‘Bob Dylan’s dad?’

‘Johnny Dylan, owns the delicatessens in the High Street. Bob usually does the cheese round on Saturdays. But his dad said it would be OK for him to have the time off so he could do his juggling in front of a live audience.

‘Bob Dylan is a juggler.’

‘Of course he is, what did you think he was?’ The Doveston shook his head. ‘Anyone else?’ ‘Sonny and Cher,’ I said.

‘Sonny and Cher?’

‘Sonny Watson and Cher O’Riley. They manage a pub in Kew.’

The Doveston raised his hand. ‘And they juggle too, I suppose.’

‘No, they tap dance.’

‘Perfect. And do you have a uni-cycing plumber from Chiswick who goes by the name of Elvis Presley?’

I checked my list. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to put him on?’

Chico smote my ear once more.

‘Stop doing that,’ I told him.

‘So,’ said the Doveston, taking out his yo-yo and ‘chasing the dragon’. ‘We have a bunch of completely unknown bands and three—’

‘Ringers,’ said Chico. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, boss?’

‘That we might just elevate Bob, Sonny and Cher to the top of the bill?’

‘It should bring in a lot ofpunters.’

I scratched at my head. It was a far less scabby head now, though I still had plenty of dandruff ‘I don’t get this,’ I said. ‘Bob, Sonny and Cher aren’t all that good. I thought they might just fill in between the bands.’

‘Trust me,’ said the Doveston. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ And of course he did. But then, so did I. Because I was not completely stupid. I knew perfectly well who the real Bob Dylan and the real Sonny and Cher were. But I wasn’t going to let on. The way I saw it was this. If I’d just given the Doveston a list of complete unknowns, he would probably have had Chico throw me out of the window. This way it gave him the opportunity to do one of the things that he enjoyed doing most.

Getting one over on people.

And the way I also saw it was this. If the duped crowd turned ugly and ripped the festival’s organizer limb from limb, it was hardly my business. And it would serve him right for blowing up my Biscuit.

‘So that’s settled then,’ said the Doveston. ‘Will you see to the posters?’

‘Oh yes please,’ I said. ‘I’ll draw them myself. How do you spell Dylan? It’s D-I-L-L-O-N, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps you had better leave the posters to me.

‘All right. If you think that’s best.’

‘Now, we need a good name for this festival.’

‘I’ve got one,’ I said. ‘It’s Brentford’s Ultimate Music Festival of Love and Peace. BUMFLAP for short.’

‘I like it,’ said Chico. ‘I don’t,’ said the Doveston.

‘Nor do I,’ said Chico. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘You’re becoming a right little yes-man, Chico,’ I told him. ‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.

‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.

‘Chico,’ said the Doveston. ‘Get us all a beer.’ ‘Yes, man,’ said Chico.

Oh how we laughed.

Once we had all got our beers and the laughter had died down, the Doveston said, ‘We are going to call this festival Brentstock.’

‘I like that,’ said Chico.

‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It means quality and taste at a price you can afford.’

‘I knew that,’ said Chico.

‘Oh no you didn’t.’

‘Oh yes I did.’

‘Oh no—’

‘Excuse me,’ said Norman. ‘But Brentstock does mean quality and taste at a price you can afford. Because Brentstock is the name of Mr Doveston’s exclusive Brentford Reserve Stock Cigarettes, which will be on sale to the public for the very first time ever during the festival.’

‘I knew that too,’ said Chico.

‘Oh no you didn’t.’

‘Oh yes I did.’

‘Oh no you—’

Chico drew a gun on me and aimed it at my ribs. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If you say you did, then you did.’

‘So,’ said the Doveston, ‘rimming the rooster’ with his yo-yo. ‘We have the bands, we have the name. So what about the drugs?’

‘The drugs?’ I ducked as the yo-yo whirled in my direction.

‘Drugs!’ The Doveston ‘rogered the rabbit’. ‘I do not want my festival ruined by a lot of out-borough drug-pushers selling bad dope to the crowd.’

‘Damn right,’ said Chico. ‘They can buy their bad dope from us.

‘That is not what I meant. I don’t want there to be any dope at all at this festival. Do you understand?’

‘Oh yeah, right, man.’ Chico winked.

‘No,’ said the Doveston. ‘I’m deadly serious. No dope at all.’

‘But this is the Sixties, man. You’re always saying this is the Sixties.’

‘No dope,’ said the Doveston. ‘I want everyone to enjoy themselves. Norman will be organizing all the stalls, won’t you, Norman?’

‘Oh yes.’ The shopkeeper nodded. ‘The cigarette stands, the T-shirt stalls and, of course, the beer tent.’

‘And the food?’

‘All taken care of Hot dogs, ices, macrobiotic brown rice and falafel. I’ve rented out the pitches and we take a percentage on sales.’ Norman patted the top pocket of his Paisley-patterned shopcoat. ‘I have all the figures written down.’

‘Then perfect. The punters can eat and drink and rock to the music.

‘And purchase Brentstock cigarettes with the money they would otherwise be wasting on dope?’ I suggested.

‘They might.’ The Doveston performed a trick with his yo-yo that left him all but breathless. “‘Straining the greens”,’ he explained. ‘But trust me on this. There will be secret policemen mingling amongst the crowd. I don’t want people getting busted. I want this festival to run like a well-oiled—’

‘Penis?’ said Chico.

‘Machine,’ said the Doveston.

‘Curse this dyslexia.’

Brentstock did not run like a well-oiled machine, nor even a well-oiled penis. It ran, if anything, more like a painted turnip through a field of eager toothbrushes. Or at least it did for me. I can’t speak for anybody else. Most of those who actually survived it were in no fit condition to say anything to anyone for a number of weeks afterwards. Some even took vows of silence and never spoke again.

Sitting there that evening in the Doveston’s flat, none of us could possibly ever have predicted what would happen.

I’m not saying that it was all the Doveston’s fault. Some of it undoubtedly was. I will say that none of it was my fault. I am innocent of all charges.

I told the magistrate, ‘It wasn’t me.’

But did he listen?

Did he bugger!

He said that in all his long years at the bench, he had never heard of such appalling stuff and that he was having to undergo counselling to help him get over the nightmares.

Which is probably why he handed down such a heavy sentence.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Nineteen sixty-seven, the Summer of Love and Brentstock.

Ah Brentstock.

I was there, you know.

It all began on the Friday night.