It was 1969

It was 1969

More rust than iron

Who knows when it had last seen service

Broad green grass poked through holes

In the body whilst the handles

Disappeared into the mess of garbage

Thrown out of car windows

Strewn, as relief supplies dropped by a chopper,

Over the wasteland between the cornfield,

With its waving ears of gold

Incongruously placed

Between two busy junctions

A spaghetti shaped flyover,

And an old layby

From before, when the old road was a thoroughfare

Until motorways began to cut the countryside into little pieces,

Two tired lorry drivers took time out to snooze

In high cabs

Refusing to look in our direction

Used condoms were scattered among the

Crisp packets, coke cans and dog-ends

The before, during and after party

Perhaps it was a dogging spot at night,

Not that I knew what that might be

In those days

Did it even exist? When did it become a ‘thing’

We had been there too long

A ride was overdue

But who picks up two hairy guys

With no luggage

In those days even some girls did

Nowadays there are hardly any all-night greasy spoon cafes

Service stations are not the same

Mini-shopping centres full of tourists

On coach trips around Britain

The length and breadth in two weeks

See it all from the window

Maybe don’t use the onboard loo after the first day,

But this day was still at the loose end

Of more relaxed times

We sat for a few hours before catching a break

A young guy in a red Ferrari

Looking to show us the money stopped to pick us up

It was an open-top, two-seater but with just enough room

To squeeze one in the front and one on the rumble seat

As he ripped through the gears

Two hundred miles in less than four hours

Put us well ahead of the game

We would make the gig after all

Blind Faith in Hyde Park

Seems like a motto for a trusting soul

To live a life by

He gave us his address, invited us back

To sleepover after the concert

These were more innocent times

Before serial killers were a televisual staple

He was married

With a house in Kentish Town

His wife was a dish

And served us a full-English in the morning

After they allowed us to sleep in a spare room

The guy was a rock freak

With a studio in the basement

We jammed on his kit for the best part of the day

He drove us back to Henley’s corner

To catch a ride up north

We were too young and stoned to catch his name

But what a good guy

To remember

He might have been somebody famous

I hope some cool dude took as much trouble for him

If he needed it.

Perhaps he would

Perhaps they did

Who knows

It is a different world now.