BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

It was another Friday at the Glastonbury Festival! Thousands of revellers were being processed by security as they flocked towards the three-day music event - all eager to enjoy a weekend of bands, camping and sheer unadulterated, mud-splattered hedonism!

"Watch it!" an irate student in wellies hissed as he collided with a girl wearing fairy wings.
"We were here first!" a hippie dad protested as a group of city boys with corporate tickets barged past his wife and kids.
"Let me through! Please! I need the toilet!" an Editors fan wailed, dancing on the spot and clutching at his crotch!
"I'm Colin Clive! I'm the fucking editor of TUNES! I've got an Access All Areas pass, move it you scum!" a fat git in a Blur shirt roared over the din.

Suddenly - an explosion rocked the perimeter fence! Music lovers scattered in terror as security raced towards the scene of the blast. As the smoke cleared, the security plods spotted a dozen humanoid figures, some with dogs on lengths of string, clambering over the wrecked remains of the fence - gatecrashing the festival without paying!

"I don't b-believe it," one of the guards spluttered. "Crusties! They're b-back!"
"It c-can't be," one of his colleagues stammered, feeling a fearful churn in his bowels.
"Don't just stand there!" the foreman screamed. "Get them back here now and give them a good kicking!"

"Yes boss!" grunted one of the guards - an arselicker with a taste for violence! He chased after the fence jumpers, nearly breaking his neck as he tore through the mud and wet grass, catching up with them as they legged it towards the Crystal Rainbow psychic healing tent. "Gotcha!" he gasped as he flung himself at a skinny, dreadlocked white youth in a German army coat, bringing him to the ground.
"Fuck off you fascist tosser!" the kid spat, trying to escape his assailant's bear hug.
"Not likely!" the bullying bastard scoffed. "I'm gonna rip your bleedin' head off, you dirty, smelly tramp! Nobody gets past me without paying! Y'hear me? Nobod---URRGH!"
A size 10 paraboot had just connected with the security guard's mush, breaking every tooth in his gob! He coughed and wheezed as the crusties regrouped and kicked him into a parallel universe - one commonly referred to by the Royal Astronomical Society as 'FUCKING AGONY'. As the guard blacked out, the crusties unzipped their combat trousers and pissed all over his mangled body.

"Fucking cunt!" raged the rasta kid - AKA George Kingsland, undisputed leader of the Clapton Brew Crew! "I've never paid me way in life - and I ain't startin' now! Do they owe us a living?"
"Of course they fuckin' do!" his mates roared with approval.
"Right," Kingsland growled, zipping himself up. "Come on, let's start some fuckin' aggro! All these rich cunts...swanning around in wellies and sarongs, making a mockery of the free festival spirit. Well, newsflash for rich bastards - your capitalist jamboree is over! Let's go fuckin' mental!"
"Revenge for the Beanfield convoy!" his posse cried. "Smash the spectacle!"
"And I know just the place to start," George leered, lighting a roll-up for his dog and cracking open a bottle of Merrydown. "The Post-Ironic stage, Shirley Bassey is playing! I've always hated her and her scampi-in-a-basket showtunes. Let's make her wish she'd stuck to royal variety performances, the geriatric cunt!"

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"Crusties?" Chief Inspector Paul Botox squealed through a gobful of kebab. "Pah, rubbish! They died out years ago. So a handful of yobs used a crude incendiary device to bunk inside without paying. So what? It's hardly worth my while calling out the boys, we're far too busy! You're making enough money off the festival, you'll hardly notice 12 unsold tickets."

"Poppycock!" Roger English thundered, his demented garden gnome face turning mauve with anger! "I've been hosting this festival since the 1970s, and I've never witnessed such a display of brute vandalism as I did today. There's a lad in hospital who'll never walk again, thanks to these scumbags! I demand that you send in the riot squad and extricate this gang before they wreak more havoc!"

"That security guard who received a pasting was unlicensed," Botox burped. "Apart from defending the odd BNP meeting from communist assault, he had no suitable experience whatsoever for the role of 'security co-ordinator'! Look, between me and you, I was hoping to sneak off for a spot of whoring this afternoon, and I want to catch up on a few episodes of 'Heroes' - so if we could just, er, sweep this under the carpet, I'd be much obliged!" the bent cop winked.

"Not on your nelly!" English whined. "How am I meant to guarantee Peaches Geldof's safety in the VIP tent with these animals running wild? I want heavy-handed policing and I want it now! Oh - and if any of the corporate sponsors pull out as a result, I'll sue the bloody force, God help me!"

Botox creased up with laughter. "If only the kids could see you now," he mocked the hip capitalist farmer. "Yapping about corporate sponsorship and shitting a brick at the thought of lost turnover. It's hardly the stuff of anarchist legend! Robert Calvert must be spinning in his grave!"

"Guffaw all you like, " English retorted. "I'm still an anarchist at heart! But things are different now - Virgin, Sony, Coca Cola and Apple aren't the same capitalist concerns they were back in the bad old days - they've proved that they can adapt to the times and inspire a bit of revolutionary thinking themselves! Now, get your boys out there and arrest these bastards!"

"Talk to the hand," snapped Botox. "I fancy another kebab! See yourself out."

"Actually," English mused, a sneaky grin crossing his chops, "now I think about it, maybe they weren't crusties. In fact, I'm convinced they were Muslims. One of them had a backpack!"

"Wait right there," Botox yelled, picking up the phone. "All units! Proceed to the Glastonbury Festival site immediately! Suspected terrorist alert - proceed with caution! And make sure you're fucking well tooled up!"

**************************************************

"Got a quid?" George barked at a young couple who'd just been grooving to Paulo Nutini and were heading back to their tent for a kiss and a cuddle.
"No, sorry mate" the male smirked, nudging his girlfriend. "Why, do you need to buy a bar of soap?"
Two seconds later the joker was face down in the mud, minus three teeth. "Right, love," George threatened the girl, popping his fingers down his throat. "Either gimme a quid - actually, make it two - or I'll bleedin' vomit on ya!"
"Here, take it," the terrified girl whimpered, passing George a tenner. He put the boot into her boyfriend for good measure and rejoined the Clapton Brew Crew where they were lolling around in the mud, shouting abuse at passers by, swigging cans, smoking skunk and priming their dogs for pickpocket missions.

George wore his Crustiness with pride. He'd had a hard upbringing - born a faceless, middle class bore, the only child of a doctor and a teacher, in some leafy suburban hell. After 13 years of bland subservience and piano lessons, he'd chanced across a tattered old newspaper called 'Underground', featuring the legendary CRUSTIE MANIFESTO, written by Matt Fuller. George was converted on the spot.

Running away from home, he'd immersed himself in Crustie culture. He'd had MAKE HOMEBREW NOT WAR tattooed across his forehead, ANARCHY IS OUR DREAM - DON'T WAKE US UP inked across his chest and VICTIM OF THE DSS carved into his plonker - the markings of a man devoted to a lifetime of blissful indolence! He'd proudly fought alongside the Model Militia, kicking the shit out of the few punks, goths and 'normals' who'd dared to show up at New Model Army gigs. He'd rucked the Old Bill at the Newbury Bypass protests, and got himself expelled from Hunt Saboteurs for being too violent. Other youth subcultures were pathetic, he reasoned. Even the most rowdy 'punk rockers' actually cleaned their foreskins before a date! In contrast, George liked his birds to be as yeasty as possible. It wasn't his fault that skinhead blokes were prissy little wimps who couldn't handle the pungent, fishy miasma of a Crustie babe's cunt.

The gang finished larking around and headed for the Post-Ironic stage, jostling terrified indie kids as they went. Bassey was due onstage in 15 minutes! Absolute mayhem was about to break loose - and by God, George intended to be caught up in the middle of it!

*****************************************************

"Tell us about your new album," Jo Wiley simpered in front of the BBC2 camera crew.
"Well," Paul McCartney began, "I've been thinking about...war...and the environment...and, I guess, I just wanted to...write about what's going on...you know...what's really going on. Not the media lies, the distortions. And I think...the medium of Glastonbury...it's just such a positive opportunity to...you know...like, really...connect with people and ...WOW...you know?"
"Mmm" Wiley nodded like a retarded puppy. "Now, Sir Paul, as we all know, you went through indescribable pain following the death of your partner Linda - to many of us, one of the bravest and most passionate women who ever lived."
"Yes," McCartney nodded, fixing her with a solemn glare.
"I just wanted to know," Wiley continued, "do you think that Linda's legacy lives on at events like these? Because, watching the Killers earlier, I just thought - this is what Linda was all about. This is Linda's weekend as much as it's any of ours."

Oh, why don't you zip it, you pencil-faced shithawk? fumed Roger English as he ponced another free beer from the rider. Ticket sales had gone through the roof this year, and the Jazz Stage had been particularly swinging. But he remained concerned about the crustie invaders and knew he wouldn't be able to get pissed and enjoy himself until they'd been apprehended. It froze his blood to think of tanked-up Amebix and Disorder fans rampaging around the fields after nightfall. At least the police had turned up in strength - though, apart from dragging a few stoned Sikh kids from their tents, the cops had mostly spent the day at the food stalls, wolfing down burgers and chips. The evening sun was slowly setting - and with it, all hope of locating and extracting the crustie troublemakers!

"..perhaps even more so than Diana," McCartney sobbed. "But the deal with Starbucks...it's really revolutionised the whole music-making process...you know, look at myspace.com...it's a wonderful-"

"Sir Paul, we'll have to stop you there," Wiley rictus-grinned at the camera. "We're going live to the Post-Ironic stage, where Shirley Bassey has just come on! Enjoy!"

*************************************************

"SHIRLEY! SHIRLEY!" the crowd whooped in appreciation. The Welsh diva had just ripped through a cover of "Moonraker" and everyone was tripping out on the zanyness of it all.
"This next number's dedicated to a real entrepreneur, and an outstanding promoter of true talent," Bassey announced. "I am, of course, referring to our good friend Roger English, without whom this festival might never have been! And the song is called...HEY, BIG SPENDER!"
"Fuck off you crazy old bat!" George Kingsland howled through a megaphone he'd just snatched from a member of Youth & Student CND. "Roger English is a cunt! He's been grassing fence jumpers to the cops since 1977, all he cares about is making a tidy profit! How can a fucking farmer be pro-Animal Liberation? Wise up mugs - he's taken you to the cleaners!"

"Shut up, damn you!" a 30-year old financial advisor in pre-ripped jeans snapped at Kingsland. "You're ruining this wonderful, historic performance with your nonsense! If you don't like Glastonbury, you should have stayed at home - simple as that, matey! Now put that megaphone down and leave us to enjoy Shirley in peace!"

"And you can fuck off too!" George raged. "Trendy fucking cunts - ten years ago you'd have been poncing around in wine bars, talking about Massive Attack, 'Men Behaving Badly' and Manchester United! Now you think you can squeeze into some Top Shop punk shirt and strut around here, pretending to be festival veterans...pissing on Wally Hope's grave! Fuck the lot of ya! Your festival is a sick farce and we're here to blow it up, burn it down and kick it til it breaks!"

"I won't allow you to spoil this event!" the financial advisor persisted. "I paid £180 to enjoy this weekend! Give me that megaphone immediately, before I...AARGGH!"

Kingsland slammed the megaphone handle into his critic's temple, causing the whining, posing tossbag to collapse into a crumpled heap. "ATTACK!!" George screamed - the signal for the great unwashed of the Clapton Brew Crew to charge through the crowd, kicking and punching anything that moved! A hail of Merrydown bottles, filled with piss, rained down on the stage, drenching Bassey and her backing band. The crusties' dogs sunk their fangs into Fratellis fans, while a group of Young Conservatives, who'd travelled all the way from Inverness just to catch new indie sensations The Monday Club, cried out in torment as paraboot after paraboot pounded against their vital organs.

Roger English was bricking it. He hid on stage behind a wall of Marshall amps, desperately clawing at his mobile phone. As George Kingsland's savage mob stormed towards the VIP tent, cutting through the crowd like killer sharks, English could see his corporate sponsorship sliding down the shitter. He dialled Paul Botox.

"Hello," the copper greeted him. "My, that's noisy! Sounds like the crowd's going utterly bananas! Good day so far?"
"Are you joking?" English whined. "It's bloody war! The crusties have gone berserk, they're heading for the VIP tent. There's at least 100 unprotected celebrities holed up there, they don't stand an earthly's! I warned you this would happen! We need the riot squad down here, pronto! Where the hell are your men, anyway? You said you were sending 200 down, all armed!"

"We did!" Botox shouted. "But they're all down the local hospital! Food poisoning, all 200 of 'em, thanks to the muck you allow those shonky burger stalls to peddle on your land! I ought to break your face! They don't know which end to hang over the bowl, the poor sods!"

"B-but security have scarpered!" English wept, as a dead cow rocketed over his head, crashing into the back monitors. "Can't you call any of the neighbouring forces and get extra men sent in?"

"Now, listen here," Botox snarled. "I was well up for a bit of whoring today. There's some lovely new Latvian girls down the local sauna, and I thought, what a nice way to wind down after a busy week's work. But, oh no - you put paid to that, didn't you? Couldn't let a man enjoy a decent illicit thrill, could you? Well, fuck you, Roger English - you'll have to police your own event!"

"Please!" English blubbered, as a chorus of ghastly wails and a plume of black smoke signalled the crusties' arrival at the VIP tent. "I'll do anything!"

"Tell you what," said Botox. "I've got the number of the local Hell's Angels chapter somewhere - they should be able to impose a bit of Altamont-style order on your event...oh hang on...no, now I think about it, we banged the Angels up years ago! Oh well, have a nice weekend! Bye!"

English cursed and dialled the number of a contact at the Ministry of Defence - an old friend he'd met during national service, back in the 1950s!

"What's that?" the mentally ill ex-colonel snapped down the line. "Bomb Glastonbury, you say? Certainly, Roger! Anything for an old mucker! I.."
"Who is that?" a stern female voice came on the line.
"What's going on?" English whinged.
"I'm Mr Craptree's nurse," she announced. "You shouldn't be ringing him after his evening medication, he normally goes to bed after 6pm. You can visit him tomorrow if you wa -"

Roger's phone cut out - he'd forgotten to charge it and the battery had packed in! The game was up. Glastonbury had been destroyed by the very free-spirited punters it had set out to entertain all those years ago! As English watched decades of business go up in flames, he pulled the shotgun from his coat, slid the barrel into his mouth and shared the fate of so many farm-owning victims of the 2001 Foot & Mouth crisis.

THE END.