Sweet, Certain Surprise.

The recent sad demise of John Martyn made my eyes mist with nostalgia for the many times he’s seduced my sensibilities through both recorded and live mediums. His skilful mastery of the amplified acoustic guitar and gravel soaked, free flowing vocal style, hooked me from the first moment I heard him. Although, I came very late to appreciate his skill; he’d already enjoyed a career of almost 20 years before he was inserted, quite readily, amongst my sphere of musical influences.

He'd arisen in the London Folk scene of the mid-sixties, impressing the cognoscenti right through to the height of his popularity with the release of 1973’s ‘Solid Air’; continuing on this glorious plateau until 1977’s ‘One World’ whereupon, like his marriage to wife Beverly, his career trajectory and popularity went into a declining arc. So it wasn’t until the difficult mid-eighties period, where there appeared to be no place left for his brand of elegant meandering and wistful folk-rock styling, when he would finally become indelibly installed into my consciousness.

It was late July 1984 and I can still recall hitchhiking with friends Marc and Nicola to ‘The Elephant Fayre’. A weekend rock festival held in the grounds of a stately home on the outskirts of Plymouth at Port Eliot, St. Germans in the stunning county of Cornwall.

Leaving on the Thursday evening it had taken us 24 hours to reach the festival campsite. Nicola had realised her mammoth mistake about halfway down, having struggled to get lifts all night long and most of the next morning accompanied, as she was, by us two big strapping geezers. She rather gleefully abandoned us at a service station near Bath when she was offered a ride the rest of the way to the ‘Fayre’ on the back of a rather forbidding Hells Angel’s Harley-Davidson. Nicola was at that stage in no mood to compromise whilst Marc and I, still within earshot of the aforementioned Hells Angel, were in no position to argue the wisdom of accepting lifts from large greasy, lank haired strangers.

Consequently, Marc and I having finally reached our destination on the Friday evening were relieved to find a thankfully unmolested but remorseless Nicola waiting patiently, with other mutual friends, for us to arrive with the tent and sleeping bags.

With darkness fast approaching, we hurriedly erected the tent on the only clear spot remaining for us: on the side of a hill with an alarmingly angled slope! This proved later to produce the hilarious result that we’d wake up each morning in our respective sleeping bags all scrunched together at the lower end of the tent.

Now that camp was precariously but expediently established we finally went off to explore the festival grounds. I was particularly keen to see a new and promising band called Prefab Sprout who’s album ‘Swoon’ I’d been playing non-stop since seeing them earlier in the year at a local gig in Brunel University’s Union Bar.

The Sprout’s set was very impressive and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest by my second exposure to their quirky and loose live sound, even making allowances for Paddy McAloon's and Wendy Smith’s shaky vocals in this less than intimate of environments. Frequent listening to their recent album had already proven to me that they were more of a force to be reckoned with in the studio anyhow, and that the real gems in their repertoire lay in the sublime eloquence and outstanding poetry of McAloon’s lyrics. With lines like “Words are only trains, for moving past what really has no name” and “Man made the neon and he learned how to fly, but God made the stars when he fashioned the sky” he’d caught my imagination in a way very few other songwriters could.

Having seen the Sprouts I feared the rest of the weekend would be a musical anti-climax, however (unbeknownst to me at that point), by far the most outstanding and memorable performance of that weekend was still yet to come.

Sunday morning arrived yawningly sleepy and severely hung-over. We were all still a little groggy from the copious amounts of very cheap ‘scrumpy’ cider, we’d drunk directly and continuously from brown plastic demi-johns the previous evening. Our burps still tasting resolutely of alcoholic apples we’d found a quiet spot on a hillside, high above the main stage to while away the rest of the day. Later, having drunk a strong brew of ‘magic mushroom tea’ for lunch we continued to laze around in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, joking and horsing around but not really paying attention to the artists or what was actually happening on-stage.

I must’ve drifted into some sort of reverie whilst soaking up the warm rays of the mid-summer sun, lying back enjoying the smell of the fresh green grass of a typical English meadow. I hardly noticed the new act that appeared on the stage to entertain us, lost in delightful psilocybin induced hallucinations as I half closed my eyes squinting through my shades at the bizarre shapes formed by small fluffy cumulus clouds gently moving high above in an azure sky. The sound of guitars drifted from the main stage, it sounded like about three different, distinctly separate guitars actually, and then those gruff, yet somehow smoothly slurred, warm and honeyed vocal tones came drifting through the microphone along the wires to be equalised by the sound desk, through the amplifier and then out of the immense speakers to arrive promptly at my ear-holes and pervade deeply into my senses.

“Wow. This band is amazing!” was my first thought. I kept my eyes closed and continued to thoroughly enjoy the excellent sounds that seemingly washed over, through and all around me. I think it was two or even three songs into the set when I finally opened my eyes to further investigate exactly who it was that was enthralling me so much.

When I did I was shocked. There was John Martyn with acoustic guitar, completely alone and seated at the front of the stage, plugged into an array of effects pedals and electronic gadgetry by his feet. In my minds eye I’d envisioned a whole band of at least five people, such was the intensity of the polyrhythmic tunes that had engulfed my ears, but no just this one guy on guitar and vocals making all of that noise. I sat open-mouthed and amazed as John continued to entrance me and the rest of the festival audience with a set consisting of one incredible melodic song after another. He managed to somehow throw syncopation into the mix that sounded like a full percussion section playing along simultaneously, but was in fact just the odd slap from his hand or thumb against the guitar body or the click of his plectrum against the hard steel strings echoing continually via these effects boxes.

I later discovered that the secret of John’s particularly complex yet fluid ambient style was ‘Echoplex delay’, an effect he’d pioneered in electric folk music and was still using with devastating results.

That was why I thought I’d heard three distinctly different guitar sounds emanating from his single solo amplified acoustic guitar. That effect plus his skilful, super fast and lithe fretboard fingering produced a sound the like of which I’d never heard before, and boy was I hooked!

After that I collected every recording of his that I could lay my hands upon. The album ‘Solid Air’ is, in my humble opinion, a singular piece of recording perfection without even one duff track. Forty five minutes of mellow loveliness in which one can immerse oneself as if bathing in a vat of warm translucent caramel. I have particularly delightful memories of listening to this album on my first trip to Thailand, chilling with a ‘Sony Discman’ and a ‘thai-stick’ spliff in a hammock on a (virtually empty) tropical beach paradise. Life simply doesn’t get much better than that!

Many years later I found myself invited to a gig at ‘The Mean Fiddler’ in Harlesden. One of the resident soundmen there was a guy called Dave Florence, an Australian fellow affectionately and latterly known as ‘Aussie Dave’. I was, around that time, the manager of a rock band that regularly played there and ‘Aussie Dave’ had been so impressed by them that he’d offered to become the band’s resident soundman too. Thereafter he’d come with us to every gig venue at which we played, ensuring that our sound was the best imaginable despite the ambient, architectural or acoustic limitations he would be challenged with. Subsequently Dave and I developed a strong and lasting friendship and it was through this friendship that I received a phone message from him one day informing me that he’d put me on the guestlist for a forthcoming John Martyn gig at the ‘Fiddler’. I was naturally completely thrilled.

On the night of the gig it was rammed-full to the rafters, and I was grateful to Dave that he allowed me the privilege of watching everything next to him from behind the sound desk. The whole evening was absolutely amazing and John Martyn was on fine form, playing for at least 90 minutes, and even then being called back for a couple of encores. I’d taken the liberty of bringing my prized original ‘gatefold-sleeve’ copy of the ‘Solid Air’ LP with me, in the hope that Dave would be able to get it signed for me. Once all the commotion had died down after the gig Dave disappeared backstage with my album and a black marker pen to see if he could get John to sign it for me. I was absolutely bowled over when 10 minutes later Dave reappeared with the sleeve of this magnificent vinyl recording duly signed ‘To Rudi, One World! John Martyn’. It was a wondrous and breathtaking moment and I thanked Dave profoundly offering to buy him several beers later in gratitude.

“That’s not all”, he announced “He wants to meet you!”

“No way!” I said

“Fair dinkum mate.” Aussie Dave responded.

He gestured for me to follow him and, somewhat dazed, I did. We made our way backstage and Dave negotiated with security to let me have a backstage pass. As we approached the all too familiar dressing room door I turned to Dave.

“Hang on, I don’t know what to say to him”, I was confused and my brain just wasn’t functioning the way it should have been, addled at the prospect of meeting one of my all time favourite folk rock heroes.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something”, said Dave .

He opened the door with one hand and with the other planted firmly between my shoulder blades forcibly pushed me reluctantly into the dressing room.

I half stepped half stumbled blindly into the smoke filled room and was confronted with several seated people all of whom had stopped mid-conversation to stare at this sudden bumbling intrusion. In their midst sat the unmistakable figure of John Martyn.

“Er, Hi John…thanks for this” I vaguely waved the album at him.

“Oh that’s yours is it? My pleasure son, always nice to meet a true fan”, he answered in warm rounded-vowel tones of a pure London, almost ‘Cockney’ accent. “Take a seat”.

I looked around and saw a particularly moth eaten armchair, reeking with the sweat of thousands of spent musicians, and proceeded to sit down. My brain was stuck for ideas on what to say. I was desperately struggling to think of how I could adequately show my appreciation for this man and his music, whilst internally I was feeling like a befuddled and tongue tied 14 year old confronted with asking the girl of his dreams out on a first date.

“Excellent gig” I blurted out.

“Thanks” said John “Glad you enjoyed it!”

I could smell the heady aroma of marijuana in the air, several of John’s entourage were smoking joints and I could see that John himself had a roach between his fingers smouldering away. This gave me an idea of how better to proceed.

“Do you mind if I skin one up?” I asked.

“Course not” John nodded “The more the merrier!”

That’d made me feel slightly more comfortable. Rolling joints was one of my specialties and I just so happened to have three distinct types of cannabis with me. Moroccan; Soft Afghani Black and some Jamaican Sensimilia grass. I got out my large blue Rizla rolling papers and started to make a complex lattice work using John’s, freshly signed LP as a handy rolling surface. I was going to roll John one of my special around the world ‘Camberwell Carrots’.

Whilst I busied myself I listened to the conversation that John was now having with one of the entourage sitting in the room. It quickly became obvious that the four other people in the room were all Scottish. They were evidently friends of John’s from Glasgow. I knew from reading the liner notes on his albums that although John was born in Surrey, he’d spent his formative years, after his parents had divorced, living with his grandma in Glasgow. Subsequently he’d come back to London in his late-teens to become involved in the burgeoning London folk scene of the mid-sixties.

As I listened I realised that something a little strange was going on. When John spoke to his Glasgow friends he’d do so in a broad Glaswegian accent, using vernacular such as ‘blether’ and ‘scunnered'. Then in the same moment he’d turn to one of the backstage crew who’d just entered the room with a logistics question and answer him with a ‘Mockney’ London accent much like my own. I listened intently for a while bemused by this spectacle, when John had spoken to me he’d used the London accent and then switched back seamlessly to a Glaswegian accent to address his friends.

In a way I could relate to this, I have a talent for mimicking accents and often unconsciously do so when speaking to someone with an accent vastly different from my own. In fact I shared a flat for a while with a Scottish guy and rarely spoke to him in my true accent. So although John’s accent switching trick was familiar to me, it was nonetheless amusing to hear someone else doing it for a change.

I quickly finished rolling the vastly oversized joint, which I duly lit and then passed to John once it was well stoked. The rush hit my brain immediately after just a couple of short tokes, so I knew it was worthy of this legendary toker’s approval.

John accepted the oversized spliff from me eagerly and winked conspiratorially as he joked to his friends “Thanks man, but could you not have made it a wee bit bigger?”

His friends chuckled as John drew a deep lungful and then exhaled long and hard sending a billowing cloud of pungent thick grey smoke across the room.

“Woooooooooo” rasped John breathlessly “That’s nice and strong too, excellent work son!” He grinned at me and nodded his approval.

That felt good. As tongued tied and socially inadequate as I was in this great man’s company at least I was able to get him well and truly stoned.

I sat there for a while listening to the stories and memories from his Glaswegian friends, commenting politely now and then when I felt it was appropriate. My ‘mega-joint’ and several others were passed around sequentially in a circle and I finally started to feel comfortable amongst them as we all became more and more stoned together, chatting, laughing and joking.

After a while the harshness of all those doobies, made my mouth feel dry and I realised that I was the only one in the room without a drink. Not wishing to plunder John’s fast diminishing ‘rider’ I made my excuses, shook John’s and everybody else’s hand and left for the front-of-house bar in search of a thirst quenching pint of Guinness, pausing briefly to collect my newly signed copy of ‘Solid Air’ from beside the raggedy armchair.

I found Dave a little later, still behind the mixing desk and presented him with several bottles of beer that I’d just acquired from the bar. The grin on my face was akin to what our American cousins would call ‘shit eating’.

“Thanks Dave” I said "What an incredible evening. I can’t think of any way in which it could be improved upon.”

“I can”, smiled Dave as he reached over to the large silver TEAC machine next to the mixing desk and ejected a shiny new cassette which he then handed to me with a wink and a smile “Here's something nice to listen to on the way home.”

"That'd do it Dave", I sighed "That'd do it..."

Make Poverty History.

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing." 

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.

London's Calling.

I was the sanguine age of 23 when I moved the twenty three or so miles eastwards into Central London. The main reason for this was that I was working for a company at Mile End in East London which meant that every single working day I’d drive down the motorway and into London through the rush-hour traffic to get to my office for 8.30am, a journey of twenty five miles or so which took around 90 mins. Returning westwards at five 'o' clock each evening back to the far outer reaches of suburbia just beyond the M25 perimeter took 2 hours. So every weekday for the privilege of working in the big city I was spending roughly 3.5 hours in the car doing a fifty mile round trip.

At first the excitement of working in London offset the drag of the daily commute, after all I had a company jeep, company paid petrol, a great (self installed custom) car stereo and I enjoyed driving. However, pretty soon the novelty wore off and I found that those journeys began to become a great physical drain. Still living with my parents and enjoying the sizeable disposable income that the peppercorn rent I paid for my bed and board allowed me, I was loathe to make any dramatic changes, but fate and fortune were about to play their inevitable hand.

At the time my weekends consisted of drinking locally, until the pubs shut and then taking a car full of inebriated friends back into London where we’d dance all night at clubs such as the WAG club (Wardour Street, W1), which played mainly cool Soul and R&B or the Limelight (Located in an old Welsh Presbyterian Church on Shaftesbury Avenue just off Cambridge Circus) pumping out more contemporary 80’s dance and pop tunes. At around 4am we’d go for breakfast at the 24 hour Beigel Bake shop in Brick Lane or to one of the all-night cafés in and around Soho, Harry’s (19 Kingly St. W1) was a favourite, as was Rocky’s* (3 New Burlington St.) before I would drive everyone back home completely shattered and slip gratefully into a welcoming bed...quite often my own.

I had come to accept that both my working and social life seemed to revolve around Central London, so moving into the smoke finally became a priority. I calculated that what I lost in disposable income would be compensated for by the fact that my journey to the office would be much more pleasant and socially I'd be able to drink more from no longer having to drive everywhere. Helen, a friend with whom I would regularly find myself out clubbing, had already made the move up to town and she had a friend Gaynor who was also looking for permanent city central based accommodation. A colleague of Helen's knew of a place that had recently become available in Camden. Pretty soon the arrangements were made and I found myself moving in together with Gaynor to a two-bed council flat just off of the Euston Road in a quite lovely but unprepossessing little area called Somers Town.

Our tenure of this property was, however, not entirely above board; it was actually a council sub-let and the legitimate tenant from what we understood was serving some considerable time at her majesty’s pleasure. Now, not being ones to look a gift horse in the mouth and hugely impressed by the extremely cheap rent we decided that these trivial details would not deter us from enjoying our tenancy. Indeed neither would the generally run-down state of the property which would take more than just a lick of paint to put right nor the fact that the number on the door was ‘unlucky’ thirteen.

Over several weeks we started to settle in to our new abode and I found that Gaynor, a very pretty petite doe-eyed brunette around my age and from my home town, was a pleasure to live with. We started doing a few bits and pieces to make the place a little more comfortable and generally everything was going rather well. Until…one night at 3am I was awoken by someone pounding rather heavily on the door and shouting the name of the previous occupant through the letterbox. He was becoming more and more insistent despite my attempts to ignore him by putting a pillow over my head and trying to block out the sounds. Eventually, worried about him awakening the neighbours and Gaynor whose bedroom was on the other side of the living room, I dragged myself out of bed and toward the front door.

"Hello" I whispered through the front door glass "He doesn’t live here any more. Go away! Don’t you know what time it is?".

"Sorry" came the reply through the letterbox "I didn’t know that. Listen man I’m desperate! Can YOU hook me up maybe?".

"Hook you up?" I answered quizzically "With what?".

"You know... some 'aitch' " came the equally perplexing response.

"'H' what?" I said still half asleep.

“Some smack, skag, horse... 'H' ".

Suddenly my brain kicked into gear "Heroin" I said.

"Yeah dude of course. I’m hanging out here. I really need it, now! I’ll take whatever you’ve got, I’ve got the cash".

It all started to make sense; the guy that used to live at this flat was a heroin dealer. That’s why he was in prison…and that’s why we got the place so cheap.

"Sorry" I said "I haven’t got any 'H', that’s not what I do".

Eventually after some considerable effort I managed to persuade the junkie on the other side of the door that there really was no heroin inside the flat; that the previous occupant wouldn’t be back for a good length of time and that he should go elsewhere for his fix. I slunk back into bed and told Gaynor about it the next day. She’d fortunately slept through the whole episode.

I didn’t really think anymore about it until a couple of weeks later when it happened again, this time at a more reasonable hour. Having heard a knock I opened the door to what could only be described as a prostitute with pock marked ashen skin caked with make-up and a blackened tooth, in a very short skirt and halter top showing just a little too much cleavage. We went through exactly the same scenario as with the guy a couple of weeks before. She was disbelieving at first and even offered me sex if I could help her out. I of course declined her offer and had to be quite insistent before she also left the doorstep and went elsewhere.

The third time it happened it was in the early hours again and I’m not sure if it was the same guy as before or a different one because I didn’t answer the door. Again I covered my head with the pillow, trying to ignore his insistent pounding and waited until he’d gone. This was starting to become a nuisance…

A while later and Gaynor and I decided to have a ‘flat warming’ party the following weekend. We both invited several guests and were looking forward to entertaining for the first time in our new cool London pad. Around 2pm on Saturday, the day of the party, I went out to fetch some booze from the local supermarket leaving Gaynor to finish preparing party snacks and generally just getting the place ready for a party.

I got into my jeep and headed for the exit archway in the courtyard (which served as a car park for the block of flats). The courtyard was bounded by two archways either side of the square shaped block. These arches incorporated into the block were like medieval castle gatehouses, without the portcullises, through which one had to drive or walk to gain access to the street beyond. As I approached I was confronted by a man hopping up and down smack bang in the middle of the archway and clutching at his ankle as if he’d just injured it. This meant that I had to stop the jeep and wait for him to get out of my way. I duly stopped at the narrow exit and waited. At that precise moment the driver’s side door to my jeep was abrupty opened and an arm came in and removed the keys from the ignition before I even knew what was happening. The guy who, moments before, was hopping in agony and clutching his ankle had made a miraculous recovery and was also coming around towards the drivers door walking at a fair pace now. My adrenalin started pumping as the 'fight or flight' instincts took over and my initial impression was that I was being mugged for the jeep. The guy who’d faked an ankle injury was now standing at the open driver’s door with the guy who had my keys and he shoved an official looking badge, encased in embossed leather, into my face.

"Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad. Get out of the car, NOW!" he shouted.

I glanced at the badge which was no more than a millimeter from my nose. It looked authentic, but how would I know, I’d never seen one before. In the passenger door mirror, I now noticed another two guys approaching the jeep from behind. They looked like they meant business too. Well if they were mugging me then they’d certainly come mob handed! I stepped down out of the jeep and was immediately pushed against the side of the archway my hands forced aloft and my legs kicked apart, so that they could frisk me. "Ah hah" I thought "Muggers don’t frisk people".

I was told that they suspected me of being a dealer of ‘Class A’ drugs and that they had a warrant to search my premises, which they then showed me. It was in triplicate, a pink topsheet with green and blue carbon copies. They ripped off the blue copy and gave it to me to read. I was completely gob-smacked! I naturally protested my innocence and they looked at me with the skeptical eyes of men that had heard it all a million times before.

One of the ‘nice policemen’ got into the jeep, reversed it back to my parking space and started searching the interior. Meanwhile I was led back towards the flat on foot by the others. As we passed an unobtrusive dirty white transit van with mirrored back windows several more ‘nice policemen’ jumped out of the back and joined us. I now realized that the transit van had been parked there for several days and as the back windows faced our flat they must have had us under surveillance.

We reached the door to the flat, which I duly opened once my keys were returned to me. I was surrounded by eight or nine ‘nice policemen’ at this point whom I realised would be helping with the search. As we entered I was frog marched through to the lounge. Gaynor stuck her head out from the kitchen and started to greet the ‘nice policemen’ with a cheery "Hello, I’m Gaynor, how nice to meet you all!". She obviously thought that these were my party guests who had arrived early. One of the ‘nice policemen’ joined her in the kitchen and must have explained what was going on, because she emerged white faced and looking very concerned. She was ushered into her bedroom where they started to question her. All around us ‘nice policemen’ were starting to search the flat; opening cupboards and looking up the chimney all with the professional efficiency and resigned air of people who do this sort of thing every day. The ‘nice policeman’ that had stuck his badge in my face earlier took me into my bedroom to start interrogating me; it was becoming plain that he was the boss of this operation.

The first thing he asked me was if I had anything in the flat that I shouldn’t have. I replied that I did and that I would fetch it for him. I went into the lounge and reached into the basket sitting on the shelves, full of ‘extra long’ cigarette papers and an interesting little wooden container with a nice imprint of a familiar five leafed plant on it. I returned to my bedroom and opened the container in front of the ‘nice policeman’. My hands were shaking slightly, after all what I was about to hand over was still an illegal substance. I stuck my fingers into the small wooden container and pulled out a plastic bank bag of the type used for sorting coins. Inside the bag was a tiny piece of hashish the size of a pea. I handed this over to the ‘nice boss policeman’.

"I’m sorry I haven’t got more otherwise I’d skin one up!" I announced cheekily.

Inwardly I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have a more significant amount of marijuana in the flat at that moment because I'd actually arranged for one of my party guests to bring a quantity from my hometown to the party later. Surreptitiously I breathed a huge sigh of relief at the fortuitousness of the timing.

The ‘nice boss policeman’ was not amused. It was becoming very obvious that there were no ‘Class A’ drugs in the flat and that whatever intelligence or observation they were working on was flawed. I remained overwhelmingly polite and good tempered explaining how I came to live there; who Gaynor was and answering all the other questions I was asked honestly and openly. Gaynor’s story obviously matched mine too, as I discovered when ‘nice boss policeman’ stepped out to confer with his colleague who had been interviewing her. It was becoming increasingly certain that this young pair of middle-class ‘kids’ were not and never had been part of a major hard drugs network. The other ‘nice policemen’ started joking around and visibly relaxed as the idea that I was not the suspect they were looking for became apparent. I asked them please not to make too much of a mess because I was having a big party later. One of the ‘nice policemen’ suggested maybe he and a couple of colleagues should pop back later that night. I really hoped they were joking, knowing that within a few hours the place would be heavy with the smell of marijuana and a few of my guests might be on somewhat stronger stimulants; plus the fact that my own ‘gear’ would be delivered later too.

It felt weird to have people going through all my personal stuff with a fine-toothed comb. Personal letters were read; the stash of porn at the bottom my underwear drawer eagerly perused and even the cornflakes in the kitchen emptied into a separate bowl, sifted through, and then replaced in the packet. I felt slightly violated. It must have felt much worse for poor Gaynor.

After little more than an hour the ordeal was over. The ‘nice boss policeman’ apologised for any inconvenience caused and the rest of the ‘nice policemen’ left cheerfully still making jokes about how I might just see them later. I wasn’t going to be charged for the pathetically small amount of dope in my possession and nearly everything in the flat was back in its normal place with no damage done. Gaynor and I were left standing looking at each other in a state of shock and incredulity.

Finally, having had the chance to go and fetch the booze unmolested, the party that evening went amazingly well. Although I felt a little disconcerted that the ‘nice policemen’ might make good on their promise to return later that evening, everything proceeded without a hitch. Gaynor and I neglegted to mention to the partygoers that ‘we’d been busted’ earlier in the day for fear of spreading the unease we already so tangibly felt. There were certainly enough soft drugs on the premises now to make it worth the ‘nice policemen’s’ while returning but we were thankful that the ‘half hinted at’ raid failed to materialise.

The next day once the party was over, whilst we were cleaning up the mess and through the haze of a hangover, I had my first chance to reflect on the significant events of the previous 24 hours.

"You know what really disappoints me the most" I said to Gaynor as we filled a couple of black bin liners with empty beer cans and the contents of several ashtrays.

"No" she said "What?".

I raised an ironic eyebrow.

"They forgot to give me my 'I’ve been busted' button badge!".

* sadly no longer open