2. The Golden Goose

This BBC podcast is supported by ads outside the UK. Plan your detour at GoTurkya.com Subscribe to history's toughest heroes wherever you get your podcast. BBC Sounds. Music Radio Podcasts. You know all us people from the Bay Area, we're real LSD freaks. The stuff that they're passing out here today, Bay Area may not be LSD, but there's a chance that you won't have a very good trip. Now what you're supposed to do after you know that, is you're supposed to stop. Woodstock, 1969. To get back to the warning that I've received, that the brown acid that is circulating around us is not specifically too good. The legendary festival is a celebration of peace, love and rock and roll. But through the crowds, news starts to spread. Watch out for the bad acid. It's deadly serious, man. It is poison. There are 15 people who are very ill from it. This is Acid Dream, the great LSD plot. Let's rewind to a couple of weeks before the festival. It's 1969, Liverpool, England, and Richard Kemp, our psychedelic chemist, has just accidentally ingested almost his whole supply of LSD meant for Woodstock. His girlfriend, Christine, remembers what happened. He's completed the basic process and was preparing to purify it when his fingers slipped and he dropped the glass flask. It shattered, spilling liquid acid all over the bench. As he tried to contain the flow and save the acid, he cut his hand on the broken glass. As best as he could, he staunched the flow of blood and cleared away the debris. But before he could finish, he felt the tremendous rush of a massive trip coming on. And that trip lasted a whole week. But first, he had to get home. He struggled to keep himself together as he swabbed the bench with hands that were strangely fluid. The laboratory was dissolving around him. Finally, he knew he had to get out of the university while he was still capable of walking. When he finally made it back to the safety of Christine's arms, he found him gesticulating wildly with bloodshot eyes. "You look like the hounds of hell were after you," I said. "You'll never know," he shook his head. The story goes that Richard had already delivered one batch to Woodstock. The bad acid doing the right thing, has since passed into folklore. "If you have partaken of the green acid, if you would, as soon as can be given, please go to the hospital tent." It's believed the bad acid was Richard's. Something had gone wrong with the tabletting process, and the unwitting festival goers had been given a double. It's suggested that you do stay away from that, of course, it's your own trip. Richard's reputation as an underground chemist was growing, and before long, he was offered an exciting new job in Paris. Richard pondered for a while, but then decided to throw up his academic life to become a full-time underground psychedelic chemist. So he quit his PhD and moved to the city of love, though he had to leave Christine behind in Liverpool. I was a few months away from my finals. So the lovers parted as Richard was hired by a guy called Ronald Stark to work for a bona fide pharmaceutical laboratory. But Stark was your classic international man of mystery. Rumour has it he spoke ten languages, passed himself off as a doctor, a chemist, a gourmet cook, a collector of fine art. He allegedly worked for the CIA, the mafia and various international terrorist organisations on four different continents. I didn't trust him. His name wasn't even Ronald Stark, it was Ronald Shitsky. I know, for some reason he changed it. Stark lied and deceived everywhere he went. And now he lied to Richard. He'd got him to Paris on the pretense of cracking the synthesis of THC, but really he wanted Richard to make LSD and lots of it, which he'd then export to America through the brotherhood of eternal love. After some deliberation, Richard goes along with it. So, here he is in Paris, making enough LSD to flood North America. And that's when he makes a huge discovery. It's night time, and Richard's tired from a very long session in the lab. He needs to sleep, so absentmindedly, he puts a flask of his liquid LSD into the freezer for safekeeping. The next morning, what he discovers blows his mind. The contents of the flask have bloomed into crystals of pure LSD. Thousands of diamond-like crystals gleaming in the morning sun. Leftovers often do taste better the day after, but this was next level. Richard had stumbled upon a method of supercharging the purification process. He tested his acid. It was now 99.9% pure. Only scientific modesty stopped him from claiming to have made 100% pure acid. This was the greatest leap forward in LSD manufacture since its synthesis. Within two weeks, he was making enough LSD for six million trips. This was Richard's gift to the world. The best acid in history. Richard was flying high. He drove a Ferrari now. Wait a second. I know what you're thinking. This guy's meant to be a hippie revolutionary, opening people's minds with acid on the path to spiritual enlightenment. So what's he doing tearing around in a Ferrari? - What happened? - Money happened. The truth is, whenever you start selling an illegal substance, money gets involved, and LSD was big business. But Richard wasn't actually seeing any of the profits. Stark provided him with a flat and gave him the car as compensation for his meagre wage. When she visited him in Paris, Christine wasn't impressed by Stark or the Ferrari, especially as Richard had a history of car accidents. Stark was taking him for a ride. No one could do what Richard could do. So after one too many fights, Richard quit the Paris operation and returned to the UK. Back in London, Richard and Christine were reunited. And somebody else was pleased to see Richard's return too. David Solomon. Solomon and his financier, an American called Paul Annabaldi, pounced on the psychedelic chemist. He was the goose that laid the golden egg. Before long, the three had set up another operation. Solomon brought in an imposing figure. Henry Todd. Todd was a rugged, natural leader with no interest in hippie ideals. This was business, and the hippies needed a leader. So Henry Todd takes over the Tabletting and Distribution Network. And this is the birth of what came to be known as the Microdot Gang. Richard and Christine were inseparable. They spent their time moving between flats all over London making acid. Each time Richard completed a production run, he closed up and moved to a different flat. Finally, they were getting a cut of the profits. But Christine and Richard's itinerant life meant they had to exist under the radar. All well and good when you're living the life of an international criminal. But when Christine's grandmother died, her family had no means of contacting her and she missed the funeral. She began to wonder, "Was it all worth it?" The initial idealistic enthusiasm of our group had degenerated into arguments and splits over money. It was 1972, and Richard's acid was being taken by rock stars, painters, writers, thinkers. Plenty of people were dropping out. People were forming collectives. Many major cities were being squatted. People were demonstrating and organising on the street. The establishment felt under threat. If society goes on in the way it's going, it's destroying this little island and at large destroying the whole world. So it's not really opting out. It's trying to find a more meaningful alternative that won't cause so much stress on the land and the rest of the people in the world. But Richard and Christine had ended up in business. And what happens in business? Greed. Richard and Christine couldn't shake the feeling that they were being used again and again. It's 1973. And Richard is sneaking into a lab at the University of East Anglia with fellow chemist Andy Monroe. With him, he has a selection of microdots which were being sold by Henry Todd. They set up the equipment and set out to test the strength of the acid. And what they found was unexpected. The acid was weak. Richard wanted to guarantee 200 micrograms per tablet. A recognisable, reliable dose of his pure crystalline acid. This dose would blast the user into peak experience. At lower doses, one would certainly experience perceptual changes, but it would be akin to smoking or ingesting a strong form of cannabis rather than a full-blown psychedelic trip. Our goal was to turn people on rather than entertain them. Hence Richard's insistence on maintaining the 200 microgram dose. But Richard discovered the product Todd was selling contained just 100 micrograms of LSD. Not only was Henry Todd diluting his product and ripping them off, he was jeopardising the revolution. Customers weren't getting the mind altering world-shifting trip Richard intended. Greed was polluting the dream. The revolution was compromised. Richard wanted control. He wanted to manufacture the LSD and tablet it himself. And he wanted a permanent base for his new venture. So, with Anna Baldi's money and Solomon's distribution network, Richard came up with a new plan. I was at my sister's farm in Scotland when Richard called to tell me that he and Paul had found a place to use for the next manufacturing run of LSD. It's in mid Wales, a big old mansion that has a perfect cellar, he said. So, Christine and Richard set off in their red Range Rover and headed for Wales. Wales and Psychedelia go together like lava bread and pockles. From the ancient druids using psychedelic mushrooms to conjure visions that might help their patrons in battle, to beat poet Alan Ginsberg losing his mind on the Breckin Beacons. Psychedelia is a Welsh way of thinking. Magic mushroom season sees people coming from all over the UK to indulge in their favourite outdoor activity in our hills. Timothy Leary talked about the importance of set and setting when tripping. It's essential, he said, to have the right mindset and be in the right setting to ensure a good trip. The optimum setting is a natural environment. And you don't get a better natural environment than Wales. I needed to be outside in the natural world whenever I dropped acid. I don't think I ever took a trip where I stayed indoors. I was in the garden, in the woods, on windswept high moorlands, in the lush summer mountains in Norway. I was safe and free, expanded, not too big or too small. A perfect fit into the natural environment. Christine remembers the first time they approached the mansion house at Carnot, that was to become the centre of their operation. It was a big, grey stone house with very tall decorative chimneys. The house stood back from the road and was approached by a long drive. But as they drove up, Christine couldn't shake her sense of anxiety. Lining this road was a double row of enormous tree stumps low to the ground. These oaks had been sacrificed to the greed of one small man trying to make a quick financial killing through killing these venerable giants. I had no good feelings about the place. But Paul and Richard went ahead with the purchase. Standing in the garden near the stumps of the desecrated oaks, I only knew that things had changed. With a permanent base for the LSD lab, Christine wanted a home separate from Richard's work. I decided to look for a separate place where my family could reach me by mail and by phone. So I found a cottage with two acres on a hillside 60 miles away. It was an unrenovated stone cottage with no water supply or electricity. It backed onto a narrow lane that ended a couple of miles further on in a track that dwindled away into the mountains. When the crescent moon arose over the opposite ridge, the scene was a perfect Mughal miniature painting. I expected at any moment to see a handsome prince and bejeweled dancing girls. With a dilapidated mansion in Carnot and a run-down cottage 60 miles away in Newtown, Richard and Christine spent their time living the good life. For the first time in their lives, they got the chance to live their politics. Low impact, self-sufficient and ecologically responsible. They reared goats, kept bees, planted trees and vegetables. They sunk their own well. They joined the Soil Association for Heaven's sake. This was the life their acid trips had pointed them to. This was the life they wanted the rest of the planet to adopt. The chance to finally live their ideals was paradise. But obviously that's not where this story ends. Over a thousand miles away, events were taking place that would bring them crashing back down to earth. (SIRENS) Montreal Airport, June 3, 1973. A guy called Jerry Thomas is making his way through customs trying to play it cool. He's trying to play it cool because in an airport locker, he has stashed a suitcase filled with 15 pounds of cannabis. After a successful demiran to Boston, Jerry thinks he's got it all worked out. Taking a deep breath, Jerry opens his locker and pulls out his suitcase. But before he can turn around, he feels a grip on his shoulder. The grip of the Canadian police. Jerry is in deep shitsky. But it so happens that Jerry's a former member of the micro.gang. David Solomon had kicked him out a few years back because he thought he was ripping him off. So now Jerry's faced with a choice. Go to prison for a very long time or make a plea bag in for a lighter sentence. There's no love lost between Jerry and the micro.gang. So Jerry chooses to give the police the names of the four people in the UK who are at the centre of the acid business. David Solomon, Paul Anabaldi, Henry Todd and Richard Kemp. Back in Wales, things have never been better for Richard and Christine. Finally, they can focus on each other and make a home together. They had never been happier. They worked together, renovating the mansion in Carnot, building a secret lab in the basement and fixing up their cottage. But over the green valley, dark clouds were rolling in. In order to conceal the drain from the lab as it ran across the cellar to hook up with the house drain, we had to put the pipe under the floor. The original floor was made from great stone slabs. Rather than just pour cement on top of these, we took the trouble to lift them up and stack them in the yard. We paused to get our breath after lifting the heavy stones. They'll be wonderful over at the cottage. We could pave the whole patio with stone, Richard said. So the couple loaded the heavy slabs into the back of their Red Range Rover and set off back to their cottage. It was a damp morning, but we were in good spirits as we bowled along the narrow Welsh roads. An eight-track tape of the Grateful Dead was playing and I was singing along with the band. As we swung around a sharp bend, the heavy stack of stones slipped and I realised that the vehicle was also slipping across the road. I watched helplessly as Richard struggled to control the slide. In slow motion, I watched a small Mini approaching. I realised I was shouting, "Oh, my God!" as we drifted inexorably into the path of the oncoming car which was dwarfed by the Range Rover. (GUNSHOTS) Strapped into our seats, Richard and I were shaken but completely unhurt. The Grateful Dead were still playing and I reached over and stopped the tape. We had hit the Mini head-on. Nobody was moving. Richard and I climbed out of our vehicle and approached the other car. Other cars had stalked and people were running towards us. I looked into the car and saw a man and a woman. The car was badly smashed and someone was trying to open the door. The nearest hospital and police station would be Aberystwyth, nearly 20 miles away. There was nothing I could do to help them. Richard came over and said, "We can't mention Carnot. We'll have to give our addresses the cottage and say we were coming from Wellepaul." When we arrived at the hospital, I tried to find out what was happening to the people from the other car. I pushed open the door into the emergency room. Several people were working on someone under green drapes and nurse noticed me and chased me out. Richard was telling the police what happened. I was still shivering as I drank a cup of hot, sweet tea. We sat for a long time. One of the policemen went by and I jumped in. "Please, can you tell us how the people in the car are?" I asked. The man's legs were badly smashed up and they had taken him into the operating room. He said, "And what about the woman?" He shook his head and said, "They couldn't save her. They tried to save the baby, but that died as well." Oh, God, was she pregnant? Eight and a half months. He turned away. I walked over to where Richard was sitting, punched over with his head and his hands. "Did you find out anything?" He asked. I sat down next to him and put my arm around his shoulders. (GENTLE GUITAR MUSIC) Richard would never recover from the guilt. Up until now, the police had drawn a blank on all the names given to them by Jerry Thomas. The micro-dot gang had successfully turned on, tuned in and dropped out of society hidden under the radar off-grid. But now Richard and Christine suddenly cropped up on official records. Officers were dispatched to look for clues in Richard's impounded Range Rover. They didn't find much. But under the seat was a ripped-up note with strange words scrolled onto it. Hydrazine hydrate. This turned out to be a key ingredient needed to make LSD. The police had found the chemists at the centre of the micro-dot gang. This is Acid Dream, the great LSD plot. Acid Dream was written by Tim Price and narrated by Risa Fans. Christine was Hannah Murray. Original music was by Griff Ries and sound design by Peregrine Andrews. The researcher was Hailey Mills and the production coordinator was Caroline Barlow. The producer was James Robinson and it was a BBC Studios production. The following advertisement feature is presented by Go Turkey. You're thinking about a holiday. We've got a detour across the Turkish Riviera. After all, the best way to discover somewhere is to go off the beaten path. In Tarsus and Adana, on Turkey's Mediterranean coast, kebab shops fight over their traditional recipes. Try the Tarsus kebab, which is thick and fatty and the Adana kebab, very spicy. 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And that was the first time that anybody ever ran a car up that fast with no tires on. It almost feels like your eyeballs are going to come out of your head. Tough enough for you? Subscribe to "Histories Toughest Heroes" wherever you get your podcast.