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The scene is the vast arena of Wembley. At first sight there appear to be some hundred thousand spectators, but it becomes clear that there are very few people, but an enormous host of animals of every shape and kind. Just near one entry is a small group of men in what Bion, Myself and their party take to be film actors in the uniform of legionnaires of the Roman Army. A cup final supporter, paper streamers and all, approaches one of the motionless figures and addresses him.
SUPPORTER Wotcher chum! Wot's yer regiment?
LEGIONARY Legion Vicesima Valeria Victrix.
SUPPORTER (in feigned fear) Lor'! Selling booze – wot's yer line?
A NEIGHBOUR (shouts across) Ask ‘im if ‘e's got some beer, chum! There is a noise which drowns his reply and conversation rapidly becomes impossible as the pulsations, emerging more and more from the confused noise, themselves become recognizable as an unmistakable rhythmic beat, and the beats as each made up of recognizable sounds. The terrifying rhythm could be matched as if it were a ‘swung’ version of the Christian hymn, ‘Abide with me’. ‘Kum not in Quat, Quat, Adze Zhee King of Kongs.’ Bzzfading like the whine of a receding shell. Kind of good like guts wound round your bloody throat. The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards crash out the sense of intimacy as the hundred thousand become more crushingly intimate. The space has closed in as if the expanding universe had decided to contract instead. Every so often the rhythm is emphasized by a choral interlude, ‘Arf, arf, arf. Suddenly the din stops and is succeeded by a silence pierced by the one sound or word, ‘Farrar’. The vast silent crowd wait for Alice to present the prizes. Each animal goes off nuzzling a very small atomic bomb; some suck it, some try
to shove it up their neighbour's anus. Some come up to Bion to complain that it isn't detonated.
Valeria of the Valerian gens is – yes, there is terrific excitement as she approaches the centre of the field to carry out the ritual of Kickin