Had a choice between two parties on saturday, a house party at Marsha’s or a garden party in the next door neighbour’s. Unsurprisingly I chose the former, where I didn’t have to be on my best behaviour. Hadn’t seen anyone in a couple of weeks, so it was nice to walk in the door to a load of hugs, kisses, handshakes… and some complimentary cocaine served on the DVD case of an early noughties romcom. I gave that particular luxury a body swerve for a while, deciding that it’d be far more sensible (not to mention socially acceptable!) if I just tanned a bottle of whiskey and any sambucas that came my way. For a while the night became slightly fuzzy, as is wont to happen when you’re daft enough to have a week and a half worth of units in the space of around three hours. Shit was talked, laughs were had, friends were made, even a few phone numbers exchanged. Then came the coke, and what I woke up this afternoon thinking was one thin line a millimetre thick I found out tonight was actually a fair few chunky Tony Montana’s. For a guy a that doesn’t do coke. With what I’m told was “right good fuckin’ shit man.” While so drunk my blood flow was practically in reverse. Not the best idea I’ve ever had I must confess.
I’ve always had a suspicion that the one illicit substance that would do me real harm would be coke. There isn’t really anything about it that I like. And it’s probably the most unsexy commonly used drug in the world. There can be a certain seductive quality to a girl with a spliff in her hand, or holding a glass in a club. Even a tab of E can be given with a kiss, but taking a line of coke? You’re bent over, a rolled up £20 note stuck up one nostril, cross-eyed so you make sure you get the whole line and snorting like a pig. Call it my inner snob, but it’s too undignified a way to take something. There’s a neediness to the whole thing that I don’t like. And hell, I can’t even remember it particularly well. A vague feeling that my heart was pounding, and my drunken thoughts at the time were made a bit sharper but equally disjointed. Nothing life changing, no awesome high, just another shit thing done. Ho hum.
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, after I left Marsha’s I seem to have went somewhere else, though I’m not entirely sure. I did however find a guy passed out drunk, in my kindness I gave him my bottle of Lucozade (that I can’t remember buying) got him to his feet and told him to stagger on somewhere a bit safer. If he’d lain there any longer there’s every chance he’d have finally come round to find whatever money he’d had stolen, along with his phone and whatever else he had on him, if they hadn’t been already. The joys of living in a polite society. The sun was up by the time I had gotten home, and I found that I was both wanting yet completely unable to fall asleep. A few more beers tipped the scales in my favour thankfully. When I woke up I found a snorkel and scuba mask lying on my bedroom floor. Nobody seems to know where they came from.
Sounds like one hell of a fecking party…Except the coke.