The sun shone brightly on the green next to Hulke Priory. Several pensioners stood on the High Road and looked down with disbelieving eyes to the scene laid out before them. Never had Hulke seen anything like this before. A couple of bewildered looking Policemen stood silently by. Down at the lower part of the Green there was a stage set up backing onto the stark ruins of The Priory, and amassed in front of this was a sea of, for want of a better word, hippies – nearly 1,000 of them to be precise. They were listening intently to the group currently on the stage – local Hulke favourites Rory Derbyshire and the Cult of Delia. Even here, in the smallest of West Country backwaters, by this summer of 1968 the “alternative culture” had taken root and people in large groups were happily sitting in the sunshine, listening to deep meaningful self indulgent music, and even some were partaking in vaguely illegal substances. This was the first of what was hoped would be many Hulke Festivals. The first one took place in 1968 and as we are still waiting for the next one to occur you can guess that it wasn’t exactly a roaring success.
On the stage, Rory was intently clutching his Fender guitar and was wringing every possible nuance and squeal out of this basic blues number they were rumbling through.
“Shriek twiddly twiddly waaaaah!” Went Rory’s guitar.
“Wow, man…” went nearly 1,000 hippies, all nodding and swaying in time to the beat.
“Krang blang twiddly twiddly weeeeeeeeeeah!” Went Rory’s guitar.
“Far out…” went the hippies. And so the afternoon progressed. Rory was well into the 20th minute of this solo when he heard a strange sound. A crackling static sound. He looked down at the fold back speakers in front of him on the stage, then intently to his left towards his roadies, but they were slouched around on various chairs, heads lolling back, clutching unfeasibly large spliffs in their hands. One made a “peace man” symbol before falling off his chair. Rory continued playing, but the noise came again, louder this time, much more intense and focussed. The air, just to the front of the stage area seemed to shimmer and blur, there was a bizarre backward popping noise and then two very strangely attired men, who appeared wet through as though it was raining, materialised before Rory’s very eyes. The music stopped. Several of the hippies in the crowd stood up, Rory moved to the front of the stage. There was a long and quite dangerous silence.
“Far fucking out…” breathed Rory, straight into his microphone and with that, the audience erupted into whoops and cheers. Drood and Bryan looked at each other for a second in total bewilderment.
“Where the fuck are we, Bryan?” Asked Drood, suddenly feeling stifled by the unexpected heat of the English summer they had come across. Bryan was studying the palm top machine in his hand.
“Where ever you fancied going, mate.” He said. “It seems to be focussing on your brain waves…” Just at that moment Rory Derbyshire started playing again, drowning out any chance of conversation. Drood and Bryan moved away from the front of the stage and away from the speaker stacks. Their sudden unexpected appearance out of nowhere had apparently already been forgotten by the hippie crowd who were by now busy back grooving along to Rory’s guitar licks. Bryan looked up at the High Road. “It’s Hulke again. So what were you thinking about?” He asked Drood.
“I just wanted to be somewhere calm and peaceful. I had no idea something like this had ever happened in Hulke.” Drood gestured round at the assembled crowd. By this time Rory’s guitar solo had reached its screeching climax and enthusiastic applause was coming from the stoned hippies.
“Yeah, the Hulke Free Festival.” Said Bryan, matter-of-factly. “We were promised Hendrix, Traffic and Fairport Convention, and all we got was Rory Derbyshire and the Cult of Delia, and Gravy Boat.” Drood looked round at the crowds around them. He stopped at one particular group and peered closer at them, focussing on one particular figure seated in the middle. It was a sallow faced youth, aged about 12, dressed all in black and with dark hair down to his shoulders. He was sitting with a very serious look on his face, intent on what he was doing and wasn’t really talking with the others around him, all of whom were a lot older and flamboyantly dressed in kaftans, paisley and head-scarves. Drood suddenly realised this young person was rolling spliffs for the rest of the group. Then something else dawned on him.
“Oh shit…” He looked from the solemn faced joint roller and then back to Bryan. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Bryan hardly looked up from the palm top controller he was working on.
“Yeah. Mum was a big fan of Gravy Boat, God knows why.” He tapped impatiently at the palm top unit. “The most exciting thing that happened at the whole festival was when…” Just at that moment, one of the bass amps in the stack burst into flames and began sparking loudly. “…when the bass stack blew up…” finished Bryan, rather lamely.
“But isn’t it supposed to be really bad if you meet yourself in your past?” Asked Drood. “You know, like space and time continuum’s being torn apart and the end of the universe?” Bryan snorted derisively.
“You’ve been watching too much Stargate Atlantis, mate.” He said, while tapping a few buttons on the palm top. The unit beeped loudly, Bryan peered closely at the screen. His face paled. “Actually…” he began. “You might be right. Universal cataclysm is a pretty bad thing, isn’t it?” Drood grabbed his hand and began pulling him further and further away from the hippie hordes.
“Let’s not end the universe, just for today, OK Bryan?” Drood had finally managed to get Bryan halfway up the green towards the High Road. “We still don’t even know how we got to be here.” Bryan slipped the palm top into his jacket pocket.
“Most likely explanation is that you just wanted to get away from rain soaked Roman Hulke and just thought of home and something peaceful. There was a big peace vibe at this festival, and even if you didn’t know about it, the unit obviously did.” Bryan smiled brightly at the end of this and let the eyebrows waggle a little. Drood looked at the Chrono-Displacement helmet, still sitting at a jaunty angle on Bryan’s head.
“So can it really be as vague as that?” He mused. “I didn’t even know about this event, and yet the unit found it.” Bryan tapped the helmet.
“Seems likely. Just think though. We can sort out all our problems…” Bryan was suddenly full of enthusiasm. “We need to invent some pretty serious shit very quickly and we haven’t got a clue. Agreed?” Drood nodded silently that, yes, Bryan had a point. “So why don’t we just have a little jaunt back to 3596, purchase ourselves a Groovy Convertor and a Textya-Flayva, then back to sometime in our lifetimes and patent the bastards.” Bryan waggled his eyebrows alarmingly. Drood stared at him for quite some time, before placing a fatherly hand upon his shoulder.
“Bryan, sometimes you can be such a…” he struggled with the right word, “…such a…total fucking genius!” Bryan grinned widely. He checked the palm top again.
“Chrono-Displacement field opening very shortly…” Bryan and Drood looked round to find it; the crackling static sound was faintly heard nearby. “And now, we have all the time in the World…” said Bryan in his best James Bond voice. And with that, they left 1968.
On the stage, Rory was intently clutching his Fender guitar and was wringing every possible nuance and squeal out of this basic blues number they were rumbling through.
“Shriek twiddly twiddly waaaaah!” Went Rory’s guitar.
“Wow, man…” went nearly 1,000 hippies, all nodding and swaying in time to the beat.
“Krang blang twiddly twiddly weeeeeeeeeeah!” Went Rory’s guitar.
“Far out…” went the hippies. And so the afternoon progressed. Rory was well into the 20th minute of this solo when he heard a strange sound. A crackling static sound. He looked down at the fold back speakers in front of him on the stage, then intently to his left towards his roadies, but they were slouched around on various chairs, heads lolling back, clutching unfeasibly large spliffs in their hands. One made a “peace man” symbol before falling off his chair. Rory continued playing, but the noise came again, louder this time, much more intense and focussed. The air, just to the front of the stage area seemed to shimmer and blur, there was a bizarre backward popping noise and then two very strangely attired men, who appeared wet through as though it was raining, materialised before Rory’s very eyes. The music stopped. Several of the hippies in the crowd stood up, Rory moved to the front of the stage. There was a long and quite dangerous silence.
“Far fucking out…” breathed Rory, straight into his microphone and with that, the audience erupted into whoops and cheers. Drood and Bryan looked at each other for a second in total bewilderment.
“Where the fuck are we, Bryan?” Asked Drood, suddenly feeling stifled by the unexpected heat of the English summer they had come across. Bryan was studying the palm top machine in his hand.
“Where ever you fancied going, mate.” He said. “It seems to be focussing on your brain waves…” Just at that moment Rory Derbyshire started playing again, drowning out any chance of conversation. Drood and Bryan moved away from the front of the stage and away from the speaker stacks. Their sudden unexpected appearance out of nowhere had apparently already been forgotten by the hippie crowd who were by now busy back grooving along to Rory’s guitar licks. Bryan looked up at the High Road. “It’s Hulke again. So what were you thinking about?” He asked Drood.
“I just wanted to be somewhere calm and peaceful. I had no idea something like this had ever happened in Hulke.” Drood gestured round at the assembled crowd. By this time Rory’s guitar solo had reached its screeching climax and enthusiastic applause was coming from the stoned hippies.
“Yeah, the Hulke Free Festival.” Said Bryan, matter-of-factly. “We were promised Hendrix, Traffic and Fairport Convention, and all we got was Rory Derbyshire and the Cult of Delia, and Gravy Boat.” Drood looked round at the crowds around them. He stopped at one particular group and peered closer at them, focussing on one particular figure seated in the middle. It was a sallow faced youth, aged about 12, dressed all in black and with dark hair down to his shoulders. He was sitting with a very serious look on his face, intent on what he was doing and wasn’t really talking with the others around him, all of whom were a lot older and flamboyantly dressed in kaftans, paisley and head-scarves. Drood suddenly realised this young person was rolling spliffs for the rest of the group. Then something else dawned on him.
“Oh shit…” He looked from the solemn faced joint roller and then back to Bryan. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Bryan hardly looked up from the palm top controller he was working on.
“Yeah. Mum was a big fan of Gravy Boat, God knows why.” He tapped impatiently at the palm top unit. “The most exciting thing that happened at the whole festival was when…” Just at that moment, one of the bass amps in the stack burst into flames and began sparking loudly. “…when the bass stack blew up…” finished Bryan, rather lamely.
“But isn’t it supposed to be really bad if you meet yourself in your past?” Asked Drood. “You know, like space and time continuum’s being torn apart and the end of the universe?” Bryan snorted derisively.
“You’ve been watching too much Stargate Atlantis, mate.” He said, while tapping a few buttons on the palm top. The unit beeped loudly, Bryan peered closely at the screen. His face paled. “Actually…” he began. “You might be right. Universal cataclysm is a pretty bad thing, isn’t it?” Drood grabbed his hand and began pulling him further and further away from the hippie hordes.
“Let’s not end the universe, just for today, OK Bryan?” Drood had finally managed to get Bryan halfway up the green towards the High Road. “We still don’t even know how we got to be here.” Bryan slipped the palm top into his jacket pocket.
“Most likely explanation is that you just wanted to get away from rain soaked Roman Hulke and just thought of home and something peaceful. There was a big peace vibe at this festival, and even if you didn’t know about it, the unit obviously did.” Bryan smiled brightly at the end of this and let the eyebrows waggle a little. Drood looked at the Chrono-Displacement helmet, still sitting at a jaunty angle on Bryan’s head.
“So can it really be as vague as that?” He mused. “I didn’t even know about this event, and yet the unit found it.” Bryan tapped the helmet.
“Seems likely. Just think though. We can sort out all our problems…” Bryan was suddenly full of enthusiasm. “We need to invent some pretty serious shit very quickly and we haven’t got a clue. Agreed?” Drood nodded silently that, yes, Bryan had a point. “So why don’t we just have a little jaunt back to 3596, purchase ourselves a Groovy Convertor and a Textya-Flayva, then back to sometime in our lifetimes and patent the bastards.” Bryan waggled his eyebrows alarmingly. Drood stared at him for quite some time, before placing a fatherly hand upon his shoulder.
“Bryan, sometimes you can be such a…” he struggled with the right word, “…such a…total fucking genius!” Bryan grinned widely. He checked the palm top again.
“Chrono-Displacement field opening very shortly…” Bryan and Drood looked round to find it; the crackling static sound was faintly heard nearby. “And now, we have all the time in the World…” said Bryan in his best James Bond voice. And with that, they left 1968.
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