[excessive]

Thus read the headline in the local paper. I was that man, and this is my story.

Knebworth, England, August of 1979, Led Zeppelin was playing an outdoor concert. Stationed at RAF Alconbury at the time, my friends and I were determined to be there. And show we did, arriving mid-set after an untimely delay to see Todd Rundgren perform immediately prior to Zeppelin playing.

Zeppelin rocked the estimated crowd of 200,000, and we got wasted drinking the 5 gallons of gin and lemonade I had brought to the show, but that is not the story. The story started 10 hours earlier: 8 a.m. and on the road from Alconbury to Knebworth.

We were a crew of eight, split into two cars of four. Eight o'clock on a Saturday is early for most airman of that day, and we were either groggy or hungover or both.

Besides the liquid refreshments, many were packing along some of the fine Red Lebanese that circulated profusely on base. A hard, brick red hash, it was a pain to break up and light, so I had taken to shaving it down with a razor blade into a powdery fluff that loaded and sparked easily. It was stored in a film canister and ready to go.

After a short time on the road, the decision was made to get our minds right and get the party started. Chuck and Eddie were in the front, I was in the back, and the pipe was going around. We pulled up besides our traveling party and Eddie (young and dumb and from Detroit) began waving and pointing at the pipe, letting our friends know the fun we were having.

Then, someone noticed we were being followed by the police, and panic began to set in. Eddie, holding the pipe, a small, brass one hitter, began to freak and tossed it out the window. I turned and watched it bounce down the roadway and noticed the eyes of one of the officers follow its path along with me.

Now, another decision had to made. Not in the clearest of minds, and in a bit of a panic, we decided to eat our stashes, not a terribly difficult chore, usually, with a brick hard hash. Not thinking, I tossed the fluff into my mouth and had every bit of moisture sucked dry. Unable to swallow, I sat in the back, mouth full of 4 grams of fine Red.

The police, who had been trailing, pulled in front of us and flashed their rear display, telling us to pull over. We did. Two officers got out and approached our car. One knocked on my window and asked what we were doing. Unable to speak, my mouth filled with fluff, I answered, "Mfff, ufff, oofff."

The officer opened the door and pulled me from the car and began demanding that I spit it out. He grabbed a hold of me and began dragging me to the side of the road. Reflexes set in, and I pulled my arm away from him and shook him off of me. Then I thought, oh shit, resisting arrest would get my ass kicked stateside. I better cooperate. I don't know if British police would do the same.

I quit fighting him, and he began pushing me in the back, demanding that i spit out whatever was in my mouth. Eventually, I fell to the ground. Knee in my back and his arms in a headlock, the officer continued to demand my cooperation. The envelope containing my ticket had fallen out of my pocket and lay on the ground in front of me. The officer picked it up and demanded I should spit into it. So I did, and two drops of spittle, containing tiny flecks of hash, went into the envelope.

"That will do," says he.

Evidence in hand, he let me up and began to walk the 15 feet back to car. He walked in front of me, leaving me to myself. Thinking that these British police sure were different from the police back home, I saw a wine skin on the ground, picked it up and finally was able to swallow and rid my mouth of that fine Red fluff. He turned, saw me drinking and told me to stop, but it was too late. Mission accomplished: good-bye fluff. I continued to empty the skin, so he grabbed me again and handcuffed me to car.

Able to talk again, I thought maybe I could talk my way out of this. "Officer, my name is excessive (named changed to protect the guilty). What seems to be the problem?"

He reaches over, shakes my right hand which is cuffed to the car and introduces himself, "Hello, my name is excessive, too."

"Officer, we weren't doing anything, just going to the concert, might we be on our way?"

"Sorry, no, we've already called it in and our sargent is on the way," he said, uncuffing me and putting me back in the car.

A few minutes later, they arrived, and the sargent looked in, saw us bloody-eyed and commented, "Bloody Yanks, 8 o'clock in the morning and look at them."

We were taken to the local station, removed of our belts and shoe laces and put into a holding cell, where we were to stay until we could be collected by whomever was on duty that morning back on base. Except, the buzz was starting to kick in, and we found ourselves laughing hysterically and joking with each other and the confused duty officer. This went on for hours, and could possibly be as high as I have ever been, 4 grams of Lebanese Red, fluffed and swallowed, working its way to my brain.

We eventually were taken back to base, and I was paraded around, lead back to my room, coaxed in to giving up the rest of my stash, and finally released back into the hands of our own. We saddled up, returned to the station to collect our car, and headed on our way to Knebworth.

The buzz had long ago worn off, but thanks to the gin and lemonade, a most excellent time was had by all. As the show ended, 200,000 stood up as one, and the 10 foot tall chain link fence that surrounded the venue gave way as the mass of humanity exited.

A week or so later, someone hands we the local paper and I see the headline: Man Smokes Dope on the A1. I used to have a copy, but it has since been lost, and all I have are memories of one fun day and a legendary concert by an all-time great band.