I am interested in various debate about intrusion into personal matter for reason of security. For example, should government know everything about me, like X-Ray of my teeth? I do not think so. Terrorist will hide in some way (I find hiding member of SS, who was similar to terrorist after war, pretend to be tree in middle of field near Hamburg) and government is not to be trusted for ever. One day is nice guy, next is CLOWN or worse, tyrant.
This remind me of security incident when, in 1973, I did go ‘walkabout’, disillusion with world and riches I had gain, love which I had lost, and basic question of ‘What is point?’. I find myself as man of over fifty, with conceal identity, eventually travel with band, monster rocking LED ZEPPLIN, as minder, advisor, etc. One day singer, Mr Plant, did get lost after excitement and activity following concert at Knebworth, and he telephone security office where I was on my own, early morning, rest of my comrades being disposed of by festivities.
‘Hey Man,’ he say. ‘Kas?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘It is I, Kasimir.’ I shake head, weary as he tell me of what happen with number of ‘chick’, drug, enjoyment and go too far (as usual). In truth, in other time I can imagine he would have been excellent military fellow, with me perhaps attack supply base, aerodrome or similar – and after we might celebrate as he did following Knebworth ‘set’ (I remember the language of band most fondly – from experience of this year I have many friend from world of music: Bowie, Gainsbourg, etc). He was lost in village in middle of nowhere and have only pair of jean, ten pence for phone which he find in gutter, and headache size of China.
‘Can you come get me, Kas?’ he ask,
‘To where?’ he ask.
‘What, man?’
‘I come to where?’ I was amaze he even remember telephone number.
He laugh as he see what I mean.
I ask him if he see prominent feature or building which would help me identify his position.
He tell me village is of not many houses, with no village sign – but there was church.
‘Then go to church,’ I say,’ and look for house next door, vicar house, and bang on door.’
‘You can’t be serious man,’ he say, wail, catastrophe, etc, rock star cosy up to vicar, etc. He try my patience.
‘Listen Mr Plant,’ I say.
‘Robert,’ he say.
‘No Mr Plant, this familiarity only breed contempt. You listen to me and go to Vicar house, bang on door and ask where you are.’
‘I half naked, Kas.’
‘Is no matter, so was the Lord when he was crucify.’ I crack Joke: ‘Maybe he show you stairway to heaven, haha.’ I laugh for some time. Mr Plant eventually interrupt.
‘Very funny.’
‘So you go to see vicar and then you call me back. I come get you.’
Vicar was, in truth, very kind and lend Mr Plant T-shirt. I collect Mr Plant, make considerable donation to church roof fund on agreement nothing is said to tabloid hack, and drive back to office.
‘Kas,’ he say as we go down quiet lane in beautiful summer morning. ‘You play guitar? Maybe we jam.’
‘No I do not.’ In truth I did, and was exceptional in some way, but I could only imagine sulk and bitterness between friend if I did take up guitar within hearing of guitar player Mr Page.


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