reminded not of the possibility of tolerance, sacrifice and forgiveness, but of the reality of bigotry, greed, and ignorance. The Jesus metaphor simply wasn’t working any more, which was especially hard for a guy who’d spent ten years dressing up like him.

Then there was that little matter of the aliens. As the Bible, the Quran, and the Torah were so annoyingly cryptic when it came to little green men, or ‘fallen ones’, there was a strong possibility that within two or three generations of receiving conclusive proof of intelligent life on distant planets, all the world’s major religions would have simply emptied out like a Mayan city, forcing the likes of Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Mohammed and the entire cryptic crowd onto the dole, where presumably they’d be begging the Easter Bunny and Santa to put in a good word for them down at the shopping centre.

Many would see this as a good thing, because no-one ever shouted ‘Easter Bunny’ before blowing up a plane or sought Santa’s blessing on the eve of war.

So, how likely was it that tomorrow’s youth would choose to spend their free time on their knees praying to an invisible sky God, rather than hang out in a bar with a couple of alien backpackers from Andromeda?

But then again, since when did humans let a little thing like science get in the way of a good story? Dinosaurs and Darwin hadn’t managed to deter millions of people from believing in creationism, so would the proven existence of advanced alien life fare any better?

Some religious leaders would no doubt seize upon the revelation, and crank up the fear factor to reign in their flocks and boost their congregations. One only had to listen to the experiences of the LGBTI community to see how some hateful pastor will happily scapegoat others for the sake of the take. Alien beings would fit the bill perfectly. Hell, they even looked like the Devil’s work.

But what about the more modern religions, like Mormonism, already half way there with all that stuff about God coming from the planet Kolob? Or Ron Hubbard’s Scientology, with its ‘space opera’ of Galactic dictators, and evil alien implants? A good example of what can go horribly wrong when you cross a fertile imagination and a massive drugs cabinet, with a Hollywood cult of A-list celebrities.

Rather than see off all the major religions, Earnest had to wonder whether their alien footage might actually fuel a massive upsurge in new ones. Who knows, future temples could once again find themselves being adorned with alien iconography, like the ancient civilisation of Sumeria, who went for images of astronauts, rockets and planetary systems in a big way.

Earnest’s grey matter was sure getting a battering from this Gray matter.

Eco-activist Dr Suzie Meyer also had a lot to think about on the trudge back to what remained of civilisation. She knew well enough that the world’s media would probably spend more time talking about the size of the alien hand, than the size of the environmental disaster that it had brought to the West Country. All those column inches wasted over alien inches, while the world teetered on the brink of mass extinction.

Croppie Pete was just so relieved that their last crop circle, a 360-degree three-dimensional representation of a DNA strand, hadn’t been to blame for destroying Glastonbury festival.

He’d never ruled out the possibility of other intelligent life forms. It would have been pretty sad if mankind was all there was. He just figured that if you were an alien, you wouldn’t want to invite the human race round to your house for dinner. Most intelligent life forms would go up to a flying saucer, tap it gently on the bonnet and say, “Wow, that’s a beauty! What’s it like to run?” Human beings would rip its aerial off, scratch the paintwork, and nick the tyres. It was obvious that we just weren’t ready for polite company.

Fliss and Pete, and all the other cereologists had been taking the piss out of the Ufologist crowd for decades. That alien footage was about to hand their rivals the ultimate, “I told you so.” The tinfoil hat brigade would now be descending on the alien visitors in droves, continually pointing out photos of crop circles, and asking, “What were you trying to say here?”.

As for making future crop circles? What would be the point? Under an Alien Nation, punching holes in wheat fields would simply become redundant, like running a flat earth society from the local science museum.

Clash Man Keith had the opposite take on things. Rather than destroy his career, that Alien footage was going to rebuild it. He now had conclusive proof that Strummer had been right to mess with White Riot’s defining moment at Glastonbury Festival. It was now his sworn mission to try and save Ken, and the rest of the band, from a tribute act worse than death.. Big Audio Dynamite (BAD). No-one ever rioted over tickets to see Big Audio Dynamite, or sent BAD death threats not to perform in Ulster. Why on earth would anyone want to swap lyrics like ‘I fought the law’ for ‘when I’m home, my woman won’t leave me alone’?

“You’ll back me up, won’t you?” he asked Fliss, as they followed on behind. “You’ll tell the band what really happened?”

“This band means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” said Fliss.

“Yes, it does,” Keith nodded, staring into the distance, just able to make out the top of the Pyramid Stage, that pinnacle of legendary status.

“But Punk means everything to me,” he said. “It never panders to reality. It is easily regurgitated and thrown in the enemy’s face. They will continue to devise their vile and treacherous stratagems,” he said, sweeping an arm across the bleak and battered landscape. “But they will never be able to kill the unconquerable will of Britain’s punks.”

He turned to look Fliss straight in the eye, sending a quiver down her spine.

“Punk can take it,” he winked.

“You know what? Fuck it!” Earnest suddenly blurted out, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Steady on,” said Pete, realising that the Jesus Freak was about to freak.

“Are you okay, Earnest?” asked Fliss, grabbing hold of his arm.

But Earnest was far from okay. He was having a moment. A moment that had lasted thousands and thousands of years, since before Christ, since before Horus, since before Anu, and goodness knows how long before that. It was a moment that had clearly gone on long enough.

“This is bullshit!” he finally blurted out, casting off his rubberised crown of thorns, and tossing it down onto the ground. He’d had it with the dress up, and the metaphors, and the noble sentiments. He was done with reminding a troubled world about the possibility of tolerance, sacrifice and forgiveness. If the human race couldn’t work it out by now, with all those heavy history lessons, then it would never work it out. Any species that dumb, deserved to die out.

“From now on, I’m just plain old Earnest, okay?” he said, kicking the crown into a nearby ditch. “I’m just a regular guy on his way to Glastonbury Festival, looking for a good time.”

“Sure thing,” said Keith.

“Is that too much to ask?” said Earnest. “Even getting into Jerusalem wasn’t this difficult.”

“Absolutely,” said Dr Suzie Meyer.

“Whatever,” mumbled Sasha Lush.

“That’s right, mate,” said Fliss, gently patting him on the shoulder, looking across the post apocalyptic landscape towards the post apocalyptic festival site. “A legendary time. Just step this way.”

* * * * *

Mathew Beavis stepped into Mathew’s Ring, Worthy Farm’s own mini stone circle in the Sacred Field, named in his honour. “Bovine Back Scratchers” he’d once told the council. From there he could see pretty much the entire top section of the site, with Bumstead’s wicker man watchtower peeping out above the tree line in the far distance. The entire field was strewn with rubbish, and pock-marked with the occasional wretched soul scrounging around for whatever they could find. But it was the ideal spot from which to take stock of the situation.

“Mind your step,” said a kneeling man, pointing to a huge pile of steaming vomit on the ground.

“Urgh!” Beavis grimaced, narrowly avoiding the mess.

The space was largely deserted, the drummers and assorted pagan types having mostly moved down to the Tipi field for that huge Pow-Wow. But beside one of the stones, some guy was throwing up a pinkish froth of spaghetti letters, while his mate searched around for meaning within the chuck. It was quite an epiphany, like some tomato / pasta version of the I Ching. The one guy would swallow a few spoonfuls of prophetic letters straight from the tin, do a little hocus pocus wiggle with his index finger at the back of his throat, and then heave it all out onto the ground. The other guy would then get to work trying to spot some kind of divine message from beyond the tonsils.

“Look, there’s a ‘G’ and an ‘O’,” said the Heinz range Shaman, momentarily looking up with wasted eyes as Beavis gingerly stepped past the gingery mess.

“Try to find a ‘D’?” said the other, blowing his nose.

It was a total waste of time and food. But some people had obviously set their Mojo to autopilot and were desperately trying to fill the void with any kind of sign they could, seeking out the comfort of strange urges, and allowing powerful forces to work through them. Quite literally in this case.

But Beavis was looking into a different kind of solid. A solid lead as to what to do with this total train wreck of a festival. He could see that their precious playtime had become a massive pile of melted toys. His back to the garden dream of the perfect festival had become a backs to the wall nightmare. From what he had seen, Glastonbury now sat on a knife’s edge. It could only go one of two ways. Either tear itself apart or pull itself together. So, they somehow needed to lift this toxic vibe. But how? Everyone just wanted to go home. But does the greatest festival in history end this way?

Suddenly the Heinz range Shaman gave a squeal of delight, finally spotting a combination of pasta letters amidst the pink foam.

“Look,” he pointed down, all excited, flipping a lump of non-descript goo out of the way. “See,” he laughed. “G.. I.. G.. Gig.”

* * * * *