The second day saw the arrival of cosmic DJ Andy Dunkley, who spent most of his time running away from berserk Pink Fairies who wanted to eat him, a handful of bands and the usual rumours that Grateful Dead, God and the Floyd were on their way.

Everyone was eating pink micro dots by the handful and smoking dope by the ton-ful, indeed, certain gents gave away 4 1/2 weight, of which everybody was grateful. Cathy Morgan came to our tent and rolled up sheeps shit (can you believe that one), we had to throw her out. The magic muscle tent complex became Pipesville and like was truly wonderful. Some of the weirdest bands you could conjure up played over the days, the Bath arts workshop supplied us with a show called Rocking Ricky and the Ricochets or the something and something whom I couldn't begin to describe, but they did bring on three dancing, gum-chewing, going-to-a-Rock-show girls who were dynamite, Larry Wallis and myself who were at the time on Planet Zero having eaten of the aforementioned micro-dots followed these polka-dotted wonders off the stage, over the wall, across a field, past a hot-dog van and eventually to their truck where we spent time peering through the windows watching them changing - - wow! The global village truckin' co scored well and blew an excellent set one night, The Pink Fairies, Magic Muscle, Chill Will in fact every band on was fucking good!

There was an excellent 2 hour jam by the muscular Pinkwind, which consisted of Nik, Dave and Del from Hawkwind, Russell Larry and Sandy of the Fairies and Norman from Magic Muscle.

But besides the bands there was little other entertainment provided, which was cool, coz everyone made out their own fun. Edward Barker screamed through sheep fields, drunk, looking for that sheep with black bra and suspenders, the Muscle had a banqueting table in a long tent at the top of which sat Norbert the Guru ( a tailor's dummy with a Bogart hat and white mac') him and me made out fine. "Hail Norbert", the Hare Krishnas chanted(?), the rainbow children danced, Mick Farren and the Fairies opened a pub and sold beer, and drank a lot, too. The Greasy Truckers worked like bastards (haha), some totally mad hippie whacked me across the head with a shovel; that was his fun (we couldn't work out if I was real or not) (a lump on my head assured me I was), the farmer shot a dog for chasing his sheep (Edward was lucky). The whole fayre in all was real up in the clouds stuff (clouds formed straight off the sea onto our site). Good honest teenage wasteland, Ogoth and Boot times. And I and the other 500 or so people who attended had a fuckin' great time.