Phuckwhitt Phestival - last day

I'm back in London, hot foot from Presteigne. I thought it best under the circumstances. The crowd on the last day was well into the hundreds, and although the million pounds for the roof restoration (not to mention Leslie's reading party in Tunis with Peter Mendelson), seemed a long way off, at least it meant that we were going to break even. But Mrs Evans, trying to make a few bob on the side (as who can blame her, since Leslie can't afford to pay her for her duties at Phuckwhitt) was selling 'brown acid brownies', which sent the crowd into a frenzy. They threw cans and bottles at The United States of America, and booed all throough The Fugs. Both parties were most upset, and stormed off after two numbers apiece. It seems that this country is not yet ready for the sixties art-rock revival. Ginsberg saved the day somewhat, and gave a most spirited rendition of 'Howl', but Leslie was not at all pleased, and is blaming me, which seems most unfair, since it wasn't me who spiked the crowd with bad acid, but Mrs Evans. If you ask me, Leslie is scared of her; she knows too much about what Leslie and Peter get up to.
Still, it was good to see Ginsberg again. He managed to keep his hands to himself, and was kind enough to make the following contribution to the little festschrift which a few friends are preparing in honour of my forthcoming seventy first birthday;

Half-diamond Poem (concrete) for dear old Hilary:

O
An
Old
Tart
Stung
Unsung
Spumers.
Tragic.
Sixty
Quid.
Doh!
Eh?
O

Isn't he the sweetest man?
I'm off down the Coach and Horses; my sojourn at Phuckwhitt may be over for now, but it's nice to be back in Soho, just as it's coming back to life after the summer.