Hitchhikers

I looked around for this photo for nearly two years ever since I heard the news about Steven passing away through a phonecall from his sister Sonia whilst out on my bike in Japan. I had it on my bedroom wall for a long time and thus it was in the wall of my mind when Steven's name came up. Up in the loft, in a sketchbook I found it this summer just been.

I think the year was 1997 and one of us suggested hitchhiking to Glastonbury it was the first time I’d been to a music festival I wasn’t sure about Steven. We had been stood on Clive Sullivan Way in the pouring rain with our Posca marker pen and cardboard sign for well over an hour before it began disintegrating and we started thinking about calling it a day, when along pulled up a massive white articulated lorry. Me and Steven looked at each other as if to say “what do we do now?”.

The driver popped open his door and the warmth and dry of the cabin exposed itself. We took the plunge and after our first lift were given a road atlas by the driver and dumped off near Doncaster. It didn’t seem to take too long to make our way down the damp M5 to Somerset and sharing the ride with Steve was always a laugh. He had a great blend of adventure, energy, politeness and the kind of explosive humour that I’ve never quite found in anyone else.

We reached the car park just before dusk and ferreted around the perimeter wall and before long we’d found a tree right next to the din of the festival. Not knowing the stone circle of Glastonbury was close by we lobbed our rucksacks over and scaled up and along the branches of a pine tree. As soon as we dropped down it immediately became apparent that the whole of the stone circle occupants, a small crowd of about 100 festival bandits, were turned facing uphill looking towards the fence we’d just come over, giving us an enormous cheer! Over to our left there were quad bikes with security blokes “come on!” The crowd roared. We needed no further encouragement. Off we belted, holding on to our sleeping backs and rucksacks, aluminum cups and pans clattering all the way! “Come on!!!” as the crowd took us in and turned again to the fence looking for more escapees from the humdrum normal world.

We’d made it into one of the muddiest Glastonbury’s ever but it didn’t seem to dampen our spirits one bit! Too naive to know any better and too enthusiastic to care about the practicalities of the situation we settled into the drums and joints and guitars beating around us. We had to hurry and set up camp before it got too dark, but walking around it seemed like such a magical place full of hippies, krusties on stilts, scouse scallies and dreamy kids like us.

After we’d wondered about a bit and pitched tent we settled in for the night until to my great bemusement Steve suddenly shouted “BOLLOCKS!!” at the top of his lungs as was (unbeknownst to me) customary on such occasions. Almost immediately the call was answered “BBBOLLLOCKKSSS!!” came the next tent, and the next, and a whole ripple from another!! Until the whole camp area was a barking crescendo of testicular madness!

So here is Steven the next day I think, probably not long after we realized neither of us had brought any cooking apparatus and we were just going to have to bloody well eat tins of cold baked beans for the next two days. I can’t even remember who played that year, was too mesmerized by the people around us, but I do remember Steven telling me we couldn’t miss Steve Winwod and, as we could hear Robbie Williams performing some distance away outside, Steven remarking with genuine sympathy how confused he thought Robbie was in career choices at the time. It was Steven who taught me to get to the front of the crowd. And Steven who threw us both into the ankle high muddy mosh pits that weekend and Steven who taught us how to have a good laugh in the mud! I’ve never not thought of him whenever I’ve been at a music festival. We walk through the mud but we never give up Steven! You made it fun!

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