A beautiful site in the middle of nowhere had been selected, and along with some folk from the local area, an event for a couple of hundred people was planned.
The only house nearby, which could fairly have been described as a mansion, was about half a mile from the party site. A dirt path leading down the the road went passed the house and ended in a gate leading to open countryside. In order to get the equipment to the site, a transit van was driven down this path to transfer the kit to a Land Rover.
As folk were unloading equipment, jets of water began appearing from over the hedge to the left of the van. This impromptu deluge was soon followed by a disembodied voice yelling in a clipped accent:
“Fuck off. Just fuck off. You’re all scum. Have a wash you fucking vermin – you sewer rats. Just fuck off to where you came from.”
The angry man was using his hosepipe in an attempt to wash down the motley party goers, which caused amusement amongst the already healthily trollied crew. With no real wish to upset the locals, beyond a few jeers the outburst was ignored. Then a purple face appeared through the bushes. Turning to a young women unloading the van he ranted:
“Look at you, you filthy bitch, fuck off, just fuck off you fucking slut.”
This raised the temperature a little. No-one took the bait however and as the van was now empty it left and we escaped the onslaught to get to the site.
Angry man was all but forgotten as we started setting up. That was until a strange old man in a dressing gown was spotted brandishing a pair of kitchen scissors beside some sound equipment. Angry man was back and declared his intention to “cut the wires” so the party couldn’t take place.
This prompted a slightly more direct response, as angry man, barely dressed and armed with a kitchen utensil, was informed that he wasn’t going to be cutting anything. After tense negotiations it was suggested that we didn’t think he’d be able to hear any noise from the party, but if he could, if he came down to see us we would do everything possible to reach a compromise. A handshake sealed the deal and angry man stomped off through the fields back to his mansion.
As it turned out this was just the start of a string of problems. Someone had forgotten to bring diesel to power the generator, leading to an hours delay. When the diesel arrived the sound system wouldn’t work. After being fully examined by more than one sound engineer, and a helpful spark who happened to be present, it still didn’t work.
A much smaller soundystem, barely even audible in the next field, played some reggae, whilst people furiously attempted to fix the main rig. It wasn’t to be. A couple of hundred people had arrived by then and were already staring to slope off. Clusters of people were gabbering into mobile phones, and setting out into the Sussex countryside in the search of a rave where there might hopefully be some music. By 3am, a succession of electrical bodges led to some banging beats emerging from the speakers that were no louder than a tesco value clock radio. By then we were down to less than a hundred people. Many of them had turned up with kids, planning to make a camping trip of the long weekend, and had gone to bed.
The rest of us enjoyed a chemically enhanced night of fucking around in the woods and drinking lager.
At around 7am the poor bastard who’d agreed to stay straight so he could drive decided enough was enough and he was driving home, with or without everyone else. Some people starting to pack up kit and I went with him to get the van which was parked in a lay-by about a mile away.
As we drove back, we became aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. Looking over towards the site there appeared to be an uninvited long line of white vans parked in a road overlooking the valley. As we drove down the dirt track towards the site we realised there was some kind of commotion at the end of the path.
Angry man was back, and this time he’d brought out half the East Sussex police force.
Reluctantly we approached the scene as the furious old toff harangued a cluster of coppers whilst being heckled by a couple of punks clutching bottles of cider.
The gate, which led to the party site had been padlocked shut and all of the equipment was piled up on the other side of it along with the Land Rover.
As it turned out angry man had locked the gate and was attempting to stop anyone leaving. Presumably his feverish mind had visions of the noble boys in blue arresting on masse the inner city vermin. The coppers themselves seemed less impressed. The huge illegal rave they’d been called out to was little more than a piss up in the woods, and even that was over.
When asked about any noise, and why he hadn’t come to talk to us about it as agreed, angry man became sheepish as he admitted he couldn’t hear any noise from the party. When pushed about why he had then made a complaint he responded that “people have been walking on the path past my house”.
Angry man was now incandescent with rage as he ranted that this wasn’t the first time people had walked past his house and the police had done nothing about it.
When it was pointed out by a lairy punter that so fucking what, he hopefully turned to a copper and declared that they’ve been “throwing drugs in the bushes”. This got a laugh even from the attendant filth, as if he believed ravers scattered a trail of drugs behind them pied piper style wherever they went.
The coppers seemed in no mood to arrest anyone, and even an attempt by a couple of them to search the van was called off chief plod. Angry man was eventually persuaded to open the gate, and after a couple more hiccups (the fucking van wouldn’t start) we managed to get out of there.
A week later a full page story appeared in the local press telling of a huge illegal rave with ‘hordes of people present and speakers the size of wardrobes’. Apparently the police had stood by and watched whilst degenerate druggies pounded out repetitive beats at huge volumes and destroyed a local beauty spot. In fact the site had been scrupulously cleaned. The local crew, being far more conscientious than us sketchy fuckers from London, had even fenced off an area to protect a rare breed of flower. Every scrap of litter had been taken away and recycled.
It turned out that angry man was leader of the local Parish Council or some such bigwig and had used his contacts to lie through his teeth to the press about the incident. After numerous complaints the local paper retracted much of the story.
The reason I’ve been telling this long winded tale is that angry man is exactly the sort of swivel eyed cunt that the Tory’s hoped would stand as police commissioners. The jumped up little failures across the UK who use their money and connections in an attempt to treat the old bill as their personal man servants.
Whilst the PCC elections have been an unmitigated disaster, the winners will be angry men (and a couple of women) across the country who will use the position to further their personal petty agendas. The type of people who usually spend their time writing letters in green ink complaining about the communist conspiracy at their local swimming baths will now be in charge of entire police forces.
The kind of scum who will pledge to crack down on the problems caused by gypsys but demand some pleb’s head on a spike the second they get issued a speeding ticket. The real vermin in society who will happily overlook a “noted pederast” in their ranks, whilst coppers are forced to arrest homeless people dossing down in abandoned buildings.
Cameron’s bodged PCC elections were simply one more attempted power grab by the most conservative and reactionary forces in society who dominate the rank and file of the Tory Party membership. The kind of fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists that are defecting to UKIP and that Cameron now needs to prop up his shambolic coalition. And as the PCC election results roll in seems he couldn’t even get that right.