Day One :: Tox, Detox

So, in the firm belief that desperate situations call for desperate measures, I have decided to starve myself. Not to death, no. Nothing so drastic. But hopefully to something in the neighbourhood of 16 stone. I would be happy with that neighbourhood. If the rent was reasonable. So I’ve just had my first of today’s 6-9 glasses of Madal Bal Natural Tree Syrup and Lemon Detox Drink. Aside from the few grains of cayenne pepper that got stuck in my throat at the end, it was really rather tasty. Like molasses I think. (Have a ever had molasses? I don’t know.) I do know that I could murder a bloody great steak though. I’m actually very hungry. You know, there’s a plant beside me on my desk here. A rubber plant of some kind, its lush elastic leaves only inches away from my mouth. If I just lean forward… No.

I shall do no such thing. My will is like a shield of steel.

But I am not without caution. I am approaching this fast with the diligence of a scientist, and if life without solid food begins to feel remotely dangerous, I will eat. Plus, I have a few outdoor chores to attend to this week for which I’ll need my wits about me. So if I start to crack up, I’ll stop. But if I just go a little bit funny, I might persist for a while. In the name of Science, which I embrace.

But first, I must talk about drugs, baby, and I must tell you a fulsome and rambling tale. For it was Keith who suggested that if I was going to detox, I really ought to start by thoroughly toxing. I explained that I’d been eating a lot of mini-eggs, but evidently mini-eggs weren’t toxic enough for Keith. No. He can be quite full-on at times, if you know what I think I mean. Which is why I found myself schlepping over to Hummercosh Park at around 8 o’clock on Friday night.

Now, Hummercosh Park is a made-up name. I’m using made-up names because it’s probably best to be a little circumspect when you’re discussing drug use. I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. Neither do I want an axe through my front door or a skinned swan in my bed. So there’s going to be a lot of fictionalising going on, but the vein is true.

So, Keith was going to go and see Ineloquent Quinn. His man. That was the plan. But because his work was dragging on, the plan, and the designated drug mule, had to be changed. This was around 7.30 when I’d already had a couple of large glasses of wine, so I had to get public transport all the way out to Hummercosh Park.

I’d met Quinn before when he’d dropped stuff off at Keith’s but I’d never met him on my own, and following instructions to his flat in the middle of a dodgy, scaffold-dashed tower block in Hummercosh Park was making me feel very uneasy. But then I got there and Quinn welcomed me into his living room, which afforded excellent views of Bongleby Docks.

We were after weed and ecstasy, apparently, but Quinn didn’t have any ecstasy. He did have some MDMA powder however, which he presented to me in a rather sordid plastic bag. ‘I don’t really know anything about it,’ I said. ‘It’s £30 a gram,’ he explained. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘That sounds very reasonable.’

Quinn is second-generation SilverSlav. He looks terrifying in silhouette, stupidly tall, all horns and spikes, but he’s actually very laid-back and rather shy. ‘Can you stay for a cup of tea?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’d love to.’ I made a joint.

We got chatting over our tea and I began to realise that not only is Quinn rather shy, but also, he’s not quite all there. Upstairs. He is a nice guy though, I'm convinced. Just a bit slow. And it doesn’t help that he has a slight lisp. I have a horrible habit of picking up lisps and stutters by the way. It’s happened a couple of times now. It’s like Tourette’s. Completely involuntary. But it didn’t happen with Quinn. Thank God. He might have murdered me. You know what SilverSlavs are like.

He asked me what I do for a living but then, when I told him, didn’t have much to say about it, so I commended him on his view and asked him if he’d always lived in London. He told me he had. He told me that he was born in a home.

I said, ‘Oh, that’s sad, man,’ and hoped that it was. He said he might leave London if he met a woman and had a family, he might want to move to a better area. Then he went all wistful and lonely-looking. ‘Are you looking for a woman?’ I said, trying to sound like a concerned friend rather than a pimp.

And then he launched into this anecdote.

‘Yeah, I had this woman once. She was nice, man, but she was into all this fetish stuff. She wanted me to put a lead on her and take her to a club, lead her around like a dog… she was always telling me about all these things that she did, getting tied up and like, bondage and leather gear and whips and stuff. She asked me if I could handle it, you know, I was like, “No, man, just give me ordinary sex”, you know what I mean? Just like, straight sex. No dressing up and no handcuffs, no chains round the neck and nothing shoved up the arse….’

To which I replied, ‘Oh now, steady on. I can understand that you might have some reservations about being led around clubs on a lead, but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of arse-play.’

Quinn was not in agreement. I put him straight. ‘I like my arse,’ I told him. ‘And my arse likes me.’ I smoked some more of the joint and felt a little odd. ‘Anal beads,’ I said, sounding ever so slightly like Michael Caine. ‘It’s not a fetish, calm yourself down.’ Quinn looked disturbed. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen what I’m talking about. It’s basically like plastic… well, it’s like a dildo really….’

‘Ah, man, look, I don’t even wanna go there….’

‘You must go there.’ I was shouting. ‘Hear me out. Imagine a series of about seven plastic balls, each half a centimetre apart and a little bigger than the last one….’ His face was scrunched up, as if I were talking about castration. I could see I had hit a brick wall. Luckily drug dealers are all totally teched up these days, so I hijacked Quinn’s internet and after a little fumbling, found this...

‘There are a lot of anal beads out there and this is not exactly the same as mine, but it does give you an idea. You can order them online,’ I told him. ‘Maybe get a deal on some lube. Then just try it, Quinn. For God’s sake, man, where’s your balls? Ease it in slowly like. You really might like it. It might be right up your alley.’

Nah. He wasn’t keen. Then he started mumbling something which I couldn’t catch, except for the last few words which were, ‘I’m not trying to hurry you or anything, I just got to be somewhere.’

Oh. I was being kicked out by a drug dealer.

I gathered together my purchases and stuffed them into my coat. I had a terrible feeling I’d offended him. I think I was paranoid but I can’t be sure. ‘Sorry about the beads thing, man,’ I said. I always call him ‘man’. I’m trying to be cool. ‘I just think, you know, I AM a beadsman. You know? Embrace it.’

He shook his head. I left.

It was as I stood there waiting for the lift that I realised I was really very stoned. I remembered the documentary about dope I’d seen a couple of weeks ago – Should I Smoke Dope with the decidedly saucy Nicky Taylor – and what it had told me about drug dealers sprinkling glass beads on their skunk - not anal beads, which might not be such a bad thing, but glass beads. Apparently it gives the impression that the stuff is bristling with THC, and therefore more powerful. But of course, it fucks your lungs. I wondered if I’d been inhaling burning glass. I hoped not.

In the lift I became horribly self-conscious and couldn’t stop repositioning myself so that I wouldn’t look stoned or muggable if the doors opened. Once out into the night, however, and the unlit Gantry Estate just behind Cackingham Park, I began to march, brisk, confident and ever so slightly threatening - just fast enough to be a proper mental.

I was very jittery. I was sure I smelled of skunk and aware that I was carrying Class something or other drugs. And I was in a rough area, walking right up in the arsecrack of Blithe Alley. On the way in, I’d already had to ignore a small gang of Bastards and I was bracing myself for all kinds of nonsense. If push comes to shove though, worst case scenario, I’m mugged and beaten and I have my grass stolen, then I’m arrested, charged with MDMA crimes and have to make a break for it and go on the lam, at least I’ll have stuff to blog about. I comforted myself with that thought and changed direction, onto a street which led to a mass of bus stops.

Then I passed a woman who was either old and mad or young and creative. She was dancing around with a closed umbrella, then just as I was passing, she turned her back on me, took a small black book out of her shopping trolley, tossed it on the pavement and began doing a dainty Irish jig around it. I’m pretty sure it was a bible, but I still couldn’t tell if she was unhinged or a great talent.

I laughed out loud, with the joy of it all. A short walk later, just as I was thinking I wished I could have photographed the Bible Dancer without making her feel uncomfortable or patronised, I became aware of a giant penguin ahead. I laughed again. It felt like someone was laying things on for me. Like God was totally playing friendly games with me. I mean, come on! A penguin!

I did take a photo of this guy though, although it isn’t very good

As I took the photo, a friend declared that there was also a Pink Panther inside. But I thought that might be overkill. ‘I’m alright with a penguin,’ I said.

I changed direction again. After a short while, poorly-lit streets eventually pooped me into the bright open concrete mouth of the Dank Pong Piss Subway System. And there were three young girls sitting in the middle of this underground concrete tunnel, illuminated by a stark overhead light. They had a large sign with the words, ‘SMILE! Have a great weekend!’ written around a large smiley face. Then I realised that they had a guitar and a tambourine. They also had blankets and sleeping bags, ribbons in their hair and bottles of beer in their fists. They were lovely. A guy walking ahead of me tossed some money in their hat and they dedicated a rendition of Let It Be to him. It was really quite beautiful. I wish I’d left some money myself, but I felt a little insecure, so I just shuffled by, smiling and feeling terribly protective. I hoped they managed to get through the night without some damaged soul causing them pain.

I considered going to a cash point and returning with enough money for them to go home and leave the subway behind. But they were probably there because they wanted to be. They’ll probably have their own TV show in four years. I smiled, felt better.

Finally I got on a bus. I sat down and relaxed and wrote down a couple of things that had happened since I'd left the house. It had been a lot of fun on the whole. I had seen some splendid things. I had seen things you people wouldn’t believe. I began to feel a tropical blend of ultra-fascination and exalted libido. You know, sometimes I imagine myself as a giant cauldron of semen, bubbling away on an enormous purple fire.

Then a guy got on the bus wearing a tee-shirt under his coat but clearly visible, which read ‘BE VERY AFRAID’. Half a minute later, someone started ringing the bell repeatedly upstairs. The driver had missed their stop, apparently, so they were now registering their protest with non-stop bell-ringing. It was quite tense. The driver was indecisive. He pulled over at first, as if to confront the culprits, then he just thought, ‘No,’ and he kept driving. At the next stop three young Bulgations and a couple of Strawberry Sandflies filed down the stairs, the tallest Bulgation muttering ‘wanker’ under his breath. Then as he reached the doors of the bus, he got louder. He shouted, ‘Wanker. Wankers. You’re all wankers! The lot of you.’ As the bus pulled away, they all joined in. ‘Wankers!’ they shouted. ‘Fucking wankers!’ Outside I saw an ageing WoolHeifer turn round in disgust, crossing her face and willing her kids not to hear.

It put a bit of a dampener on my splendid mood, I don’t mind telling you. Little devils. No respect, kids today.

Boris will sort them out.

Just kidding.

Anyhow, the rest of the weekend more than made up for it. We basically spent the entire time smoking weed and taking MDMA. And I have to say, although I am generally no great advocate of the slacker lifestyle, I had a whale of a time. In fact, I would go as far as to say, I think I’ve found my drug. I’ve since been reading about it and it doesn’t surprise me at all that it was used in therapy. Nor that it used to be called Empathy. That’s a much nicer name. Empathy.

In short, I had a wonderful openly emotional time, laughing, a tiny bit of weeping, and talking about problems and mistakes, sorting things out and making plans. In fact, I don't think I've ever had a more positive weekend before - especially not one that was so much fun.

Now the last thing I want to do is become some kind of drugs evangelist here, but the fact is, you should all definitely go out immediately and find some MDMA and take it. It's really good for you. Indeed, if I may recall Alexander Shulgin, describing the effects of some of his own MDMA: ‘It gave me a pleasant lightness of spirit… a distinct lightness of mood. And an indication to get busy and do things that needed doing.’

Exactly, yes. And we even played in the snow for a bit.



And we met a very affectionate cat in the street.



And we decorated a plant.



And Keith gets his results this week and is definitely feeling much more optimistic about things in general.

It was a good weekend for both of us.

It’s midnightish now. I’ve had my fifth large glass of tree juice and I feel extremely tired. That’s probably just tired from the exertions of the weekend though. Not from the fasting. Either way, I can barely keep my eyes open.

So I shall stop.

Two more things though:

1) I think Katinka is sleeping with her brother. I can’t be sure – yet – but there’s definitely something fishy going on and I intend to find it what it is and then moralise over it.

2) I have also given up masturbation for a week.

Wish me luck!