DISCLAIMER!
I WANT TO MAKE IT VERY CLEAR THAT EVERYTHING WRITTEN BELOW IS A COMPLETE FICTION. NONE OF THE BELOW EVER HAPPENED.
Now. I've seen the wrong side of 7am on a Sunday morning a lot of times in my life, but only sporadically have I been up at 6:30am on a Sunday to go running. But the early morning weekend run is becoming a lot more regular than any other reason why I'd be up at this strange time.
As I run through Queensbridge road it becomes clear that a lot of other people are up and about: the rave zombies. Those desperate people who've found themselves wandering around London in the early hours, confusingly trying to find out either where the hell they are, or how the hell did they get there.
You see them stare into the middle distance, willing a taxi, or anyone, would pick them up and take them home. Some of them are clutching cans of beer like comfort blankets, while others are sweating more than I am. Which is a worry as I've already been running for a mile and a half.
I'd be lying if I didn't feel a smugness or an air of betterment than these poor unfortunates as I glide past them, but this is replaced very quickly by the knowledge that I am one of them, and that I've been in worst states than they ever could cope with, and that basically, if things were only slightly different, I'd be smashed out of my head with them too.
I'm guessing these battered, wide eyed, smoky kids have been to the Lovebox festival. A three day festival in my local park where everyone goes home at midnight, only to return the following day for more drinks, more drugs, and more fun.
I'm not attending any festivals this year, for two reasons,
1. Memories
2. Drugs
1. Memories
I've been to a lot of festivals, and had a lot of fun. And the memories of those amazing times are scolded onto my heart, never to be forgotten. Alas however, these memories are tinged with a sadness, because I know that those great times can't be replicated, and if they were to be, they would be altered by time and circumstance. The people who made those wonderful times with me don't go to festivals anymore, and the ones that do go with people I don't want to go with. And I'm not sure if I can be bothered making new memories with a load of other people, I'd rather just remember the ones I have.
I remember finding someone in Lovebox once, I found them in a sea of 35,000 people, as if it were normal. They'd been there all day and I'd followed later, they were drinking and having fun and phone signals were dead so I had no clue where they could be. I just walked in, and walked straight to where they were and tapped them on the shoulder. It was uncanny, like a subconscious GPS system was working in my head. and the shock and surprise and joy on their face made me feel amazing.
I remember being sat in a field in Glastonbury with my friend Mark, who'd taken far too much speed and couldn't get to sleep, in fact, he couldn't stop moving his leg. And we sat in that field watching his leg shake for 3 hours until the sun came up, then he fell asleep, his leg kept shaking though.
I remember a man in a portaloo have his portaloo pushed over by some guys and it fell straight into a lake of piss and shit that had built up around the toilets. And as he climbed out of his portaloo boat he just laughed and laughed, and I thought he'd be spitting fury but he was pissing himself. Which he actually could have been because he was covered in it.
I remember dancing surrounded by strangers. I remember trying to finger a girl with my dirty festival fingers, while her friends slept all around us. She wouldn't let me. I remember the drinking and the drugs, I remember the heightened fear of the searches at the gates, and most of all I remember the love. from all around, you just feel this connection with your friends, your girl, that person you've just met, and from strangers. It's amazing.
I do love a festival, but it's not my life right now, this much I'm sure of as I get my the buzz from running across the Thames. This feeling that lifts my legs and changes my pace, when I come alive in London, instead of feeling like London is killing me.
2. Drugs
I have been doing drugs, in one way or another, for over 14 years now. I started, like everyone, by drinking. Alcohol is the worst drug I've ever taken, it causes more damage, more violence, and costs society more money and causes more deaths than any other drug I have come across. And on a personal level, while I've been pissed I've said and done the things I regret most in my life.
At about 15/16 I started smoking weed, long summers out of school were spent smoking weed, playing the megadrive, and endless hours playing football. But as I started drinking more I quickly realized that mixing the two resulted rapidly in me going green and vomiting. It's calmed down a lot since then but as my drinking became regular, in line with the new friends I'd made after I'd left school, booze and speed became my thing.
Then one day our dealer Steve said that he didn't have any speed, and would we be interested in a mix of coke and speed? We were in a rush and agreed, not really thinking about the fact that we were going to start taking cocaine. I was 17.
I'd always been aware of the use of drugs and its impact on music, and I had been working in HMV from the age of 15, so hearing all the jungle, house, and techno made me very alive to it, and I learned more about ecstasy and the rave culture that had just passed me by a few years before. I remember one of the first concerts I ever went to was the Prodigy, with a few people from work. About half way through my co-workers all started getting really 'huggy' and smiling a lot. I thought that they were just pleased that the Prodigy were about to come on stage, and I sort of wished that I could like a band THAT much. Then after the concert Dave and H drove me home, and as I sat happily in the back seat, I didn't really understand why H kept saying things like,
"you're going a bit left Dave, OK, slow down a bit Dave, there's a red light here Dave, stop now Dave" I just thought Dave was a little bit bad at driver. I look back now and clearly see that they were both smashed on pills, and were negotiating the roads as well as they could. Bless them.
So at about 18 I was annoyed that I'd bypassed the ecstasy culture and ended up on cocaine, without ever experiencing the drug that changed youth culture in the late 80s and defined the 90s.
So I went out specifically to find someone who still did E's and asked them to take me out. I found someone, and they agreed, and I took my first pill at the Emporium nightclub, Cardiff. It was called an 'elephant', I think it was because the thing was as thick as a elephants leg. Many people have tried to describe their first pill, and I'm not going to even attempt it now, but as I cross back over Tower Bridge, and look across to St Katherine's Dock, the recollection of my first pill draws a massive smile across my face, much to the bewilderment of an oncoming cyclist.
I lied.
It's the best feeling in the world, a rising sense of well being, coupled with the feeling that everything is OK in your world, and that your friends are the best friends you'll ever have, and that you're life is going to be so much more than the sums of its parts. The euphoria of feeling that good makes you so happy to be alive that you cannot imagine ever not feeling this way for the rest of your life. Incredible.
And it sort of never went away, through University and out of University drugs became the background to my social life. The white foundation to whatever paint of life I wanted to create with. It never took me over, I never got hooked, I was always aware and respectful of drugs and their uses. I'll admit that there were some bad times, nights where I took too much, drank too much, and too quickly. Nights where I possibly didn't really think about the effect it was having on others. But I never let it define me, and I always made sure that weekends were spent doing things away from the nightclubs and music, and for a couple of months at a time I wouldn't drink either, knowing full well that drinking is my trigger for wanton excess. Take away the booze and I wouldn't ever contemplate getting smashed.
In my early twenties I smoked heroin.
once.
and I'll never do it again, not because it wasn't great, it was. It was really great. I only did it because I believe that if you are to have an opinion on anything, you must have experience of it. If you don't know what you're talking about then you don't have the right to judge anyone about their choices in life. This doesn't really stretch to paedophilia, serial killing, and eating baked beans though, but for nearly everything else, if you choose to have an opinion, and a opinion that you want to push onto other people, then you need to know what you're talking about. I didn't just try it so I could say 'yeah, I've done it, you haven't' or because drugs are 'cool' I did it because it was a moment in time, and I can look back on that time and say,
'I made a choice, and now I have a fuller understanding of what happens to people when they fall into the hole of dependency and addiction, and why a drug can do that to a person, and I am glad that I have never fallen into that hole'
Thinking about these experiences as I run makes me feel like I'm having a bit of a panic attack, I guess the mixture of these memories, coupled with my raised heart rate from the running makes my brain think that I'm in a sweaty, nightclub, afterparty, scenario. When in fact I'm banging it down Whitechapel high street on my own.
My mind shifts to now and I think about the fact that that I've not enjoyed taking drugs for about 2 years, don't get me wrong, the chemicals still work, and the changes in my body still work when I take them but I just don't like the situation anymore. I don't like how I feel after or during if I'm honest, but in almost all social situations and with almost all the people I know, I have to take a drug. Normally it's just a beer, but from there it's the booze to coke, coke to pills, pills to ket and so it goes on. So I don't go on, but of course I do. I am not a hermit, and I'm going to stay in for the rest of my life, and red wine is far too good to never drink again, and a cold lager on a hot day is sublime, and the rush of a pill surrounded by your mates, with the best music on earth blaring around you is feeling that is hard to turn down, but it's not a coincidence that I want to stop taking drugs at the same time as I have signed up for 3 marathons and a ultra marathon. I just know that I need discipline to stay out of trouble, a project if you like, and right now, running is all the project I need.
AS I SAID AT THE BEGINNING NONE OF THIS EVER TOOK PLACE, I AM WHOLLY AGAINST ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITY. I JUST LIKE THE SENTIMENT BEHIND THE STORY.
Tuesday 19 July 2011
Monday 11 July 2011
birthdays, good calfs, pubes, and Tina Turner
I ran into a dead pigeon today.
That's not really true. I ran over a mutilated pigeon today. It was already mutilated when I stomped my trainer into its, erm, middle? It had been smashed by a very large vehicle and now lay, intestines aplenty, in a pile on Sandringham road.
'I wouldn't want to go like that' is the only thing I could think of, other than thinking about some other ways I wouldn't like to go,
1. Whilst pushing out a really unfulfilling pooh I have an aneurysm and drop forward and die, trousers round my ankles, arse in the air, then only to wait to be found. I'd be content if I left behind a momentous log, but to leave a little pile of cat like excrement and be found like that? Then I'd feel a massive let down.
I celebrated my birthday last week, 33 years old. I have mixed feelings about being 33. On one hand I'm hugely pleased to still be healthy and happy, but on the other I am now closer to 35 than 30, and this yet again stands as a cunning reminder that I am going to die.
Luckily I was able to spend the day with some of my oldest, newest, and best friends, giving me amble opportunity to forget all about my age and accidentally fall into another uncomfortable situation with a couple of homosexual men, 2 pissed women, and nervous housemate.
2. Burning to death like the protesting monk. I can't think of anything worth protesting about enough to set myself on fire. I have lots of beliefs, and I'd fight for a lot of them, but I wouldn't pour petrol over my bald head and robes and have at it with a clipper lighter.
Sunday lunch had turned into Sunday boozing, which then turned into 'let's have one more'. Myself, Elliot the housemate, Laura the Uni pal, and Sarah her pal were fairly worse for wear by around 10:30pm when it was agreed that we'd head into the Dalston Superstore for 'one. last. drink.' For those of you who've never heard of the Superstore, it is a mostly gay, straight friendly, bar/nightclub at the end of my street. It's wildly busy with painfully cool people every weekend but on Sundays it's a little quieter.
Their are 3 male couples and one female couple in the whole place when we fall through the door, but we find a booth and have a drink. The couple at the bar are kissing passionately, occasionally stopping to rub each others faces. It's a very sweet scene. The girls are cackling loudly so the boys at the bar look over and smile at the fun we're having, the smiles also hide glimmers of amusement that some straight, drunk people have bought themselves into this gay paradise.
Laura and I get up and go to the bar, as we vacate our seats the couple engage us in conversation and it becomes apparent very, very quickly that the tall one is drunk, and quite high. The tall one gets up and sits next to Elliot. I have my back to the scene but the next thing I see is Elliot bolting out of his seat and charging down the bar. The tall one turns to me and says,
"I think I've offended your friend"
"oh, what did you say to him?"
"I didn't really say anything, I just rubbed the bottom of his back a little, and maybe his arse. He is gay though isn't he?" asks Gavin (the tall one's name is Gavin)
"no, he's not gay"
"Are you gay?" Gavin has now moved from the booth and is now standing over me. He is very tall,
"No, I'm not gay, although with the amount of luck I'm having with the girls these days, I may as well be!"
This joke doesn't really get the laugh I was hoping for. Gavin is now eyeing me up and down, reminding me slightly of the dinosaur in 'Jurassic Park' that spits out all the poison into this guys face:
Gavin has noticed that I am wearing shorts,
"you've got very good calfs. Good calfs are very nice for a gay man you know?"
"I did not know that Gavin, thank you for your kind words"
"Are they ginger hairs on your calfs?"
"yes they are"
"and are you ginger up here?" Gavin lifts his tee shirt up to his chest, revealing his stomach,
"I am yes"
"show me then"
"I"m not showing you Gavin"
"Oh come on! I know you're not gay, the barman knows you're not gay"
"you're not gay?" says the barman,
"No, he's not gay, what! you think he looks gay?" Laura has decided to pipe up,
"a little bit gay, yeah. So you're not gay, but your friends is gay?"
"No. he's not gay, and I'm not gay. The girls aren't gay, and this one's married!" I point at Laura, who is now happily laughing into her vodka, and I'm starting to wish that I'd never gone for this last drink.
"show me your chest then"
Gavin is determined to get to the bottom of the ginger hair chest mystery, I pull up my shirt to just under my chest,
"there you go Gavin, ginger too"
"how about down here?" Gavin is now pulling his jeans down, letting his pubes get an airing,
"yes, I am ginger down there too"
"show me"
"I'm not showing you"
This goes on for a while and eventually Gavin's boyfriend ushers him away. Elliot has returned from the toilet looking a little bit like Jodie Foster did in 'The Accused'. We then all decide it's time to go home.
3. Being hammer attacked by the Yorkshire Ripper. Reason 87 on my '480 reasons why I thank my lucky stars I'm not a women' list.
My runs have started getting easier, and I think I know what has helped me turn the corner,
I don't stretch before I go running anymore.
My physio (I have 2 now, and a pilates instructor on standby) told me that the run should actually be the stretch, because if you stretch your muscle to their maximum as soon as you get out of bed, the muscle will be too 'cold' to cope with it, and you'll be more likely to seize the muscle up or tear it.
So now I walk around for a while, test the legs a little, then off I go. It's incredible how different it feels, and how much quicker and supple my legs feel as I run. I recommend anyone to give it a try.
As I'm running around other little memories of my birthday weekend ping into my head. One moment comes back to me time and again,
I bumped into a friend of a friend in a bar and he announces that he's having a baby! I am so happy for him, and I wonder if I am literally the only person out of all my friends, and friends of friends, who isn't having a baby this year. I shake his hand and give him a hug, and as we separate his smiles breaks a little, and he looks me in the eye and says,
"I'm not in love though Ga, I'm having a baby but I'm not in love"
His eyes fill with a sadness and I don't know quite what to say, we are not close enough friends for me to try to say anything profound or helpful, even though I know that I've got nothing I can say to him. The idea of being in that situation and not feeling a love for the person you're in the situation with? it freaks me out, and sort of makes me understand why I'm not going to be having a baby this year, or possibly the next. I think he senses this and the conversation comes to a close, and I think we start talking about something else.
As I run out of the park and onto Victoria Park road that sentence goes around and around my head, almost in time with my steps. I run all the way home and still can't get my head around it.
I think I might go for a drink at the Superstore this week, and maybe wear some shorts.
That's not really true. I ran over a mutilated pigeon today. It was already mutilated when I stomped my trainer into its, erm, middle? It had been smashed by a very large vehicle and now lay, intestines aplenty, in a pile on Sandringham road.
'I wouldn't want to go like that' is the only thing I could think of, other than thinking about some other ways I wouldn't like to go,
1. Whilst pushing out a really unfulfilling pooh I have an aneurysm and drop forward and die, trousers round my ankles, arse in the air, then only to wait to be found. I'd be content if I left behind a momentous log, but to leave a little pile of cat like excrement and be found like that? Then I'd feel a massive let down.
I celebrated my birthday last week, 33 years old. I have mixed feelings about being 33. On one hand I'm hugely pleased to still be healthy and happy, but on the other I am now closer to 35 than 30, and this yet again stands as a cunning reminder that I am going to die.
Luckily I was able to spend the day with some of my oldest, newest, and best friends, giving me amble opportunity to forget all about my age and accidentally fall into another uncomfortable situation with a couple of homosexual men, 2 pissed women, and nervous housemate.
2. Burning to death like the protesting monk. I can't think of anything worth protesting about enough to set myself on fire. I have lots of beliefs, and I'd fight for a lot of them, but I wouldn't pour petrol over my bald head and robes and have at it with a clipper lighter.
Sunday lunch had turned into Sunday boozing, which then turned into 'let's have one more'. Myself, Elliot the housemate, Laura the Uni pal, and Sarah her pal were fairly worse for wear by around 10:30pm when it was agreed that we'd head into the Dalston Superstore for 'one. last. drink.' For those of you who've never heard of the Superstore, it is a mostly gay, straight friendly, bar/nightclub at the end of my street. It's wildly busy with painfully cool people every weekend but on Sundays it's a little quieter.
Their are 3 male couples and one female couple in the whole place when we fall through the door, but we find a booth and have a drink. The couple at the bar are kissing passionately, occasionally stopping to rub each others faces. It's a very sweet scene. The girls are cackling loudly so the boys at the bar look over and smile at the fun we're having, the smiles also hide glimmers of amusement that some straight, drunk people have bought themselves into this gay paradise.
Laura and I get up and go to the bar, as we vacate our seats the couple engage us in conversation and it becomes apparent very, very quickly that the tall one is drunk, and quite high. The tall one gets up and sits next to Elliot. I have my back to the scene but the next thing I see is Elliot bolting out of his seat and charging down the bar. The tall one turns to me and says,
"I think I've offended your friend"
"oh, what did you say to him?"
"I didn't really say anything, I just rubbed the bottom of his back a little, and maybe his arse. He is gay though isn't he?" asks Gavin (the tall one's name is Gavin)
"no, he's not gay"
"Are you gay?" Gavin has now moved from the booth and is now standing over me. He is very tall,
"No, I'm not gay, although with the amount of luck I'm having with the girls these days, I may as well be!"
This joke doesn't really get the laugh I was hoping for. Gavin is now eyeing me up and down, reminding me slightly of the dinosaur in 'Jurassic Park' that spits out all the poison into this guys face:
Gavin has noticed that I am wearing shorts,
"you've got very good calfs. Good calfs are very nice for a gay man you know?"
"I did not know that Gavin, thank you for your kind words"
"Are they ginger hairs on your calfs?"
"yes they are"
"and are you ginger up here?" Gavin lifts his tee shirt up to his chest, revealing his stomach,
"I am yes"
"show me then"
"I"m not showing you Gavin"
"Oh come on! I know you're not gay, the barman knows you're not gay"
"you're not gay?" says the barman,
"No, he's not gay, what! you think he looks gay?" Laura has decided to pipe up,
"a little bit gay, yeah. So you're not gay, but your friends is gay?"
"No. he's not gay, and I'm not gay. The girls aren't gay, and this one's married!" I point at Laura, who is now happily laughing into her vodka, and I'm starting to wish that I'd never gone for this last drink.
"show me your chest then"
Gavin is determined to get to the bottom of the ginger hair chest mystery, I pull up my shirt to just under my chest,
"there you go Gavin, ginger too"
"how about down here?" Gavin is now pulling his jeans down, letting his pubes get an airing,
"yes, I am ginger down there too"
"show me"
"I'm not showing you"
This goes on for a while and eventually Gavin's boyfriend ushers him away. Elliot has returned from the toilet looking a little bit like Jodie Foster did in 'The Accused'. We then all decide it's time to go home.
3. Being hammer attacked by the Yorkshire Ripper. Reason 87 on my '480 reasons why I thank my lucky stars I'm not a women' list.
My runs have started getting easier, and I think I know what has helped me turn the corner,
I don't stretch before I go running anymore.
My physio (I have 2 now, and a pilates instructor on standby) told me that the run should actually be the stretch, because if you stretch your muscle to their maximum as soon as you get out of bed, the muscle will be too 'cold' to cope with it, and you'll be more likely to seize the muscle up or tear it.
So now I walk around for a while, test the legs a little, then off I go. It's incredible how different it feels, and how much quicker and supple my legs feel as I run. I recommend anyone to give it a try.
As I'm running around other little memories of my birthday weekend ping into my head. One moment comes back to me time and again,
I bumped into a friend of a friend in a bar and he announces that he's having a baby! I am so happy for him, and I wonder if I am literally the only person out of all my friends, and friends of friends, who isn't having a baby this year. I shake his hand and give him a hug, and as we separate his smiles breaks a little, and he looks me in the eye and says,
"I'm not in love though Ga, I'm having a baby but I'm not in love"
His eyes fill with a sadness and I don't know quite what to say, we are not close enough friends for me to try to say anything profound or helpful, even though I know that I've got nothing I can say to him. The idea of being in that situation and not feeling a love for the person you're in the situation with? it freaks me out, and sort of makes me understand why I'm not going to be having a baby this year, or possibly the next. I think he senses this and the conversation comes to a close, and I think we start talking about something else.
As I run out of the park and onto Victoria Park road that sentence goes around and around my head, almost in time with my steps. I run all the way home and still can't get my head around it.
I think I might go for a drink at the Superstore this week, and maybe wear some shorts.
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