A Perfectly Civilised Street Crime

Henry Chinaski - Charles Bukowski’s alter ego in Barfly - says, ‘I don’t hate the police… but I seem to feel better when they’re not around.’ That’s pretty much how I feel. Although sometimes, it has to be said, I hate them.

I don’t know whether it will surprise you or not to know this, but over the years, and without meaning to over-egg it, I’ve had my fair share of police encounters. A small handful, let’s say. A Beadle handful. As both crime victim and alleged perpetrator. And when they’ve been on my side, they’ve generally been mostly very sympathetic and humane. But when they’ve not been on my side, they’ve generally been disrespectful, abusive and just awful. Until that is, last Thursday evening. Let me tell you what happened.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I'd met someone who had some excellent green stuff. Well, I met him again early on Thursday evening and he supplied me with some of said self-same stuff. He probably deserves a name at this stage. I might call him Danny, as if he were my very own offspring. Errant Danny. My wayward son. It is written. So I left Errant Danny in west London and made my way to Oxford Circus where I met up with my old friend, Shambling Luther. Luther bought me a drink and we went outside to sample Errant Danny’s wares. We crossed the street with our plastic glasses and found a little window ledge in an adjoining back street.

I set about rolling a one-skinner. As I did so, I noticed a couple of chaps up the street, maybe ten feet away, loitering on the corner. I saw one of them looking straight at me and I assumed that a) he knew what I was doing, and b) he was probably a little envious. I know that whenever I see people smoking joints in the street, that’s how I feel. I even briefly imagined him coming over and asking if he could have a little, as occasionally happens. Anyhow, I carried on chatting to Shambling Luther. As it happens, we were chatting about the inherent risk involved in carrying smelly green stuff around London, what with all the sniffer dogs about the place, and police everywhere.

I finished making the joint and put it in my mouth. This would be the first tobacco I’d smoked in almost two weeks. I inhaled, but the light hadn’t taken. I was about to light it again when I saw that the two chaps on the corner were no longer on the corner, but were coming over. Naïve fool that I am, I still imagined they were going to ask if they could maybe purchase a little green stuff for themselves. In fact, I thought that right up until the moment one of them took out his badge and said something about the Metropolitan Police.

‘You have to be joking,’ I said, meaning it. Like there was no way this could really be happening. Like I was determined to cling to the paradise of the past, the good old days before everything had become tarnished, before the universe had become the heinous, unholy, nonsensical place it now was. They simply had to be joking.

They weren’t joking.

The first officer – let’s call him Bryan – reached out and took the tiny unsmoked joint from my hand. I think he said something about ‘a controlled substance’ as he placed the offending item in a jiffy bag and asked me if I had any more about my person.

‘You know I have,’ I said, sadly, the realisation of what was happening sinking onto me like a poison.

‘Yes,’ he confessed. ‘I do.’

With a heart as heavy as a barrel of bricks, I reached into my pocket and handed over £50 worth of the finest green stuff I hadn’t smoked in a long time. It really hurt. It didn’t seem fair.

Meanwhile the other officer was performing a perfunctory search of Shambling Luther’s person. ‘He hasn’t got anything,’ I said. ‘It’s all here.’

I asked if I could see the first officer’s badge again, just on the off chance it was all an elaborate scam by London-Omar types, small-time rip-and-run merchants on the make. When he showed me the badge a second time, I asked if I could take a photo. I told him I wanted to write about it, fully expecting him to say no. Instead he placed his badge on the window-ledge, right there on Errant Danny’s wacky stash-purse.



I've blurred his number so that he doesn't get in trouble with his colleagues for showing humanity.

Then he wrote up the incident, which he also let me photograph - but not the face, which, for an undercover copper, is probably fair enough.



He began by explaining the recent changes in the law, including the latest reclassification and explained that I would be receiving a warning.

I probably asked Bryan three times during the interview if he might not bring himself to just, you know, give me the stuff back, or at least some of it, maybe just one of the two little bags. Or even just the mini-joint. It would be a gesture. ‘I wish I could,’ he said.

‘But you can,’ I coaxed. ‘Just say yes.’

‘No,’ he said.

He asked me how much I’d paid.

‘Fifty quid!’ I cried, scandalised.

He asked me my name.

I wanted to refuse. ‘I’m anonymous!’ I wanted to yell. 'I disclose my identity to no man!' I told him my name instead. He asked me where I’d purchased the drugs. I wanted to tell him. ‘I got it from Errant Danny, who resides at 420, London High Street.’ But instead I said, ‘You don’t really expect me to tell you, do you?’

He said, ‘No. Shall I just put “street”?’

I said yes and thanked him for his sensitivity.

It really was remarkably civilised. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that, essentially, I was being robbed, I would have counted it as one of the most heart-warming first impressions I’ve enjoyed for some time.

At one point – in a moment of desperation – I tried something outlandish. I held the gaze of the second officer - let's call him Ross - and I told him, earnestly, ‘These are not the drugs you’re looking for.’

He rewarded me with a slightly indulgent laugh, for which I was grateful, but it was not my greatest Jedi mind moment, it has to be said. I was like a poor man’s Derren Brown tribute act. I was like Dan Brown. Dan Beige even.

‘What about a bribe?’ I ventured. ‘What if I was to offer you the single ten-pound note in my pocket?’

To which Ross replied, ‘A couple of pints of Kronenberg would probably do the job.’

My eyes lit up. ‘Really?’

He shook his head. ‘No. not really,’ he said.

At the beginning of the exchange, Bryan had asked me if I had any photo ID, but then amidst all the bonhomie, he seemed to have forgotten about it. I reminded him and asked if he still needed to see any. I could be anyone, after all. He said it wasn’t necessary, as I was clearly being cooperative and civil. He said if I had been uncooperative, he would have had me against the wall and searched me properly. I imagined plastic, powdery gloves and enemas. I was touched that it wasn't happening.

‘You two are going to get so wrecked later,’ I said. ‘That’s really good stuff.’

‘Nah,’ said Bryan. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘You used to though,’ I said, ‘before you were a policeman. I bet. Eh?’

He looked at me, smiled and paused long enough to clearly indicate that the answer was a resounding 'hell, yeah!'

‘No,’ he said. How we laughed.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ I said, politely exasperated. ‘Isn’t it?’

He agreed. ‘It’s the system,’ he said.

‘The system’s an arse,’ I said.

‘Yep,’ he said.

I asked him how come they happened to have been hanging around. ‘We’re everywhere,’ he said. He said they were particularly concentrated around Oxford Street because it’s a bit of a crime black-spot. A veritable street theft jamboree. I pointed out the irony. ‘You’re here to stop street crime!’ I hooted. ‘And here you are mugging me!’

He laughed generously. I’ve been mugged a few times, but this was by far the most humane. And as police experiences go, nothing could be further than my last experience. They asked me what had happened. I told them, mentioning that the arresting officer in particular had been a bad egg of the highest order. ‘With all due respect,’ I said, ‘he was an enormous cunt.’ I wondered as I said it whether I might have crossed a line.

Ross replied without pause. ‘About 90% of them are,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘And we have to work with them.’

It was very refreshing, and almost worth a pair of lost ponies for the insight into a different side of policing.

But not quite.

‘You do know I’m just going to have to go straight back and get some more, don’t you?’ I said at some stage.

‘That’s what everyone says,’ replied Bryan. ‘“I’m not gonna stop doing it.”’

I shrugged.

We are a nation of children.

The next morning Errant Danny became Healing Danny and helped me out with some of his own supply, which was very kind and much appreciated. He understands, you see. Restless souls have needs.

I left Danny’s around 1pm on Friday and wrote the following in lovely big note book:

The sun is out. You can smell it. It is a striking day. I’m gliding along the broad bright platform of an unfamiliar train station luxuriating in a five-minute break, chewing over recent events as I wait for my connection. Loud dramatic pop is emoting for all it’s worth in my ears, transporting me to a slightly more cinematic universe. The train appears on cue and transforms itself gradually, gracefully, from a glinting pin-prick of light on the horizon to a perfectly ordinary full-sized train. That’s physics.

Through the glass of scratched train-windows, I smell the sun through my eyes. It reminds me of holidays, and I feel right with the world and right with myself for the rest of the afternoon. And I get a hell of a lot done.

It’s a highly beneficent treatment, this green stuff, and personally I consider it a symptom of a rather terrible administration, and a rather backward nation, that the use of it is a criminal offence. I’m insulted. And occasionally indignant.

Anyhow, now I’m off to the countryside to eat lots of hand-picked, purely organic, naturally occurring and wholly illegal mushrooms.

Good old nature. Silly old system.

All in all then, an expensive, but interesting and somehow slightly gratifying learning experience. Don't smoke dope in the streets, kids.

Let that be a warning to you...

I Am the Woodlouse

I have a friend who once found himself urinating next to Martin Amis at the ICA. Thankfully, they were both in the toilet at the time, positioned at adjoining urinals. My friend was very interested in drugs in that period of his life – from an academic as well as a practical perspective – so, knowing that Martin Amis wasn’t opposed to a little dabble himself, my friend asked the urinating author which drugs he considered most efficacious for writing. ‘Cannabis,’ replied Amis, tapping the old man thoughtfully. ‘It has a shamanic quality.’



When my friend told me this story, I was thrilled. One of my favourite writers of all time had basically, via a pissing intermediary, said: ‘You carry on the way you are, Stan. You’re doing everything right. You’re going to be OK. Oh, and… get dental insurance.’

Speaking of cannabis, one thing that’s become extremely clear again recently is that although it can, if used carefully, buttress the process of writing, it in no way contributes to a healthy dream life. Currently, however, I haven’t smoked anything for more than a month and I find that I’m dreaming like a drugged wizard.

In fact, as I write this, it's just after 5 a.m. on Saturday morning and I’ve just woken up from an unpleasant dream about Morag.

Actually, I’ve been having lots of unpleasant dreams about Morag recently. In fact, even dreams that did not seem to be about Morag, may have actually been. For example, the dream about the woodlouse.

Sometime last week I dreamt that a woodlouse was living in my chest hair. I was happy about this, despite the fact that when I looked down, it seemed to be coming apart at the seams, its little legs and its almost transparent carapace separating as it struggled in my manly pelt. Then, when I woke up alone, sans woodlouse, I felt horribly alone. Not happily alone, as I have on occasion felt. No. Horribly alone.

Whereas this morning I dreamt that Morag and I were still together and she was distant, down and distinctly uncommunicative. Something had happened with a mutual friend. She said it was something to do with money, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. I didn’t believe her. I woke up in distress. I found myself wanting to go back to the dream and ask her if she loved me at all; if she’d ever loved me.

Could it be that I’m not actually over her?

I don’t think so – I mean, I am over her. It’s not like I want to go back. We weren’t right. I want someone who’s right for me. I want someone who can love me wholeheartedly and Morag couldn’t do that. Not for long. What’s preying on my mind now is the fact that I loved her more than I’ve ever loved before and I’m afraid I’ll never be able to do that again, for fear of doing it wrong, for fear of loving the wrong person. But then just because it didn’t last forever doesn’t mean she was the wrong person to love.

Oh, fuck it. I’m going back to sleep. Perchance to dream sweeter.

...

Sunday night, Monday morning...

I didn’t dream at all last night. Or at least nothing stayed with me. Typical. I’ve cursed it. I will never dream again.

I’m floundering about a bit at the moment. In general I mean. I don’t really know what I’m doing with this blog. And I don’t really know what’s happening with the book. I guess it’s early days still. But on the whole I’m feeling a bit fed up. With everything. Mostly I’m fed up with being cut off from everything. I need change. It’s coming soon I know, but I kind of need it now. So – in the absence of change, I’ve decided to plump for something which is apparently just as good: a rest.

Oh! And well I never. I’ve just realised that a year ago this week, Keith’s old flat was flooded and I stopped blogging till the beginning of September last. That settles it then. This year – although I don’t have the excuse of an act of God – I’m going to do the same. I’m having some time off. Yes. It’s a decision I’ve made. I might draw the occasional Jackson and tweet the occasional nonsense, but unless something staggering happens, I’m away from here till September.

And just in case you’re wondering, this has nothing whatsoever to do with any shame I might feel over my misquotathon in the Daily Mail today. In fact I feel no shame at all. Not that I'm claiming that I’m suddenly a fan of the newspaper. Heaven forfend. I still regularly entertain unimaginably violent fantasies involving Amanda Platell, Peter Hitchens, Richard Littlejohn, Liz Jones, Christopher Hart, a roll of cling film and a meat tenderiser. However, I would like something a friend of mine said – when I mentioned my misgivings on the day of the Mail interview – to be taken into consideration. She said, and I quote:

‘I’m all about preaching to the unconverted, so I think MUCH better to speak to The Enemy, have some of their number find and fall in love with your writing, then be convinced by you that they should live better. It’s really an actively good thing you're doing.’

You See? An Actively Good Thing.

Plus, I’m hoping it’ll sell some more books. Not because I want the money, you understand, but because I want to Heal The World with my words.

Oh, and if you’ve come here from the Daily Mail, and you’re genuinely not aware of what a hideous paper it is, then look at this. And have a good long think about what you’ve done.

So. That’s all for now. Oh, except this, which is funny.

Right. I'm done.

See you in September. In London!

Oh, and I realise of course, that in many ways – deep breath – yes – I am the woodlouse.



Goo goo g’joob.

Feedback Friday :: No Value, No Glamour

bulk :: 16st 2 (Oops. Um… not really sure what happened here. Actually I am sure. Pizza and chocolate biscuits. That’s what happened. With extra gorgonzola. Plus at some stage I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be training for the marathon in June – surely I can afford a little blow-out before then?’ I’m just amazed how quickly it all piles back on. I reckon if I really put the effort in, I could be back to 20 stone by the end of the month. I don’t want to do that however. That would be ghastly.)
alcohol units imbibed :: 16
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0 (Hmm. Well, there you go. The weight gain begins to make even more sense. I am playing tennis tomorrow though, if that’s any consolation.)
status updates :: 1
value :: 0
glamour :: 0

My brain is officially dead. It has no value. It has no glamour. Finance has filled it with fog and fur. Foreign financiers have fucked it foroughly. And frankly, I’ve had enough for this week.

Sally’s out with friends tonight, which is a shame, but Keith has come out of hiding. Turns out he’d been asleep. After working stupid-long hours on a chocolate bar ad for five days, he went home and to sleep for 38 hours solid. Now he’s awake and suggests a catch-up with skunkweed and beer. As it happens, I can think of very few things I’d like more.

The only reservation I have is that Sally doesn’t like me smoking dope. She really hates it. Doesn’t like the smell of it on me; doesn’t like the taste. I told her it makes me eat more so she should be pleased. She wasn’t. She doesn’t even like me doing it when she’s not around. And I don’t want to upset or annoy her. But at the same time…



When I mentioned this on the phone to Keith not half an hour ago, he laughed. Then he said: ‘You’re such a fucking twat. You’ve gone from 30-year-old semi-virgin to treacherous love-rat to spineless pussy-whipped eunuch in the space of six months. You don’t know how ridiculous you are. And you don’t know a fucking thing about women.’ I laughed. Then I hung up.

I’m sick of people telling me I don’t know anything about women.

Part of me wants to say to Sally, ‘Listen. Shagpuss. I am what I am and that’s that. Take it or leave it.’ But of course I’m afraid that she’ll leave it.

Another part of me wants to never ever touch another cannabinoid as long as I live and to say to Sally, ‘Look! Look what I did for you! See? I’d do anything for you.’ But I’ve had an incredibly brain-frazzling week and I want nothing more than to smoke a few joints with my oldest friend because, frankly speaking, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.

And I keep thinking to myself, what am I? A man or a mouse?

Oh, Sally.

Please don’t leave me.

....

In other news, a few people have asked me about the results of the survey. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a while longer though. So far, I’ve only received 243 responses, and I’m guessing maybe 10% of those are spoiled (or whatever the word is for surveys that have been opened and pooh-poohed). Apparently that’s still not a bad sample – I was chatting to Frank last night who recently did some work for an internationally renowned arts institute that I swore I would not mention by name, and they commissioned a survey which received around a hundred responses. Fuck the ICA however – no, I’m just kidding, it wasn't them. It really wasn't.

But still, I paid for a thousand respondents, so next week I’m going to try and go after the other 757. At the moment however, I haven’t a clue how to go about it. Any suggestions gratefully received.

Now my fingers are failing and my eyesight is fading fast. Time to drink till I’m drunk, and to smoke till I’m senseless.

Have a great weekend.

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!

When Is a Good Samaritan Not a Good Samaritan? When He's a Bloody Idiot. Discuss.

On Saturday afternoon I saw someone I knew begging outside of Brixton tube. If you’ve been paying an unhealthy amount of attention, you will know him too. His name is Neil Stores, or, as he was known as a young hoodlum, Storesy. I went to school with him, and caught up with him again after 13 years or so at the school reunion just before Christmas. On Saturday he was sitting in the drizzle in Brixton High Street, cross-legged like some denim-clad, thuggish Yogi, rocking back and forth like a loon.

As I walked past, I glanced briefly at him then away. When recognition came after a second or two, I stopped and turned around. Then I moved on for a few more steps, hid myself in a doorway and watched.

His begging technique – if indeed he was begging – was a mess. It consisted of sitting in the street and looking simultaneously pitiful and terrifying. I guessed that he was there because of one of three things: a) heroin, b) crack, or c) large scale mental breakdown brought on by heroin or crack.

He didn’t notice me. After a while I said his name. When he didn’t look up, I entertained the possibility that it wasn’t him at all. Then slowly he moved his face in my direction. When our eyes made contact, he recognised me and – again very slowly – said, ‘Elbows’. As he did so, something akin to a smile crept across his face like a urine stain.

I resented his use of my school nickname. I didn’t think he’d really earned the right to carry on using it, rocking back and forth as he was in the street, in the drizzle, with obscenities tattooed on his knuckles. But I let it slide.

‘What happened to you, man?’ I asked.

He just shrugged and looked over my right shoulder. ‘Nah,’ he said, as if that in any way answered my question. ‘You couldn’t spare me a couple of quid, could you?’

‘A couple of quid?’ I repeated, a little scandalised. ‘Not really. I could get you something to eat though, if you’re hungry.’

We ended up in the Prince of Wales and in the hour we were together, he went through three pints of lager and I think 12 packets of crisps. He wouldn’t eat anything more substantial, which was a shame because I’m sure that something more substantial wouldn’t have stuck in the gaps between his teeth as repugnantly as crisps did. Also, bits kept flying out as he talked. It wasn't pleasant. We must have looked a right pair, sat there. Him with his tattoos and scars, spitting crisps everywhere. Me with my bag of elbows.

There was good news however, in that Storesy isn’t addicted to heroin and he isn’t addicted to crack. There is also bad news however, in that Storesy is addicted to cocaine, which as far as I am aware, is a good deal more expensive than heroin and crack, and quite possibly more addictive. But I’m no expert.

Storesy lost his job as a security guard just after Christmas. Now I don’t mean to be an awful snob or anything, but exactly how inept do you have to be to lose a job as a security guard? Surely, all you have to do is turn up in a uniform and wander around once or twice an hour, looking vaguely attentive, and maybe tick a few boxes on a blank sheet. The rest of the time you’re sitting with your feet up looking at a couple of monitors and reading poor quality tabloids. How on earth can you manage to get yourself fired? Well, Storesy got fired for not turning up. He was apparently too busy borrowing money for cocaine so that he could drink like a seahorse and talk rather loudly about not very much late into the night.

A week after he lost his job, apparently, his girlfriend kicked him out of their flat in Dartford. I got the impression that her brothers may have helped remove him. After which, it was only a few weeks on various friends’ couches and suddenly he was headed to London where the streets are paved with begging junkies.

I’ve never really seen the appeal of cocaine. Recently I saw it referred to as ‘wanker powder’, which I think just about sums it up. I’ve had friends who’ve become quite heavily involved with coke, and it made every one of them much less pleasant to be around, to the point where I stopped being around them.



It’s odd because with other drugs I’ve encountered, I can understand some of the appeal. They tend to make people more playful or vivacious or good fun to be around. Coke just seems to turn people into dull, shouty boors. In my experience. Also, as I discovered on Saturday, it also gives you a permanent head cold and a forehead full of spots.

Despite all this, the truth was, I felt sorry for Storesy. I felt sorrier for him than I had for my own friends in the past, because they had no excuse. Which is to say – and sorry again for the snobbishness – they had sufficient intelligence to know better. Storesy isn’t the brightest star in the firmament, bless him. He isn’t even the juiciest plum in the punnet. And I can’t help feeling that it isn’t really his fault that he’s weak enough to become addicted to coke and booze and tobacco and whatever else he’s addicted to. I simply can’t find it in my patronising heart to blame him. And I really can’t help feel for him. And yet, when he hinted that maybe he could stay with me for a while, I didn’t jump at the chance to have him as a house guest. In fact, I completely and wholly unsubtly changed the subject.

Unfortunately, just as I was making my excuses to go, he came out and asked me directly: ‘Can I stay at your house for a few days?’ Just like that. The bastard.

I have trouble saying no. Which of course is what he was banking on. Even though the prospect of having a desperate ex-con who used to bully me sleeping on my sofa as a houseguest makes me want to run into oncoming traffic, I still have trouble saying no.

On this occasion though, I said no. I told him that, to be frank, I couldn’t trust him. He seemed offended. I asked him if he would trust him if he was me. He said that he would. He said that he’d never stolen anything in his life. I reminded him of the time he spent in prison for robbing a shop. He pointed out that that was different. A branch of Currys is not the same as an individual. He would never steal from an individual. He then added that if he took so much as a pint of milk, all I had to do was tell the police. This was true, but it wouldn’t get me back my DVDs.

In the end I gave him my landline phone number and said that if he didn’t get himself sorted out within a couple of weeks, he should give me a bell. So far he’s left two faux upbeat, really quite pitiful messages, making me feel really, really bad.

It’s apparently going to be minus two at the weekend. There has even been talk of snow. Snow! And here I am indoors with the heat on all day. How hard would it be to give an old schoolfriend somewhere to stay for a week or two?

I really want to play The Good Samaritan. But I don't want to be exploited, abused and ripped off by someone who is obviously very unstable and potentially deeply irritating.

I’m in two minds.

Anyone have any thoughts?