Giza buying Ecstasy

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Giza buying Ecstasy

Off the smashing second drop, a melancholic synth line completes the tune. The ever-changing leading melody constitutes the backbone as the morphed vocals and percussions lead the groove in all kinds of twists and turns. Behind the curtain however, there is a certain phoniness to it all. An alternative fully breakbeat mix is also available. Your current browser isn't compatible with SoundCloud. Please download one of our supported browsers. Need help? Chrome Firefox Safari Edge. Something went wrong Is your network connection unstable or browser outdated? I need help.

Egypt fights a losing battle against drugs

Giza buying Ecstasy

Let me explain. Two characters who shared a love of bringing people together but who could not have been more different. I put the word out and within hours I was called by Jethro, a character who I suspected supplied half of north London with mood modification. The deal was simple: I would cover his fuel and square it with Michael that they could wander over the festival site and do a spot of metal detecting while I was conducting the interviews. It was one of those grey days in December which never really gets light. The landscape looked drained of colour. Salisbury Plain was shrouded in mist, ghost smoke from 3, years of campfires. The stones huddled together on the bleak landscape, lop-sided yet magnificent. Garish dayglo orange barriers blocked the road leading to the visitor centre and car park. As the effects of the devils lettuce resulted in uproarious laughter and increasingly confusing non sequiturs from the front seats, I sat in the back engulfed by the fog, the broken rear window arm frustratingly rendering fresh air beyond my grasp. How it was built to the same dimensions as the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt, its location determined by the Glastonbury Abbey and Stonehenge ley line and possessed Earth energy in abundance. Jethro explained to his avidly listening Aussie mate some geo-mysticism:. The apex projects energy upwards, while energy from the stars and sun are drawn down. We arrived at Worthy Farm and I explained to Michael that my mates wanted to spend some time metal detecting around the Pyramid Stage. From my seat at the large kitchen table, through the window I observed my hippy companions walking away from the farmhouse, Jethro carrying a bulky rucksack and metal detector and Slug with what looked like a spade slung over his shoulder. Jean delivered a bowl of steaming broth and crusty bread onto the table in front of me and we started to talk. Despite his evident affection and sympathy for the 60s counterculture, he was clearly concerned at the latest expression of rebellion, namely acid house. I refuse to be tarred with the same brush as some of the dodgy cowboys out there who appear to be only in it for a fast buck. I tried to reassure him that the rave scene was here to stay, and my belief that the festival needed to embrace the movement and music if it was to continue to reflect what was going on beyond his lush green pastures. I urged him to remember his roots and consider that the demonisation of the rave scene had parallels with the way the establishment saw the hippie movement in the late 60s as a threat. He saw the irony. I told him that there was a lot of love in the lasers and that the raves had a positive aspect, bringing together black, white, gay and straight people , who were unified into one nation under a groove. The furore caused by the orbital raves the previous summer had resulted in tighter licence conditions for music events, prompting him to change its name to Glastonbury Festival for the Contemporary Performing Arts. After we finished, Michael said he needed to take some feed to the cows at the Pyramid Stage, which doubled as a cowshed throughout the winter months and offered me a lift in his tractor. As we drew near, I could make out two figures on the stage. I jumped out of the tractor, waded through the cow pats, and climbed up the steps at the back to join them. The three of us stood on the most famous festival stage on the planet in the midwinter gloom. My nostrils were filled with the smell of cow shit. Think me detector needs a service, but thanks for letting us have a go. We bade our farewells after Michael gave us a ride back to the farm. On the way back, after miles and miles of trying, and the offer of a full tank of fuel and some munchies at Heston Services, the duo eventually divulged their secret. There was buried treasure involved. Jethro explained how each year, his stash would part company from his vehicle at the same police roadblock on the A… by the same officer. That plan involved taking his drugs down prior to the festival, thus avoiding police, their dogs and security. Using my interview and metal detecting as an excuse, they found the perfect opportunity to bury copious amounts of weed, pills and tabs of acid on the festival site. After climbing over a five-bar gate, they found they were looking down on the famous black Pyramid, which was being routinely ignored by a herd of grazing Friesian cows. They walked down to it and scaled the side stairway onto the mainstage. He recalled that the field was not a popular one for camping, as it sloped down, and any rain would turn the lower part into a quagmire of Glasto mud. So as long as he avoided the lower field, it was the perfect hiding place. Arriving at the tree, Jethro removed his compass and set it to north. He then carefully walked 20 paces and stopped. Looking at his compass, he turned 90 degrees and walked another steady 20 paces west. He then turned back north and counted out a final 20 precise steps, stopped, made a quick check that no one was watching, and began digging. After filling his hole and taking care to replace the grass sods by stamping them down firmly, the two returned to the Pyramid Stage, where they pretended to metal detect and wait for me. The opening act on the Pyramid Stage on Friday was Adamski — dressed in a Clockwork Orange chic of orange hair, black bowler hat and a flame-red kaftan with jogging trousers. He was rapturously received. It felt like a moment. It was while walking back to the Green Fields, leaving the throbbing sound systems behind, that I spotted two familiar faces sat around some bloke playing a didgeridoo. They briefly looked up, acknowledged me with a tiny wave and the slightest of smiles, before continuing to stare, statesmanlike, into the distance. I sat down next to them, and over the course of the next twenty minutes heard, first-hand, what had happened. As he approached Somerset, the traffic started slowing. Up ahead blue flashing lights indicated that Avon and Somerset Police were pulling some vehicles into the lay-by. The officer in charge even recognised him. Off to the festival again, are we, sir? The boys in blue proceeded to turn the van over, even removing the door panels and back seats, but found nothing. The coppers, clearly disappointed to have wasted 20 minutes and not upped their statistics, scratched their heads but wished him well. He pulled out of the lay-by and headed towards the festival, grinning from ear to ear. After setting his tent up, he waited for darkness to fall, and by 2AM, when the central site area lights were extinguished and things got quiet, Jethro set off, alone, to unearth his buried treasure. There was but a sliver of a new moon, but despite the darkness he soon located the oak tree. As he had calculated a few months earlier, there were only a few tents scattered at the top of the meadow, but other than that, the field appeared uninhabited as he had imagined it would be. Looking at his compass, he set it to north and carefully measured twenty paces. He then turned and walked twenty paces west. Turning back north, he was aware he was racing, which may lead to shorter or longer steps, so very deliberately, looking at his compass all the time, he counted the final steps to his loot. Thirteen, 14, 15, Inches in front of his nose was a plywood wall, seven feet high and stretching 50 feet in length. From where it was filtered, prior to being taken to the sewage works… which would explain why two figures were wading, knee-deep in shit, at 7AM on Friday morning, sifting through the poo, in a vain search for their tightly wrapped black plastic stash of drugs. It was not in vain. Slug stumbled upon something solid, reached down and recovered the item, holding it aloft in disbelief, as the brown goo dripped to reveal… a false prosthetic leg. By Joe Zadeh. By Juliana Bonomo. By Luis Prada. Share: X Facebook Share Copied to clipboard. Videos by VICE. Read Next. Is Glastonbury a Hour Festival? Tagged: 90S , Culture , Glastonbury , music festival , music festivals , rave.

Giza buying Ecstasy