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THE SOUTHAMPTON HUNDREDS

37

One night there is a party somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, apparently, and we all pile into a car to find it. We drive out of town and down boondock roads along the edge of a river mouth. It’s as black as Newgate’s knocker, and cars pass us in either direction, as do knots of bikers.”This is getting a bit Helter Skelter, isn’t it?” someone says, and we stop by a lonely phone box. A passing car stops. “I wouldn’t go down there,’ says the driver, “coppers everywhere – something kicked off apparently.” We turn around, relieved beyond measure.