ABSTRACT
It's 11 PM on a Saturday night in May 1992. We're cruising along a country lane somewhere in the English West Country, when the abnormally - one might even say suspiciously - heavy traffic comes to a halt. Someone up ahead has stopped to take a leak. Suddenly, from almost every car, boys emerge to follow suit. It's an image I'll never forget: irradiated in the gleam of a hundred headlights, innumerable arcs of urine spraying into the hedgerow, as far as the eye can see.
