Backfire, Pt 2

`Sweet revenge,’ I thought...but how?

Years ago, while still at school, I’d learned the old adage "Don’t get mad - get even", and because of my generally soft nature, it was a maxim I’d stuck to when things got rough. Practical joke paybacks became my forte - and almost my nemesis, on one occasion - and humiliation was the name of the game. Time to think...

I had a strong hunch that `physical’ punishment side of things had been taken care of - judging by Ozzy’s comments - and, as it seemed unlikely I’d get any backlash from them, I nurtured a few ideas of suitable repartee for the rest of the damage. Just for once, I was determined to see this through. I badly wanted to regain some of my long-lost self-respect - I was carrying too many mental scars from other violent past events - and I was damned if I was going to run home to my strong-minded wife with my tail between my legs. What would she think? I didn’t want to find out...and besides, I’d paid for the ticket and weekend expenses.

In the jeep, I set up a plug-in car kettle for a brew, and when I had a cup of hot, strong tea to swallow, I put some painkillers to good use (I always carried a small stock of `soothers’ for various ailments). I considered my options - but after a while it became obvious that I needed some basic information before I could put any plans into action, so when I finished my tea I cleaned up, took my collapsible walking stick from the jeep and locked up, then slowly hobbled back to the show field. I didn’t have to work too hard at looking sore and frail - pain lanced at me from every point in my body.

Heading for the catering area I saw that the showground was beginning to liven up, with people flowing back and forth and others arriving in a steady trickle. When I glanced at my watch, I was amazed to see that it was only just eight o’clock in the morning; it felt more like eleven to my battered head and body. I managed to find someone selling paper-mache bowls of cereal, spied an empty seat at a plastic table, sat down heavily and began spooning corn flakes, though it was hard going with pain sparking from my nose, each time I opened my mouth.

Before I knew it, a couple of bikers joined me and rattled up a conversation about the kerfuffle that morning, and I numbly nodded at the usual `it shouldn’t happen, all bikers together’ comments, and all that jazz; I totally agreed with them. Eventually, I made my polite excuses without letting on my involvement, struggled to my feet and started to shuffle away, leaning heavily on the walking stick. The painkillers might have been half-working, but every joint in my body felt so stiff I could hardly move from the table. I felt about ninety-four, instead of forty-nine...

...And then, a few minutes after a quick visit to a portaloo, I unexpectedly discovered the troglodyte lying inside the open doorway into a barn behind the marquee, partly curled-up with a bottle of brown ale in his fist. I felt my heart lurch at the sight of him, but I soon realised that he was out for the count, his tent, sleeping bag and other possessions all heaped up against his back, and his bike - a `survivalised’ heap of an ex-army trail-bike, all matt black and rust - on its stand behind.

For all intents and purposes, he looked just like he’d drunk himself into oblivion - but when I leaned a little closer and squinted, I could see the beginnings of bruises around his face and the backs of his hands. I winced, but felt no pity for him - and respect for whoever had dealt the blows. No split lips, no black eyes or a broken nose - just bruises. Ouch! Serve the bastard right...

"Hey, Baz," came a quiet but steely voice, "what’re you doing here, mate?"

I jumped, then turned to find Ozzy standing behind me, hands on hips and frowning deeply.

"Come away, and leave him be," he prompted, and I nodded, stepping toward him.

"It’s okay, Ozzy - just passing by, literally," I excused, turning to take another scan of a few details, frowning and squinting as I laboured a few observations. "I wasn’t looking for him - just happened to walk this way. Coming back from the loo, y’see?"

We stood and looked down at the troglodyte, and I thought, ‘He’s going to be bloody angry when he comes round, and probably blame me’. I said so to Ozzy, but he shrugged and jerked his head.

"He’s been put straight on that score, mate. You get any hassle from him, you tell me," and he passed me a business card with his phone number on. I read it, saw that he was now the owner of a motorcycle shop - his dream, I remembered - and I smiled, nodding.

"You got there, then? Well done, mate!" I congratulated him, as I pocketed the card.

He smiled as he accepted my card in return, and I glanced back at the `trog’ before we moved away. Something caught my eye, but I kept the observation to myself...

"It took a long while," he began, proud to tell me of his achievement. "Got a good business now, though," he continued, and we strolled away, catching up on drifting lifestyles. When I’d last seen him, his previous club had been draining his finances and causing him some worry. Once again, though, Black Sabbath interrupted the chat, and he had to excuse himself with a roll of his eyes.

"Sorry, Baz - got things to organise. No peace for the wicked," he apologised. "Look, I’m going to be a bit busy today - we’re having a `barbie’ this evening, before the bands kick off. You want to join us? We can have a better chinwag. You can tell me all about your wife, then, and why you didn’t invite me to the wedding!"

"Invite you? She wouldn’t have been safe!" I retorted, trying to smile. "Anyway, will I be welcome after all this aggro?" My heart was fluttering a little at the thought - I wasn’t sure at all.

"’Course you will," he assured me. "You’ll be my guest. There’ll be others - you’ll be fine." I could see that look of exasperation in his eyes and I hastily accepted.

"I’d be glad to, mate! Anyone else I might know?" I added, putting as much enthusiasm as I could muster into it.

"Maybe...I don’t know. You’ve been out of it a long time," he reminded me. "Anyway, we’ll catch up later, okay? Gotta go... Oh, I nearly forgot," he added, fishing in a waistcoat pocket. "Thirty quid, mate - it’s all we managed to squeeze out of him. Can you get a `bag or tent for that?"

"Er - yeah, I think Tesco are doing some cheapies right now," I confirmed, my eyebrows up. "They’ll do, if they’ve got any in stock around here...and thanks, mate. I really didn’t expect anything."

"The least I can do. Catch you later, then."

We exchanged nods and he turned on his heel, marching off briskly. I waited until he was out of sight, shoved the cash into a pocket, turned and scanned the area - trying not to look furtive - then edged my way back to the barn. Keeping out of reach and being careful where I trod, I squinted at a cloudy black mark on the back of the `trog’s Levi jeans, just between right thigh and buttock. I felt a frown creasing my forehead as I moved around his bike for a quick look at a couple of details on it - and once again, I felt that wicked grin fighting its way back. An unexpected bonus, I realised...

Time to go shopping, I decided, and I toddled away. With a plan brewing gleefully in my warped imagination I managed to put a little zest into my step, almost swinging the walking stick as I went.

* * *

Over the missing years, I’ve learned a great deal from my wife about culinary and animal hygiene, and from work, a little more about hazardous chemicals; I put that knowledge to good use during that shopping trip. The local supermarket produced four fresh chickens, some decent sausages and some baking spuds for the barbie, a loaf of budget brown bread (for the ducks!), a twelve pack of bottled Newcastle brown, a couple of packs of lager...and a few other - er - necessities. Oh, and a cheap replacement tent and sleeping bag, as predicted.

Back at the showground car park I found I’d lost my original space, but I found a better spot further around the pond, slightly screened by shrubs and trees. With my car kettle set up for another tea brew-up, I opened the jeep’s rear door, folded the seats forward, then set to work on my shopping...

* * *

A while later, I was trembling nervously as I slowly made my way back to the showground, labouring my painful hobbling, with the walking stick very prominent. I stopped near the marquee to lower my carrier-bagged burdens, then dialled Ozzy’s number into my mobile. He answered reassuringly quickly.

"Baz? You okay?"

"Yeah, fine, mate - sore, but fine," I assured him. "Listen - can you spare me a few minutes? There’s something I need to do, and I’d like you with me...for back-up, so to speak."

"What’s that then, mate?" He quizzed, though from the sound of his voice, he’d started moving. "Where are you?"

"I’ll tell you when you get here - I’m at the entrance to the marquee," I told him.

"Okay," he said. "Won’t be a mo’."

Just before he caught up with me, I felt a few shuddering collywobbles for what I was about to do, but I managed to shake off the flurry of fear and smiled at his arrival.

"Come on," he prompted, "what’re you up to?"

"I thought I might try having a little chat with troglodyte over there," I told him, watching his mouth drop open. "Don’t say anything now - just be there, eh? Come on," I urged, picking up my bags and turning, while I still had the courage to do so.

My heart began to pound as I shuffled toward the `trog’, who was now awake, slouched across his belongings and getting angrier in the face, the nearer we approached.

"What the hell do you want?" He growled, his eyes darting from me to Ozzy and back.

"Just a quick word," I began, not having to work at nervousness - it was flowing naturally. Ozzy stood about two paces to one side, his arms folded across his chest, as puzzled as the troglodyte. I placed one of the bags on the grass in front of me, within his reach. Its contents clinked, and he frowned.

"I think you’ve been told it wasn’t me who tipped that water over you, and I’m more than just a bit pissed-off at being on the wrong end of your shitty temper just because I was there, but...whatever," I began, my voice quavering naturally. "The point is, I haven’t been to a bike show in nearly fifteen years," I continued, taking a deliberately shuddering breath, "because I’ve been ill, and I wanted to come to this one because it’s fairly local for me. To be honest, it’s probably the last one I’ll ever do, too - I haven’t got long to go, you see?" I was beginning to babble too fast, so I paused.

His face was a moving picture, running through scorn, pity, embarrassment and a host of other expressions - but Ozzy just stared at me, stunned to the core. I gently patted my lower abdomen.

"Bowels, y’see?" I breathed, jerking my head a little. "They say it’s only a few months off, so I’m getting a few last visits in, while I can still move...though I don’t suppose getting a kicking from you has helped things at all, because I’ve just had to take my strongest painkillers..."

My story seemed to be triggering the right sort of effect. The `trog’s temper appeared to be subsiding, and poor Ozzy’s eyes seemed a little misty as he swallowed something, as hard as he was. Neither seemed to know what to say, so I rounded off as quickly as I could, while I seemed to hold the advantage. I leaned heavily on the walking stick and slightly screwed up my face.

"Look, I think things have got a bit out of hand. I’m prepared to put it aside, though -" I moved the carrier bag closer to him "- and give you these as a peace offering. We all know I don’t have to do this - Ozzy might call me mad, in fact - but all I ask is that you leave me alone, so I can enjoy this last show?"

He glanced at Ozzy, stared at me for a few seconds as he digested my story, then eased himself more upright and sighed deeply, looking at the ground at my feet. I could tell that he didn’t want to apologise - his sort never did - but he accepted my `plea’ with a quick nod.

"Okay," he consented, glancing at Ozzy again.

Ozzy stepped forward a pace, and glared, curling his fists. "I think you owe the man an apology?" He prompted.

I thought he was pushing the moment, but to my surprise, the troglodyte grumbled something that sounded vaguely remorseful, and I nodded to please Ozzy. I didn’t believe he was sorry - not for a moment - but I just wanted the meeting to finish.

"You go near this man again, and I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks," Ozzy rumbled. "Got that? Show the man some respect, and leave him alone!"

There seemed to be a clash of lightning between their eyes, but the tension passed as quickly.

"Okay, okay," the `trog’ mumbled, then reached out and accepted the bag I was proffering. Not another word, nor a glance, and that was that. I wouldn't risk a handshake - I hadn't forgiven him at all, and I wasn't prepared to go quite that far into peace-making.

I turned to Ozzy, nodded, then turned again and hobbled away with him pacing quietly at my side, though I could feel the `trog’s glare burning into my back as we ambled along. I was a quivering wreck and my legs felt like jellies by the time we stopped in front of the marquee, well out of sight and earshot. He looked lost for words as I turned to face him.

"Baz..mate...I - I don’t know what to say," he began. "I didn’t realise..."

I winked, pulled a sly smile, and watched as a hint of comprehension dawned in his eyes.

"If you believed that, mate, you’ll believe anything!" I jibed, the fluttering in my chest slowing.

"You mean...? You sly old...bugger!" He finished, almost laughing and shaking his head. "You really had me going, there!"

"That’s what I call `going for the sympathy vote’," I said. "It’s worked before, though not since I got pounded at junior school." I tilted my head in the direction of the barn. "The beer’s just an insurance policy I didn’t mind paying - as long as he’s the boozer I think he is, and drinks it all..."

He squinted at me, quizzically, resting his hands on his hips as his eyes bored into mine. "What have you done? Spiked the bottles?" He was quick, I’ll give him his due.

"Wait and see," I returned.

He frowned, rolled his eyes, then grinned, nodding. "Old habits die hard, eh, mate? Can't resist a gag or two?"

"All I can do at this stage is keep my fingers crossed," I continued. "There’s more than one way to cook a chicken, so-to-speak...and talking of chickens - here’s some things for the barbie, mate!"

I held the other carrier bag out to him, and he took it and peered inside.

"Nice one!" He exclaimed, grinning again. "You didn’t have to, but thanks, Baz."

"It’s the least I could do, after you saved my skin...again. It’s a token of my appreciation," I smiled to break the sobering mood, "but please, chuck `em in the caterers’ fridge, or something, and don’t forget to tell your chef to cook `em well - I don’t want food poisoning as well as bruises!"

He smiled, and we parted company with a `meet up later’ promise. I hobbled back to the corner of the marquee, casually surveyed the showground’s collection of displayed bikes and trikes - and caught the glowering eyes of the troglodyte as he lounged beside his heap. He raised one of the bottles of Newcastle Brown, tipped it at me in a mock salute and took a large swig. Definitely not someone to trust in keeping promises, I could see, and my heart fluttered again. I just hoped it would work...

I lifted my chin in a return gesture, then turned away to go feed the ducks.

* * *

Three hours on, the show was in full swing, an afternoon support band was playing some Gary Moore numbers, people were milling around, inspecting the show bikes and doing all that show-goers do...and the troglodyte looked encouragingly intoxicated, after just three bottles out of eight.

* * *

The hours ticked on by, prizes were given, events moved on, the Club’s barbie began around six, I joined them and presented them with the lager packs and last few Newcastle Browns (untouched!), and as we stood munching and chatting, reminiscing and joke cracking, I cast a glance toward the ‘trog’. Somehow, he’d managed to pitch his tent - not too straight, mind you - outside the barn, but now he was sprawled like a starfish, just about comatose again...and grasping the seventh Newcastle Brown in his fist.

Pulling my attention back to the knot of bikers I was standing with, listening to one of Ozzy’s jokes, I smiled from my core as I felt a wave of relief washing through me like a gentle tide. It looked like `Phase One’ was working, but I needed to be certain. I waited, chatted and laughed amiably...

A couple of hours later, I sneaked over to the `trog’ by a roundabout route, checked his slow, steady pulse and deep breathing, then returned to the party.

* * *

It was about three in the morning when I finally got back to my jeep, stone cold sober, to collect the remainder of my shopping. I’d pitched the new tent and laid the sleeping bag just as the first evening band had started - when I was sure the `plot’ was working - and I’d really enjoyed the socialising and reminiscing, so I was looking forward to a good sleep soon; all that remained was a little technical skulduggery.

I traced my way back to the comatose troglodyte, then set to work on his bike, starting with the plug cap, adding a touch of vegetable matter where it counted, and ending with a chemical additive or two...

* * *

I was standing chatting with Ozzy and a couple of other past acquaintances, cuddling a china mug of steaming tea at around eight-thirty on the Sunday morning, when I heard the pounding of boots approaching, but not particularly rhythmically. Our conversation dwindled as the troglodyte stomped and staggered past as rapidly as he could weave, holding his stomach, heading for the toilets...

"Phase two," I whispered as I caught Ozzy’s eye, winked and allowed myself a little smirk. He twitched an eyebrow and shot a brief, puzzled half-smile at me, then we returned to our four-way rose-tinted bike chat. He kept firing odd glances at me during the conversation, forcing me to fight down smiles that would have been inappropriate to the subjects, until our two companions eventually rounded off and wandered away to meet their friends. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Ozzy jerked his head at the rank of portaloos.

"What was that about `Phase two’?" He queried. "What the hell did you put in that beer?" He was smiling, though.

"A few diazepam to knock him out, and a good few slugs of syrup of figs to get him...er...going, when the pills wore off," I confessed.

Ozzy roared with laughter, clapping me on one shoulder. I winced and flinched as fierce pains shot through me again, and he stopped laughing abruptly, apologising as he cast glances at other people around us - some also wincing, but more from having their hangovers jangled than anything else.

"You bastard!" He hissed, gleefully. "You sneaky little bastard! You know, I really didn’t think you had the bottle, but..." He chuckled again, shaking his head, nodding at the toilets as a dreadful groaning emerged from one. "Jesus!" He breathed as others took notice of the noises and smiled, guessing their own theories. "How many did you give him, for Christ’s sake? Where’d you get it from, anyway?"

"Three per bottle - probably enough to zap a hippo, I should think. I keep some handy for occasional palpitations," I said, tapping my chest. "You’re not supposed to drink alcohol with `em, though - it’s probably given him a whopping hangover."

"Oh, what a shame!" He mocked, raising his coffee mug and grinning.

We both chuckled, then watched as the `trog’ slammed open the door of the cubicle he was using, fell forward on his hands and knees, groaned again as he held his head in his hands and vomited - and then jack-knifed back into the cubicle. Why people smile at others’ misfortune, I’m not sure, but many folks grinned at each other after witnessing the movements.

I twitched my eyebrows in a `told you so’ gesture as I grinned and left Ozzy talking to a trader, and tramped off to collect my tent and sleeping bag. I just hoped the gorilla was going to recover enough to fulfil the piece de resistance...

* * *

It was around mid-day when I next caught up with Ozzy, Danny and a couple of others in an old caravan behind the marquee and next to the barn. The caravan had provided an organisational nerve-centre for the host club, and a succession of bikers tramped in and out as the show was gradually closed down and tasks were issued to anyone daft enough to stand still for longer than thirty seconds.

Ozzy was chatting with his `oppo’ Sergeant-At Arms, who was a surprisingly short but wiry character, but still someone I wouldn’t like to cross in a dark alley, that’s for sure. Ozzy broke off when I stepped in and made the introductions between us...just as I noticed the tattoo on the other S.A.A’s hand. Both he and Ozzy saw my expression change, and the apology was issued.

"Sorry about the trouble you’ve had, my friend," the wiry one growled. "Bastard can’t take a joke, can he?" He commented, jerking his head across the front of the barn door. "I didn’t think he’d pick on you - thought he’d seen me through the flap."

I sighed deeply, shaking my head and feeling strangely nauseous for an instant. What could I say?

"Water under the bridge," I finally replied, being as neutral as possible; what the hell... "Good shot, though!" I congratulated him, trying to be hearty. "Made up for my beer," I added. "Mind you, if I had done it, I’d’ve used a bucket of slurry from the pig farm over there..."

It was an entertainment `bravado’ comment more than truth, but they laughed and groaned as one, the other S.A.A. reaching out to shake my hand. "No hard feelings then, my friend?"

"Hell, no," I said. "Life’s too short..."

"When’re you leaving, Baz?" Ozzy asked.

"Sometime in the next hour or so," I told him, beginning to feel somewhat dismayed that it looked like the `Grand Finale’ I’d planned was in fact going to be an anti-climax; I thought that maybe I’d `disabled’ the `trog’ too far...until I noticed movement beyond the window as he strapped his bundled tent and belongings across his tatty bike.

My heart lurched as I watched the `trog’ pull on his helmet, then bend down for one last bout of stomach emptying; alcohol, diazepam and laxative obviously didn’t mix. He straightened up, swaying, and put the key in the ignition switch, swung out the kick-starter, leapt on it - and all I heard was a faint "chaff". Ozzy frowned, turned, and everyone followed my squint.

After a few more fruitless swings on the kick-starter (the `trick’ needed `priming’ to work, so the more the merrier, I hoped!), his temper was beginning to fray a little - and finally he noticed the spark plug cap dangling idle. I heard him snarl and yell "BASTARDS!", casting fearsome glares at Ozzy’s Club’s pitch, obviously blaming them - and after jamming the cap back in place, he took a hefty lunge on the kick-starter. He was rewarded.

There came a peculiar loud "Whaff-THUD!" combination, and a jet of jellied flame lanced upward from a very rusty exhaust pipe to his thigh and buttock as an un-barbecued spud rocketed toward us in the caravan.

`Oh, shit!’ I thought...

We ducked as the blackened missile splattered and shattered the window, cowering as toughened glass burst everywhere.

There was an instant of shocked silence - and then, our ears were assaulted with the most unearthly, blood-curdling howl, and one by one, we straightened up to stare out, bemused, at the downed troglodyte. The others laughed harder still at the sight of the him slapping at the flames boiling around his thigh and buttocks as he rolled on the grass next to his fallen bike. I settled for a satisfied grin as Ozzy swivelled on his heel.

"Go, Danny!" he urged, snatching up a fire extinguisher and shoving it into the youngster’s hands. Both of them shot me an odd look, but Danny was off at a sprint as Ozzy carried on sniggering beside me, the others laughing fit to burst as one picked up the spud’s battered core from the floor and they, too, left the caravan.

Their laughter seemed to fade into echoes as I stood there, hands deep in pockets, taking a deep breath and releasing it as a slow sigh as I watched the culmination of my `dastardly’ efforts.

"’Vengeance is a dish best served cold’," I quoted aloud, and as I saw Ozzy’s head snap around on hearing the old Arabian proverb, I looked at him and completed with "...and you can’t get much colder than a good blast of CO2 up yer backside, eh?"

"Eh?" He breathed, and I swallowed. I wondered if I’d taken things too far for him - and then he caught on and roared with laughter once more, watching as Danny enthusiastically squirted the prostrated `trog’ and then a bit of his bike, briefly, until the cylinder puffed its last, leaving the victim’s bared thigh and buttock almost caked in a film of frost.

It was as if a switch had been thrown in my head, and with a sobering face, I jerked my head at Ozzy.

"Come on - there’s something I just have to do," I told him, and stepped out of the caravan. I walked slowly, still using the stick to offset the pain in my right knee, and stopped near the `trog’. One Club member frowned at me and raised an arm to hold me back, but Ozzy stopped him and nodded his assent.

"Oooh, that looks so sore!" I teased loudly, putting as much mock concern as I could into it as I crouched down out of reach, while the `trog’ groaned, utterly spent from throwing up yet again. The others mostly sniggered as I looked at the palm-sized blister where his buttock and thigh joined, and the surrounding bright red skin as the frost evaporated, steaming. I was surprised - and disappointed - that it wasn’t worse.

"Does it hurt?" I asked him, acting the innocent. "Does it really hurt?"

From an inside pocket in my jacket, I pulled a small aerosol of burns treatment and tossed it to Danny, drawing some curious glances from a couple of the lads. I could almost hear them thinking `Why would he have that, so conveniently?’ Danny shook the can, a slow smile spreading across his face...

"Furroff!" I think the troglodyte mumbled.

"That’s good...I mean, that’s terrible!" I played, getting a few more sniggers and a choking sound from Ozzy. I looked up and saw him struggling not to laugh aloud. Danny set to work with the aerosol, and the `trog’ howled and bucked, forcing a couple of burly lads to pin him down so the burns could be squirted...I mean, treated properly. Danny finished spraying with a flourishing spiral, and when the howling subsided, I gently tapped the `trog’s shoulder with my walking stick.

"How’s your guts?" I continued. The `trog’ turned his head, and his bleary eyes wavered toward me.

"F’goff!" He groaned, beginning to realise who I was.

"How’s your head?"

"F’GOFF!" He yelled at me, and I flinched a little, in spite of my advantage. The lads were still grinning, though.

"It all hurts, doesn’t it?" I commented. "Thing is, though - what hurts more?" I paused as I waited for him to focus. "The squirts? The hangover? That little burn? ...Or is it the humiliation, in front of all these lads?" I hissed, labouring the last point. "Not nice to be made a fool of, eh?"

"F’GOFF, Y’BASTARD!" He screamed, trying to heave off his `minders’. He gritted his teeth as the spray worked at the burn, and I leaned a little closer to him, supported by the walking stick.

"You reap as you sow, my friend," I growled, "you reap as you sow..."

I’d had enough, and I felt strangely calm as I grasped Ozzy’s arm for physical support. He heaved me upright, and I nodded to the others one by one as I turned, drawing an interesting selection of expressions, then I hobbled off with my knee burning in agony. I didn’t care about the pain - I was just surprised at how cool and settled I was feeling after the confrontation. I suppose it had been a long, long time coming...

I heard Ozzy mumbling instructions behind me, then he caught up and we walked slowly and silently back to my jeep. When we reached it, I stowed the walking stick behind the seat, then turned to Ozzy.

"I think you `turned a corner’, back there," he said, looking me straight in the eyes. "I think you’ve finally opened up. Whatever you’ve been bottling up all this time, I reckon you’ve exorcised it with him."

"You reckon?" I queried, surprised at his philosophical change.

"Yep. To be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you, facing someone like that."

"I’d be the first to agree with that, mate," I nodded. "I don’t know where it all came from." I smiled, nodded again, then gave him a grin. "Good laugh, though, eh?"

He chuckled, then surprised me again by grasping me in a gentle bear hug. I returned it without a second thought.

"You take care, now - and keep in touch," he ordered me.

"I will," I promised. "Don’t think I’ll be doing any more shows or rallies, though. We’ll see..."

"I know one thing," he said, "I won’t forget this weekend in a hurry."

"Same here," I agreed as I climbed into the jeep and started the engine, "and nor will ‘Napalm Nuts’ over there - especially the next few weeks whenever he tries to sit on the loo..." Ozzy smiled at the nickname and chuckled at the thought "...and I reckon he’ll be doing that more than normal for the next few days at least..."

"How d’you mean?" He queried, frowning as he caught my comment.

"You'd be amazed at just how much juice you can squeeze into beer bottles from four raw chickens," I told him. "I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he goes down with a dose of salmonella..."

He was laughing so hard that his eyes were watering and he had to hold his stomach as I edged the jeep back to the gateway, then grinned and waved goodbye...


by Baz Elzebub.