Drug stories are for fucking idiots.
Drug stories are invariably tedious self indulgent affairs, put forward by bragging bellends in an attempt to offset the mind tedium that their over indulgences have created. LOOK AT ME! I WAS A FUCKING MADMAN WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE! I WAS NECKING MDMA AND KETAMINE LIKE A MAGIC SEX WIZARD AND YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW ACTUALLY DEAD I SHOULD BE! Then they return to blethering on about their new coffee machine or their gluten intolerance or how they turned their life around and would now rather go to Ikea that wear a nosebag full of amphetamines and play darts with a friends ballbag, blindfolded. Twats.
Some people, though, are just idiots, their drug stories have no point other than to highlight the fact that they were a massive fucking idiot. And given half a chance they still are. I still am. So here’s a stupid drug story that isn’t sensational, it’s just as fucking mundane as it can get. But it was fucking fun, and stupid, and embarrassing and is written with more shame than pride. It’s pretty much 100% shame.
Let’s call it Luton Town.
When I lived in Newcastle in the early 1990s, I thought I was a punk. I was in a minor riot grrrl band, was on the dole and fucking loved drugs.
We used to tour a fair bit, and when we were in London would usually stay in my friend’s house, who, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call Ashley (he will appreciate this). He also liked acid.
One night whilst staying over in his fairly standard, not quite squalid, but close to it, flat, we took some microdots. Just the two of us. After about 15 minutes we decided that the flat was too familiar for mind adventurers like ourselves, so we sauntered down to the empty flat downstairs. There was nothing in there apart from an old dressing table, which was filled with aging cosmetics, beautifully packaged and untouched, from the 1950s, which I stole, for my own nefarious purposes.
We decided we should rip up the carpet. Because drugs and carpet. The previous tenant, rather than use traditional underlay, had preferred to use instead the sports pages from the Daily Mirror, from 1982. No other sections of the paper were evident. This, as we found out, was a very very good year for Luton Town FC. So for the next four hours we removed all the carpet and arranged all the sports pages in chronological order. AND WE MADE GRAPHS OF THE PROGRESS OF A TEAM THAT NEITHER OF US, IN SOBRIETY, GAVE A TOSS ABOUT. LIKE IT WAS THE MOST IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH EVER CONDUCTED. IT WAS IMPORTANT! IT WAS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE FACT THAT I WAS BEING PICKED UP BY MY SISTER, TWO MILES AWAY, IN TEN MINUTES. FOR MY GRANDMOTHER’S FUNERAL.
With eight minutes to spare I had a moment of clarity, ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, shouted “DEAD GRAN!” and started running to Angel station.
My sister was 20 minutes late.
So, out of spite, I dropped another half a dot.
When my sister arrived, at tremendous speed, in her battered old mini, it seemed a bit more ramshackle than normal. But I put that down to the drugs. She screeched to a halt, flung the passenger door open and shouted “GET IN! I’LL EXPLAIN!”.
The whole passenger side of the car appeared to be absolutely plastered with shit, fresh dripping wet shit. This was unusual, even in my sister’s heavy sherry drinking days. I jumped in and she sped off without even giving me a chance to put my seatbelt on. Which was terrifying as she drove like a rally driver, but without the finesse.
“FUCK! I JUST RAN OVER AN ALSATIAN! WELL, MORE RAN INTO ONE, THE FUCKER EXPLODED ALL DOWN THE SIDE OF THE CAR! CAN YOU TELL?”
“OH FUCK!” I yelped “You’re going to have to be gentle with me, I’ve been up all night drawing graphs and I’ve just taken some acid, because you were late, killing dogs with your car!”.
“I’M DROPPING YOU OFF AT UNCLE [redacted]’s HOUSE, HE’S GOING TO TOTALLY FUCKING MESS UP YOUR HEAD! THIS IS BRILLIANT! “
She then laughed like a fucking maniac for about five minutes, whilst poking me in the ribs and waving her fingers in my face making high pitched noises, to “freak me out”. She then spent the rest of the 45 minute journey describing in detail how she’d just murdered a massive dog with her car. Repeatedly. Whilst still laughing about my imminent mental collapse.
We arrived at Uncle [redacted]’s house, which was full of relatives children all dressed in black and looking suitably morose.
I, for the record, was wearing the same clothes I had been wearing for the past week. A pair of yellow tartan trousers, which, inexplicably, the night before I had decided to decorate with a large cartoon drawing of a happy flower exclaiming “FUCK!”. Three t-shirts at the same time, and odd converse all stars. One black with Jackson Pollock paint splashes on, the other fluorescent green. It was not a particularly funereal look.
My mother, in her infinite wisdom, drawing on years of experience of having an untogether unit as a son, had bought me a bag of suitable funeral clothes. The acid was really kicking in now, and I got confused by the process of putting on a shirt. So I went outside to take the edge off with a spliff.
Ideally, this would have worked, had I not, the previous night, for reasons unknown, emptied two wraps of speed into my tobacco. Therefore, while attempting to take the edges off, I instead created about 200 more. I was a diamond of paranoia.
I was also, obviously, a fucking idiot.
So I hid in the greenhouse, hiding under my new smart funeral clothes.
When the time came to leave for the funeral, someone I didn’t recognise approached the plate eyed idiot hiding under a confusing shirt, with a mixture in his eyes of hatred and pure hatred, dragged me to my feet, frogmarched me to a car and drove me to Stevenage station. Put me on a train and didn’t even wave goodbye.
It was never spoken of again.
In fact, most of the early nineties have never been spoken of again.
2087
titsay
izzy806
pixelskylines