The place: Shangri-La, Glastonbury festival.
The time: Party o’clock (around 3am), Saturday morning
The scene: The Glastonbury gang: me and Philly Terry, Katrin Geilhausen – formerly of The Schla La Las, Will, Nat and various others are dancing in the Acid Lounge. The air is hot, the music is banging and the drinks are flowing, except Nat’s freshly-bought cocktail which goes flying as I am performing a particularly vigorous mashed potato.
Soon, a weary but cheery break-out gang of me, Philly Terry and Katrin, head out, deciding to make our way back to camp Terry before the sun comes up.
We walk past Bez’s Acid House where two years previously, I tell the girls, I had seen Bez ‘performing’ (shouting “808 Staaaaate” and trying to get scantily clad girls onstage). But, alas, no Bez is performing tonight and we continue on our way through Shangri-La.
Suddenly, the crowd parts and, there in front of me, just an arm’s breadth away is Bez!
He is dancing, well, moving up and down, well, swaying on the path.
“Bez! Bez! Alright mate, Bez!” I say, as though Bez is my dear old chum who I haven’t seen for a while.
“Urrrggghh,” says Bez and pulls me in to kiss his dry, leathery, cheek.
“Bez, mate,” I say, “I’m a huge fan of your work. I love what you’ve done with the Acid House.”
“Urrrgggh,” says Bez, and his head nods appreciatively, or possibly spasms.
The conversational ball is back in my court and I’m unsure where to go with it as I don’t know what Bez just said or if Bez can see me any more.
Suddenly, inspiration strikes, “Bez, have you met Philly Terry?”
Philly Terry has met many of my friends this weekend and been a hit with all, how could Bez fail to fall for her charms?
“Urggggh!” says Bez, and pulls Philly Terry in for a kiss of his dry, leathery, cheek.
I’m on a roll and Bez will soon be our best festival pal! He loves us!
“Katrin,” I ask, deciding to go for the same trick twice. “Have you met Bez?”
Katrin wrinkles her nose and shakes her head dismissively. Katrin does not want to meet Bez.
There is a short pause, which I quickly cover with conversational prowess, “Bez mate, we’ll be back tomorrow, see you then.”
And I clap Bez on the shoulder and we stagger off to find our tent.
We never returned to Bez’s Acid House.