DICKIE FANTASTIC on the schmooze

"The true gentleman" - said Edith Wharton, I believe - "is one who can parley with both the squire and the milk-maid." And while I admit that I feel most spectacular when exchanging suave anecdotes at the Saatchi Gallery with Bryan Ferry and the like, I am not averse to dropping a tab of LSD with the metaphoric milk-maid - who is, in this particular instance, a young man called Shep lying catatonic on the grass at Hyde Park.

"We must celebrate," exclaims Shep, founder of the Albert Hoffman Remembrance Society. "Today is the day for celebration." And he begins to chant: "Celebrate... Celebrate..." Unfortunately, nobody joins in, so he stops chanting again.

It was exactly 53 years ago - in about two and a half weeks or so - that the very first LSD trip was taken. Albert Hoffman got on that fateful bicycle, wobbled a bit, turned into a giant bunny rabbit, and fell off. Consequently, of course, Dennis Hopper made The Last Movie, Timothy Leary was permitted a career in showbiz, Sharon Tate was killed and The Strawberry Alarm Clock made it to Top of the Pops. An occasion for celebration? Well, Shep - and his many brightly coloured cohorts, also lying scattered about the grass - certainly believe so. Today, they're beginning their high- profile annual three week Remembrance Binge.

"At first," explains Shep, "we'd just have the party on the actual anniversary day itself... but... sometime... we... where was I?"

"Actual day itself," I say.

"Yeah," says Shep. "But now we do it every day for three weeks because... um... it's a very beautiful... where was I?"

"Very beautiful," I say.

"Yes," says Shep. "A very beautiful... um..."

"Thing?" I suggest.

"Yes," says Shep. "A very beautiful thing."

"Look man," interrupts a young girl in a feathered head-dress. "Press conference over. Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Shep. "Time for the unveiling of the sugar-cube."

The sugar-cube - a huge, papier mache representation of the method in which LSD was originally imbibed, is lying under a blanket waiting to be revealed. Three years ago, on the 50th anniversary, the park was jam- packed with pop-stars, writers and sages. It was a wonderful occasion, I am told: an ocean of tie-dye, everyone loving each other, and so on. Unfortunately, today I am the only media ligger here asides from a stringer from Glastonbury Vibe magazine ("We're small," he explains, "but made of fire and love") so the two of us stand and clap as the sugar-cube is unveiled. Then Shep and two or three others get on their bicycles, ride around the sugar cube, and fall off.

"Do they fall off every year?" I ask the girl in the head-dress. "Do they fall off because Albert Hoffman fell off his bike?"

"Oh no," she replies. "They fell off because they're completely off their faces. Last year they stayed on."

"Why?"

"Because someone sold them cardboard instead of LSD."

This year's party, sadly, is cut short after 90 minutes: primarily because Shep's girlfriend has taken to sobbing loudly, and banging her head repeatedly against a tree, but also because only 12 people have turned up.

"It's numerology," explains Shep, gazing around the barren field, "53 is a bad number for an anniversary. Isis spoke of 53 as being a number of badness."

"Did she?"

"53, 11, and 141. Bad numbers."

"So I guess 2083 is going to be a tough year too," I suggest after a long but fruitful moment of calculation.

"Wow," says Shep. "2083."

He pauses and shakes his head. "Wow."