Tuesday, 19 November 2013


Hello, thanks for passing by.  You may already know, the first 22 posts of this blog are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can buy as a kindle on amazon, if you do that kind of thing.  I appreciate all readers and reviewers...there are three good ones so far, but all reviews are gratefully received.  Also, here is a song I just wrote about the seductive nature of pleasure...it would be great if you'd have a listen. 
Here is the youtube link to my song  ...  Revenge Of The Sirens
So, begging over, here is today's post...
Today I saw a ghost.  Although the soul apparently can't die, the dim gleam in these eyes looked as close to death as I've seen.  The body was hobbling on, the mouth justifying its continuing existence, even though the State apparently wasn't, having cut the ready supply of money the body had got used to.
The figure (we'll call him Rob...because that's his name), was hobbling shapelessly down Goldhawk Road, where I live in London.  I'd met him in rehab five years ago...he turned up for about three weeks in the middle of my time, until it was decided he had too many mental-health issues for a non-psychiatric facility to cope with...so he packed his rucksack and went round the corner to Psycho Lodge.  It was kind of clear he had some 'extra' issues, as he'd agree with everything I said, regardless as to whether it was right, funny, or even half-interesting.  He agreed habitually, which can't have done him much good in the ragbag world of addiction.  And this is why I was half-surprised to see him...somehow he'd managed to stay alive, even though everyone and everything around him seemed to be banking on him dying quite soon.

But there he was, Rob, haggard in drop-in denims, saluting me with a face more malnourished than the £2 a month crew you get on afternoon TV.  I said hello, as if pleased to see him, which I half was, or maybe wholly was if you put the two halves together, for they were the half that was polite and social, and the acrid demon, curdling inside, that fancied scoring, which would have been so, so easy.  I could tell he was sniffing around this particular dog's arse, with his too-easy cordiality, and stationary way of holding you in place, even though you were in motion just moments ago.
  'Hi Rob,' I said, mock-cheerfully.
  'How you doing?' he asked, effusive and impatient to get to the meat.  'I saw you by the market the other day...I called, but you disappeared behind some railings.'  I waited.  'Where were you off to then?  Up to no good, were you?'
  I tried to ignore the drug-allusion.  'I think I was just going to buy some pyjamas,' I said, lying, but I thought the quiet absurdity of the situation deserved a dash of Dada, in the form of a false pyjama-purchase.
  And it did nonplus him slightly.  'Oh right,' he said, seeming to wonder what to say next.  But he came good.  'I'm living round the corner now, with Sonia?'  The woman-lure had been planted.
  'Oh right,' I replied, feeling a wave of enticement in my lower-gut.
  'Pop round if you want...'  And then he threw in the killer.  'I'm just waiting to see X-Man,' (a dealer, real name Gavin), 'I can call him if you want to chip in...?'  I felt like a chess-piece, two moves from mate.
  Perhaps cos of recent boredom, loneliness, anxiety, anger, boredom again, general pent-upness, frustration that I'm not as successful as David Bowie, I almost succumbed to this honey-trap...it was Manuka.

Ah, the honey of sweet, sweet crack being drawn into my submissive, hoping lungs...and a woman (he never said she was his girlfriend)...and ah, woman, living emblem of all lost pleasures, current lusts, libido-drenched pleasure-facilitator for the damaged man, whose life's gone off the tracks he stared down in youth, when life was mostly ahead of him.
  'I've been good for a while now,' I thought, 'maybe I can manage it now, and X-Man is usually prompt, perhaps a day out of life is just what I want, need, deserve...'

And that is all I have to say today.

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