Prologue

The sun failed to rise with the expected panache through the white cold mist of morning. We were looking for a tender swatch of yellows burning in the distance like Titian's painting 'Noli me Tangere', not even daring to hope for a Turner-like explosion, but we got none of that. The sky simply lightened a little, changing from a blue grey to a grey-grey and then what might at best be a whitish-grey. But at least we were here, sitting on the side of Glastonbury Tor, looking out to what we took to be the east over towards the Mendip Hills and away from the green of the Somerset Levels. There was a damp chill. We settled back to our breakfast of bacon and eggs, cooked on a little blue camping gaz stove in a greasy frying pan. Somehow the yokes had survived the journey.

If you cracked open the Tor like a grassy green egg, and pulled away it's peaty husk, then in its limestone heart would be lying King Arthur and his band of warriors, covered in cobwebs and lichen, waiting for the day when England would call on their efforts again. So they said. On the top of the tor was the remains of St Michael's Church, the angel who threw the devil out of heaven. An earthquake - yes, an earthquake, in England, not some far off place on the telly - had destroyed the rest of the church, leaving only a tower, open to the elements with arches on all four sides, looking up to the sky like a massive ecclesiastical chimney. The last abbot of Glastonbury had been hung here, singled out by Henry VIII's men to be a lesson to everyone who doubted that the king meant it. Had he been hung drawn and quartered, too? Or just left to be picked over by birds. Much like St Michael's earthquake-shaken church, whose stones and carvings had been lifted and now jutted out of the cottages of light-fingered locals. A path snaked up the steep hills, carved out by Army cadets and the National Trust, paved with stones and concrete, which we had brought our bikes up. All in all, it was a lot to take in.

So we settled back to our breakfast: Tony, James and I, proud of our little adventure, staying up all night and cycling to Glastonbury Tor to watch the sun rise. You had to do something when you knew you were young, but this seemed a little overly odd, a little weird, and basically uncool, but still we did it.

Soon we would cycle back and sleep the rest of the day. A week or so and we would be heading to university, except for James, and this was the icing on the end of a long summer of fun. A midnight bike ride from our little village on the moors to Glastonbury Tor to watch the sun rise, like sixties hippies. Except we had no hippie chicks to follow along, naturally. So,that was the plan. A few hours on our bikes - avoiding punctures -, a walk up a hill, breakfast and a smoke, before a few hours back to home like the good little nerds we were. Did it happen like that? Did it fuck.

*

It must have been about a quarter to six.
'That's it, I think', said James, sounding pissed off, 'That's as much of a sunrise that we're going to get.'
I looked around and agreed. This was probably it. The sky was getting lighter, not bursting into something amazing. Sunset were no doubt the thing. Ends not beginnings.
We stubbed out our cigarettes and finished up the food.
'I think the pan's cool enough to pack' said Tony, 'But I'm not packing it. Here.'
He passed the greasy frying pan to me. I wiped it up, with a kitchen towel I'd brought for such a job, the white bobbles turning brown as they swept up what was left of the egg and bacon and margarine. I stuffed the paper towel into a Tesco bag and then stash the whole lot in my pannier. Unlike Tony's, which was a top of the range set of bags, mine were the cheapest from Argos, thin nylon, straight from China, an embarrassing bright red. The stuffed outline of the bag showed the stove and pan like bones under the skin.
'I'm glad we did it', said James, 'Should we go? I'm not as tired as I thought I would be.'
Suddenly the bushes near to us started moving.
'Do you see that', said James, in a quick whisper.
We looked at the bushes. They weren't bushes, but people. About five of them in sleeping bags and boxes. Hairy and beaded, beginning to sniff.
'Hippies', said Tony, dismissively, and looked away, picking up his bike.
I looked on, wondering who and what they were, how did they get there. Why did they sleep up here and not in the town, or the woods. Was it the view? The potential dawn? Or had they just passed out; although knowing they were going to pass out on Merrydown cider or strongbrew or mushrooms, or whatever, and came with a bag. Had they arranged to come here?
'Come on,' said Tony, zipping up his fake barbour and pulling on his cap, 'it's just a bunch of crusties.'
So we picked up our bikes and began to wheel them down the tour, heaving them across the styles and towards the road, heading back home.

*

I must apologize for the swear word above. I doubt that I would have said it then, fifteen years ago or more, or even thought it. Far too priggish for that. And less in need of such words, more inclined to see things with what I thought was wry amusement, rather than foul-mouthed anger. Now of course, now, a 'fuck' here and there wouldn't count a fuck. Drop them like farts all over the place, as leaky a mouth as my bowels. It hardly means anything now, not like it mostly did then. Again, apologies for my foul language. But then if you didn't mind you wouldn't be here.

It's a Scottish word, I'm told. Or at least the dictionary claims it is. I'm sure it's up there as one of the head words in whatever dictionary you look at, stuck there with irrevocable magnetism. Other words have the same effect. 'Cunt', for one word, always seems to be stuck up at the top of the page, in bold. And even school dictionaries have the same typographical prattfalls. Is it fate, or some pissed-off compositor, pulling a stunt on his employers? Wanker must be up there, too.

When we were eleven, Mr Hovis issued us with our blue dictionaries for school.
'Don't lose them, or deface them, or I'll do the same to you,' he warned, to no effect.
Soon the news spread. 'Look at page 67. Go on look'. So we did. Pulling the blue, battered volumes out of our bags, opening the still heavy boards, with our name and form added to the litany of new eleven-year olds - now all left or bigger than us - then to page 67.
There it was, ineluctibly sparking a spiral of inky grafitti, palimpests of schoolboy - and girl - scatalogy: "FUCK. fuk (old word, long taboo: all words, meanings, still vulg.) v.i. to have sexual intercourse: (with about or around), act foolishly". So that's what we did. Fucked around. Or at least Tony did. His first essay, on 'My first week at Hazel Deane Comprehensive School', contained the immortal line 'Miss Tubs took us for biology and introduced us to the seven signs of life, the primary of this is to fuck.' It was in the dictionary, sir. I didn't start it. He did. The man who wrote the dictionary. Still got detention and a letter to his parents. And noticed by all of us.

Long Taboo, as I was saying (in my little apology). Lasting all of fifteen years. It's everywhere now, like drizzel used to be at breaktime, on the tv, on the street, in the buses, in the offices, in my head. Probably was always there, just that I was stuck somewhere else, in the schoolyard, at home, in books.

How things change. But as I was saying, there we were, heading home.

I know I'm taking my time here, but I think its best to get things right, as correct as they can be. Avoiding diversions where I can and aiming for verisimilitude as far as anyone can. I owe it to you at least. Please go on. Thank you.

So there we were. To borrow a film metaphor, imagine a long shot, perhaps Kurusawa's Seven Samari, when the troops arrive before the battle (except it's in colour and it's we three snaking down the hill that is the Tor, red and blue and green coated figures agains the hill). The Tor taking up the right third of the frame, a path winding down, a huddle of darker green trees at the base, the hills sloping down to Glastonbury, and all around the flat marshes of the Levels. All is quiet. Occasionaly - and here you might catch your breath, just a little - one of us slips a little. With the dew it is a bit damp underfoot, and the night's cycling, for all the rush of the morning and the breakfast, has made us slightly sleepy, less aware than what is usual for a young eighteen-year-old. Now and then, as I said, we lift our bikes and panniers over the styles, getting close to the road.

The whole caravan takes about twenty minutes. At last we are back on the road. Dangers of puntures and falls behind us, we set off. Medium shoot. Three lads on bikes. I'm in front, going fairly slowly. My right pedel squeaks a bit as we go. Apparantly the crank is shot, the cheap aluminium twisted by the heat, believe it or not, of thousands of revolutions, paper rounds, bike rides, scooting around the village, and the bolt can't hold it in anymore. Every twist makes it worse, more mishapen, looser, and destined to fail, like a gummy, toothless mouth trying to grip on a hard steak. Every half hour I stop and tighten the bolt with a twenty-pence piece.

Behind me is Tony. He's over six foot, and big with it, like an enlarged gummy bear, looking older than his years (helped no doubt by the cheap barbour). His cap sits loosely on his head and mop of blong hair, his face a little flushed from the cycling. And he's a mystery.