Memoirs Of A Former Dope Fiend...
Thursday nights were the best...
I'd get paid on a Thursday and with that in mind at 4:45pm when I was released from work I'd walk the half-mile or so up to the town centre, stop off at the cashpoint and continue across town to the taxi rank where having boarded a black cab I'd make the call to my connection to meet me at the back of the Total petrol station in Bush Fair.
Waiting for him proved to be an interesting experience sometimes. Along with wondering whether he'd turn up I had to make it look like I wasn't up to anything dodgy while standing in the direct glow of a streetlight, as well as enduring the occasional barb from passing schoolkids who are probably parents now as I type this seven years on.
Fortunately Dave was pretty punctual and I sat in his car for all of 30 seconds exchanging the odd banal nicety as we grappled with the still-awkward passing of the cash for the gear. With that he'd be off, leaving me under the streetlight again as he drove to pick up the speed from "near the Hummingbird Pub."
When he returned we repeated the 30 second shuffle only this time with him passing me the half oz or so of good, good Harlow speed. After we said our brief goodbyes I commenced my slightly paranoid trip home. This started with me getting on a bus 200 metres or so from where I met Dave because I was nervous about being stopped my police for some random reason which would result in them finding said contraband or getting into some scuffle with a member of the public resulting in police being called and them finding said contraband.
In a twist of ironic fate, the bus journey took me past the church my family and I used to attend during my days of indoctrination in the Catholic religion. I always enjoyed a wry smile at the non-existent deity at that roundabout.
Finally at home, it was time to depressurise. Calm down. Chill. Make a cup of tea. Builder's style with four heaped spoons of sugar and to prepare the first wrap of the evening, wrapping a thumbnail-sized dose of gear into a Rizla paper and swallowing with the aid of a Coca-Cola I'd bought earlier. This was in the pre-energy drink craze days where Coke (the drink) was the easiest was of getting sugar into your system and prepare the ground for speed lift-off.
And so we wait. The MP3 player goes on and after the first hour another wrap is taken to move the burgeoning buzz along a bit. That, and as a fail-safe. Decent speed made you evacuate your bowels after the first hit either because of the strength of the gear or in sheer anticipation of the madness to come, sometimes a bit of both So you needed another bomb just in case.
Then, within two hours of that first hit... shazam. Please make sure your tables are in their upright and locked position... next stop Saturn. You're climbing, climbing, climbing some more and the music coming in through your earphones is taking on a life of its own becoming the be-all and end-all and you're feeling everything and nothing, thoughts arriving and departing in their thousand per second. Then... a plateau. And you're running strong. And gone for the rest of the night.
There will be no sleep tonight or tomorrow night. Work in the middle? No bother. This buzz can be hid by the experienced dope fiend and it enhances your time in the job as the thrill of being blasted to fuck and nobody knowing (and continuing to take your atomic speed bombs under their noses throughout the day) adding an extra dimension to your buzz.
Especially if you're carrying a broken heart having been dumped by someone at work that you see every day. But bollocks to that. My mind is out here on another wave, feeling things they'll never feel, seeing things they'll never see, getting incredible kicks from things they'll never know. That's my kind of revenge. The best kind. The one they're not even aware of or have any idea of how to get anywhere close to.
If only you could feel this way forever.
I'd get paid on a Thursday and with that in mind at 4:45pm when I was released from work I'd walk the half-mile or so up to the town centre, stop off at the cashpoint and continue across town to the taxi rank where having boarded a black cab I'd make the call to my connection to meet me at the back of the Total petrol station in Bush Fair.
Waiting for him proved to be an interesting experience sometimes. Along with wondering whether he'd turn up I had to make it look like I wasn't up to anything dodgy while standing in the direct glow of a streetlight, as well as enduring the occasional barb from passing schoolkids who are probably parents now as I type this seven years on.
Fortunately Dave was pretty punctual and I sat in his car for all of 30 seconds exchanging the odd banal nicety as we grappled with the still-awkward passing of the cash for the gear. With that he'd be off, leaving me under the streetlight again as he drove to pick up the speed from "near the Hummingbird Pub."
When he returned we repeated the 30 second shuffle only this time with him passing me the half oz or so of good, good Harlow speed. After we said our brief goodbyes I commenced my slightly paranoid trip home. This started with me getting on a bus 200 metres or so from where I met Dave because I was nervous about being stopped my police for some random reason which would result in them finding said contraband or getting into some scuffle with a member of the public resulting in police being called and them finding said contraband.
In a twist of ironic fate, the bus journey took me past the church my family and I used to attend during my days of indoctrination in the Catholic religion. I always enjoyed a wry smile at the non-existent deity at that roundabout.
Finally at home, it was time to depressurise. Calm down. Chill. Make a cup of tea. Builder's style with four heaped spoons of sugar and to prepare the first wrap of the evening, wrapping a thumbnail-sized dose of gear into a Rizla paper and swallowing with the aid of a Coca-Cola I'd bought earlier. This was in the pre-energy drink craze days where Coke (the drink) was the easiest was of getting sugar into your system and prepare the ground for speed lift-off.
And so we wait. The MP3 player goes on and after the first hour another wrap is taken to move the burgeoning buzz along a bit. That, and as a fail-safe. Decent speed made you evacuate your bowels after the first hit either because of the strength of the gear or in sheer anticipation of the madness to come, sometimes a bit of both So you needed another bomb just in case.
Then, within two hours of that first hit... shazam. Please make sure your tables are in their upright and locked position... next stop Saturn. You're climbing, climbing, climbing some more and the music coming in through your earphones is taking on a life of its own becoming the be-all and end-all and you're feeling everything and nothing, thoughts arriving and departing in their thousand per second. Then... a plateau. And you're running strong. And gone for the rest of the night.
There will be no sleep tonight or tomorrow night. Work in the middle? No bother. This buzz can be hid by the experienced dope fiend and it enhances your time in the job as the thrill of being blasted to fuck and nobody knowing (and continuing to take your atomic speed bombs under their noses throughout the day) adding an extra dimension to your buzz.
Especially if you're carrying a broken heart having been dumped by someone at work that you see every day. But bollocks to that. My mind is out here on another wave, feeling things they'll never feel, seeing things they'll never see, getting incredible kicks from things they'll never know. That's my kind of revenge. The best kind. The one they're not even aware of or have any idea of how to get anywhere close to.
If only you could feel this way forever.