18 - Oxford, England May 1st 1973
THE BROWN LEATHER JACKET INCIDENT

Mayday is a big event in the Oxford students calendar, mostly because the pubs open before dawn in anticipation of the festivities to come.

Jean-Marc had solemnly promised his friends from the Morris dancing troupe that he would come and play the guitar to accompany them but getting up at 4.30am and cycling down the Woodstock Road at 5am with a guitar strapped to your back was not much fun. Anyway, the day promised some excitement so things could be worse.

After the Morris Dancing in front of the Sheldonian Theatre in Broad Street, Jean-Marc dropped his guitar and bicycle off at the lodge at Corpus Christi and continued down the High Street to the traditional choir singing on Magdalen Bridge, practically the whole of the student population of Oxford was there.

The gathering was already huge and the poor choir singing from the top of Magdalen Chapel could hardly be heard above the noise of the crowd, fuelled by beer and “hot toddies” supplied thanks to the exceptionally early opening hours of the pubs.

Avoiding the mass of people, Jean-Marc descended alongside the bridge down the slope to the River Chartwell. The river was full of students in punts and there were even some people in the water, including a few naked and/or drunk people obviously fully participating in the spirit of the event.

Then suddenly there was a crush of bodies, Jean-Marc was pushed forward, some cheering and laughter and he was in the air as if thrown, then in the water looking up at the sky and the bridge, sinking then silence.

“This a nice place to be” he thought.

Then he was in a hammock, on a terrace, there was birdsong and sunlight and palm trees. A tropical jungle spread out before him towards a deep blue sea. The were a few houses and what seemed to be an old ship, like the Bounty or a similar old sailing ship, moored in the bay. An old man with piercing blue eyes was sitting crossed legged on the wooden floor, staring. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon but this Gateway works in weird and all wonderful ways” he continued, “one day you will meet an angel, she has wonderful green eyes, curly hair like yours, she will be wearing flat shoes and she has a scar, which you won't see at first, but it will be the sign. There will be three children, the youngest of them will be especially gifted. Just follow your instinct and you will find your way, we’ll meet again...”

A large arm grabbed onto Jean-Marc’s shirt and wrenched him out of the water. He was dragged to the river bank and Jean-Marc saw the owner of the arm - a sort of skinhead in a red and orange tank top jumper, shortened denim jeans and bovver boots; he was out of breath having dragged Jean-Marc out of the water. “Thought you were a gonna for a moment there, mate” he exclaimed “so tell me, what’s the story? I mean, there I am fast asleep, and this bloke with blue eyes wakes me up and says I have to come down here and watch out for this bloke pushed into the water by the crowd, so I tell him to fuck off and he says you are his Godson or summin’ and then he says something really strange.....”

Jean-Marc was back in reality now but still trying to cope with it. “Strange.....?” he mumbled.

“Yeh..” said the skinhead, “strange...like this bloke says ‘Mums is with me, she’s so proud of you’ and I’m the only one who ever called my Mum ‘Mums’ with an ‘s’ and then he says ‘and Jonesey is looking after you too’ and I’m the only one who ever called my old Granma ‘Jonesey’, and now I’m awake, see, and the next thing I know I’m down here and I see his bloke in the water and no-one can see him among the crowd and boats and stuff and then...here we are. Who the fuck are you anyway, mate?”

“I think I knew you once” Jean-Marc replied feebly, he was feeling rather humble and was not sure if he had just had a near-death experience or if it was all some kind of dream. “I’ll buy you a pint next time we meet”

“How d’ja know we’ll meet again”

“I think Mums and Jonesey will take care of that”

“Okay mate, see ya around...”, the skinhead stumbled up the river bank into the crowd that was now dispersing, back to bed for most.

Still unsure about what had just happened, Jean-Marc headed across the bridge and down St Clements to the house where Chris and Beth lived. These friends lived conveniently near the park where the all day MayFly rock Festival was being held. He woke them up, they were surprised to see their friend soaking wet on the doorstep but they let him him, gave him a towel, rolled a joint and put the kettle on....all in that order. The day was going to be a long one.

The MayFly festival went on all day. Jean-Marc had played guitar with one of the bands on stage in the afternoon but his heart was not there. Somewhere inside he acknowledged that something exceedingly strange had happened that morning but he just couldn’t quite work it out.

Sometime late in the evening after the Global Village Trucking Company had finished their set, the crowd was waiting for the final act to come on stage, Gong with Hatfield and the North. Jean-Marc was standing at the back of the crowd, he was cold: fatigue and wearing damp clothes all day were just two reasons for this. A man in a gorilla costume came up to him. Of course he had noticed this gorilla man, the guy had been on stage permanently since 11am that morning playing saxophone with every group that had performed.

He spoke in French, surprised to hear his mother tongue and suspecting he was maybe a member of the French band Gong, Jean-Marc turned to meet the same blue eyes from the tropical terrace that morning, “tu as froid, voilà ta veste, je te le reprendrai un jour”, he handed over an old brown leather jacket. It was the kind of jacket that has no style, it could have been from any time. Jean-Marc put it on and felt warmer “I’ll give it back to you one day” he said, but the gorilla man was back on stage with his saxophone.