The Texts of Festival
Page 19
The young man’s eyes widened. A gun like that was far beyond the reach of any villager. Silently he knelt beside the still figure and reached out for the gun. As his fingers touched it the man’s eyes suddenly opened. Swiftly he withdrew his hand and got ready to run. Then the man spoke, his voice was dry and rasping:
‘Don’ rob me till I’m dead.’
‘I…’
‘Jus’ wait a while an’ th’ gun’s yours.’
‘I thought…’
‘You thought th’ gun’d make a fine prize. You headin’ for Festival?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t. There is no Festival.’
‘No Festival?’
‘It fell to outlaws.’
The young man’s mind reeled. What should he do? He had planned to go to Festival all through the winter.
‘Where should I go?’
‘Go on or go back; it’s all th’ same.’
‘But there must be somewhere?’
‘Eternity.’
‘What?’
His voice became very faint and the young man had to lean forward to hear.
‘Eternity?’ said Frankie Lee, with a voice as cold as ice.
The young man looked alarmed and baffled.
‘What you mean? I don’t understand.’
But the man said nothing and his eyes slowly closed.
About the Author
Mick Farren says:
‘I was born in Cheltenham on 3 September 1943·It made me Virgo with Scorpio rising. My family moved to the conservative town of Worthing when I was six; I went to the local high school, saw James Dean movies, listened to Elvis Presley, hung out on the street, did my best to become a juvenile delinquent and got out of Worthing as soon as I could, with a scholarship to St Martin’s School of Art.
I arrived in London the year of the Cuba crisis and the rock and roll boom, hung out with a series of bands and formed the Deviants. We did three albums together, and then I produced my own. Worn out by speed and the strain of taking the band to America, I retired from being an active musician, helped with the Phun City festival, got involved with politics, ran the underground paper IT for two years and, with designer Edward Barker, produced a book on the politics of rock called WATCH OUT KIDS. At the same time Edward and I produced the first British underground comic, NASTY TALES, got busted for obscenity and, after waiting for nearly two years, were acquitted at the Old Bailey.
Currently I do little else than write and try to keep stoned. My favourite food and colour are irrelevant, but I admire Bob Dylan and respect William Burroughs. After too many run-ins with the law I’ve tried to avoid radical politics. But the way they have this planet set up makes it difficult.’