by Daniel Stone
I was then on the carpet being manhandled into the recovery position. I could hear my sister saying I had pissed everywhere.
I came round in hospital mid conversation. I was chatting with the doctor who was examining my swollen limp wrist like a scene out of a pet program where an otter has got its paw trapped in a coke can or something and the vet is talking to the wounded animal like it understands English.
‘And if I do that does it hurt?’ said the doctor.
‘Err, yes, please don’t do it again. Why am I sitting here wearing my long, grey winter coat, boxer shorts and big old clumpy boots? I’d never go clubbing in this outfit.’ Either it had been a really good night and I was seriously off my pickle or something was awry.
‘I’ve got to go, Doc, I’m going to be late. I’ve organised everything. Thanks for your help, see you later.’
I got up and ran out of the hospital. I was sure I was dreaming or tripping. My head was banging and the lump on my forehead was testament to it. My arm was in a sling and bandaged up. I really was only wearing boxers and my long grey winter coat and was supposed to be going clubbing! ‘What the fuck is going on? Where am I and where is everyone? Am I sleepwalking? Is this a nightmare?’ I was chatting to myself, hoping to find some answers.
I needed a cab and fast and saw one straight away as I left the hospital. I ran towards it waving like an escaped mentalist. I had no idea where I was. Carol called out from behind me and ran up, joining me as I clambered into the cab.
I didn’t say a word as she explained that the others had kicked the doors in on the flat, they’d struggled to put me into the recovery position, they’d called an ambulance and they’d then sent me to hospital. Some of the group, including my sister Sam, had stayed at the flat. They’d called an emergency locksmith, but unfortunately a whole new door would be needed. I’d pissed myself, attacked the ambulance staff and told them I’d been doing heroin. I’d puked on someone’s back and generally been a complete nightmare.
I wasn’t going to be going clubbing, I’d missed the start of the New Year and no one would be celebrating. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks as utter dejection ran riot. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.
When I got home some of the guys and girls had returned from clubbing and joined up with the ones who hadn’t bothered going out at all. Everyone was in a mood with me. James told me I’d ruined everyone’s night and they wanted me to know. I thought I could hold my hands up and take responsibility for getting pissed, that was true, but couldn’t help feeling someone else could have organised the tickets and someone else should have had their keys and someone else taller could have reached the roof and everyone could have got a wriggle on and left the flat when I was ready. I had paid literally for everything.
38 – I’ve done
As I put on my black tie, looking at my reflection in the mirror, I recognise the man in front of me but he looks different, naked although dressed. Another tear rolls down my cheek although the feeling of pain doesn’t exist. I just feel alone.
I’ve done the London marathon, I’ve ridden from London to Brighton, I’ve walked on glaciers in Iceland and volcanoes in Hawaii, I’ve ice-canoed down rapids, I’ve climbed mountains, I’ve done mushrooms in Bali and Thailand, I’ve won handwriting competitions and beanbag races at school, I’ve graduated from college, I’ve loved and lost and loved again more than once, I’ve been sacked, I’ve broken a world record, I’ve been on television, radio and in the newspapers, I’ve swam with turtles and barracudas, I’ve walked with sharks swimming around my ankles, I’ve shot guns, I’ve driven in fast cars, I’ve been high, I’ve been low, I’ve been to West Ham vs Millwall several times, I’ve seen leopards in the wild, I’ve seen dolphins, I’ve flown in a helicopter and small propeller planes and small and big jets, I’ve seen the Queen and Nelson Mandela, I’ve seen Madonna, INXS and Oasis perform at the old Wembley and I’ve seen shit at the new one, I’ve been in a band, I’ve been skiing but preferred snowboarding, I’ve played the clarinet and bongos and had a drum kit, I’ve had sex on a train, I’ve beaten all my friends at darts and pool.
And none of it matters.
39 – Bob Marley
I was in Bali for two reasons: the first was to check on the mental state of my sister who was midway through travelling the world and causing the family some understandable concern; and the second reason was to propose to Carol in what had become a kill or cure solution I’d deemed totally unavoidable and unfortunately necessary. I had travelled with a ring; I’d decided to wait for a starry night, buy a bottle of champagne and do the deed, no doubt ruining my life in the process.
In addition to my girlfriend Carol, our travel party included my other sister Claire, my sister’s gay boyfriend Paul and his newly acquired Balinese travel companion Cody. That made three girls, two gayers and me.
Clubbing was fun when we eventually got there, but getting anywhere took forever because we’d need to do a fashion show each night before going out. I even found myself making an effort and being bothered if no one commented on my outfits. We spent most days on the beach or exploring islands. Sometimes we’d go our own way just to meet up in the evening and then go and get drunk and have a disco.
As we sat around in the cafe having met up to discuss the evening plans we ordered a round of special ‘Bong Lasses’, or Mushroom Shakes as they’re better known. We had all eaten and felt it would be a fun way to spend the evening. Nothing ventured nothing gained was the general consensus. Everyone felt fine sitting in the cafe: the cooling sea breeze, ambient music in the background, other people’s voices laughing and happy; no problems at all.
‘Who wants to have a paddle?’ Paul said, looking longingly at the sea.
The girls all loved the idea so we paid the bill and left the cafe, headed over the dusty road and meandered down the empty idyllic beach to some abandoned plastic chairs stranded on the sand. Carol was looking very pale; we walked her to the chairs with calm words of concern and sat her down. Her eyes closed and she seemed to lose consciousness. We fanned her with our hands and asked if she’d like some water. No reply.
‘Come on, Carol, wake up.’ We were all getting a little nervous. The term ‘throwing a whitey’ couldn’t have been more appropriate. Massaging hands and chit-chatting worriedly overcame the group; this was a massive downer just when everyone was beginning to feel funky.
‘Perhaps we should find some help?’ my sister Claire suggested.
‘What can we say?’ I shot back. ‘Oh, we’ve all just taken mushrooms!’
I was acutely aware we were shortly going to become a bunch of gibbering idiots and I wasn’t sure how well that would go down with the local authorities. And besides, I was sure she would be fine; everyone was just panicking. Two girls and two gays had that effect; it was time for me to take control. I was the alpha male, at least I hoped I was.
‘Listen to me, Carol; wake up now otherwise I’m going to pour this cold bottle of water over your head!’
Her body shuddered! A reaction. Her eyelids flickered.
‘Come on, Carol, wake up, please,’ I urged, believing my harsh tactics were working but needing immediate results otherwise the pink army would take control and God knows where that would lead. At one point on my sister Sam’s travels she had ended up measuring Paul’s head with a tape measure so paranoid had he become that his brain was expanding.
‘Can you hear me? I’ve got the water and I’m going to pour it on your head now. Three, two…’
On the count of one she convulsed from her feet up to her head like a body popping caterpillar. Everyone gave her space. Her eyes opened with a fixed stare straight ahead, her feet shot up and down and her waist followed and finally her back and shoulders flung her head forward like she’d been sitting in an invisible bumper car. Then she shot projectile vomit out into the sand.
We stood around watching her, momentarily flabbergasted. I was sure I’d seen her shake a devil from her body. A
s the girls rubbed her back, wiping tears from her eyes, a visibly shaken Paul, leader of the pink army, exclaimed, ‘Millions and millions of cockroaches!’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Paul?’ I asked.
‘Millions of cockroaches just poured out of her mouth!’
Bloody hell! I thought she’d expelled a demon and Paul had seen cockroaches pour out of her mouth. Perhaps a marriage proposal was a bad idea for other reasons too.
I couldn’t stand it any longer on the beach; everyone was nattering nonsense.
‘Who wants a drink?’
Everyone looked at me like I’d gone stark raving mental. Perhaps all they saw and heard was me barking and looking like a little purple fluffy dog; it was entirely possible.
‘Listen, I’m going to get a JD and a bottle of water. Does anyone want anything?’ Nobody wanted to leave the beach or the familiarity of the shared nonsense. I was partly relieved, and also hoped they would all stick together and stay where they were rather than wandering off chatting gobbledegook.
I set off for the bar. The sand felt about two feet deep and every footstep was a massive effort. I was worried if I stopped I might sink out of sight. I crossed a bouncy castle sandy road as quickly as possible, looking around me in case any vehicles or bikes or even people were coming, and made my way up to the biggest wooden staircase I’d ever seen. It was like whole oak trees or perhaps sycamore had been chopped down and placed on top of each other to make the giant wooden steps. When I got to the top I was knackered and didn’t want to turn around for fear that I’d be above the clouds. I’d risked a quick glimpse on the way up but everything was fucked: I’d seen two red suns and a light beam shooting straight for me. I blinked a few times and made my way towards the dark club. A gorilla and the Grim Reaper were standing by the door but I didn’t want to chat.
As I entered I could hear banging house music and cheers and shouting coming from the back. I headed straight for the bright light of the bar and ordered two JD and cokes and a bottle of water from a girl who looked like a baby and then about four years old. I looked away before she changed again. ‘Thank you,’ I said without knowing if I’d actually paid and if I had whether I was waiting for any change. I thought it would be a good idea to dunk my head in the sink in the loos to see if it might freshen me up a little. Perhaps I might even squeeze out a wee. I was enjoying my little adventure and was happy with the way I was holding it together. I made my way to the toilet with the bottle of water in my trouser pocket, weaving through a melee of people, concentrating on not spilling the JDs. I couldn’t help noticing the crescendo in the cheering.
I stumbled on regardless; the toilet was in the corner of the darkened room, highlighted by a luminous picture of a little boy pissing like a fountain. I bundled past men in Irish rugby tops and pirouetted past flip flops, smelt suntan lotion and heard Balinese, Australian and British accents all laughing and shouting in a cacophony of voices. I noticed the dartboard on my way to the toilet; it looked like it had one dart protruding and then became a kaleidoscope and then a spinning roulette table and then a dartboard again only now there were two darts sticking out of it. I heard more shouting and made my way into the toilet.
When inside I wanted to splash my face with water but I’d need to be careful and refuse to look at myself in the broken mirror. If the water looked green it was sure to be battery acid and no doubt its effect would warp my face. I pottered around for a while like an old man searching for somewhere to put my drinks whilst I went for a wee. There was no space anywhere so I put them in the sink. I was a little worried I’d been in the toilet for hours and not sure where or whether I’d actually been for a piss already so I left the toilet and heading back towards the cheering.
My eyes couldn’t cope with the change from the bright light of the bathroom to the darkness of the club and I was tempted to go back to the light of the loo whilst my head adjusted to the slight headache and strain from trying to focus my eyes in the dark. As I bumbled towards the exit some burly bloke who looked like Fred Flintstone stopped me and shouted over the music.
‘Mate, you dammed loon, you know you walked through the middle of a darts game, right?’
I didn’t say a word.
‘You oughta be more careful, cobber!’
I couldn’t fathom what he was talking about or what on earth he meant so I told him not to worry.
‘I’m sure it will all work out fine in the end,’ I reassured him. I figured he must be disillusioned or something; I understood his pain.
I made it out of the club and found the others on the beach. The fire in the sky had gone. Sam had gone to the loo in the bar but everyone else seemed to be keeping it and themselves relatively together. Even Carol had colour back in her cheeks, whilst the gays were happy still chatting shit. Claire took some JD from me and said she ought to check on Sam, who’d been gone almost as long as me.
When they returned Sam was looking really awkward and wanted to head home. We set off in triangle formation, me at the front, two girls behind and Sam and the two gays bringing up the rear. As I turned round to check I noticed Sam looking uncomfortable more than once, she kept pulling her knickers out of her bum and was walking funny. I was getting worried something bad had happened in the loo. Thankfully after a brief chat she revealed she had had a problem staying on the toilet seat. Sitting on the floor, or rather sliding around on a floor, in the nicest of bogs is a pretty grim thought, but in a club in a seedy Balinese crapper! Absolutely gross! She said she had spent ages trying to clean herself up. I remembered then promising I’d check up on her well-being. ‘Yeah, Mum, she’s coping really well, but not being able to sit on a toilet seat without falling off might be a bit of a problem.’
We all felt it would be a good idea to return to the rooms to freshen up and ride out the storm for a while, at least until we felt capable of normal behaviour in any bars and clubs. I felt it was quite possible we could all completely lose it on the beach under the gaze of the tourist-filled cafes, watching the sunset over the Indonesian sea.
We walked on in our silent triangle formation; at least I was silent, but my brain was playing tricks already and I was intent on keeping it real for as long as necessary. I wouldn’t propose tonight but at least I could put on a nice outfit.
40 – Ruby
Sitting in the local curry house, I was convinced they had forgotten my order. I downed my complementary cocktail and ordered a Singa beer to wash it away. I also asked for a pen and paper so I could start writing a list.
Car – buy off eBay
Folding bike – get from one of the lads
Satchels and bags for bike – cycle factory
Plastic disposable bags – Robert Dyas, B&Q, Wickes
Family-size disposable BBQs – Poores or Budgens
Branch Cutter – B&Q, Wickes or Garden Warehouse
Wet wipes, cleaning products and rags – cash and carry
Taser – Millwall Mike
Good quality waterproof, lightweight black coat – Timberland or fishing shop
Large portfolio – The Art Shop
Stanley knife – B&Q
Fishing tackle and maggots.
Drugs.
41 – Tattoo
I felt like I had lost everything. I’d certainly lost Carol, my job and my house. It was only a matter of time before my marbles followed. I knew I could get back on my feet, I knew the pain of breaking up with someone, especially when it was that messy, was going to be a long and painful process, but given time I would mend.
Things had come to a head after I checked her phone messages. I knew it was snooping but I was sure something was going on. She had obviously been with someone else and I felt sick, angry, hurt and dirty. I threw the phone at her, leaving a hole in the bathroom door, and then she was gone.
Work was a pain. It was a new job, but trying to come to terms with a messy break to a long-term relationship and starting a southern sales office for a company bas
ed in Newcastle just wasn’t happening. Really all they wanted from me was my database. I felt used by my ex, and was being used by my new employers. Within a month of moving into a new house I was also looking for a new job and had split up with my fiancée.
We had moved into the flat in Archway about two weeks before we split up. We had signed a rolling six month contract. So I was stuck in a flat not particular near any friends, out of work and clean out of love, and with no way of knowing how I was going to pay the rent.
I was twisted with anger and jealousy. I could have ripped myself into tiny chunks. I would have cried had I not been so angry. What way do you turn when you feel utterly humiliated in everything you’ve done? I felt like I should have screamed but I would have messed that up as well.
I woke up from a particularly heavy JD session. I hadn’t changed. She’d said ‘You’ve changed’, but how had I changed? I hadn’t, that was the problem. She had tried to change me and it hadn’t happened. I wasn’t going to change.
So I understood, I was right, I couldn’t ever forget. I mustn’t ever let myself be put in that position again. I had to find away to protect myself in the future. As my mate Mick used to say, ‘You have to stand up for what you once stood for.’ What did I stand for? Absolutely nothing! But that didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t forget who I was and the fact that she had tried to change whoever I was. I had to act now. There was only one thing for it: I’d get a tattoo, that way I’d never forget, that way I’d be constantly reminded of who I really was and what I stood for. I’d get my own name tattooed on my arm.
I had signed or tagged my way through school, art college and several jobs in various permanent structures in and around Essex and London. My tag was well rehearsed, so after a couple more JDs I set off with my hand-drawn artwork, my signature, and headed for Aladdin’s Cave on Holloway Road.
