7 Mar 2005

Driving at speed with the desire to get home to the beachside bungalow at 10 pm with ice on the roads and two bald front tires left indentations on the steering wheel from my clenched fists. Life and limb are risked as a result of the apathy that flows throughout the system that governs certain aspects of decision making. Do I take two hours tomorrow to secure the safety of my vehicle or do I take the two pills tonight, that some kind soul left on the top of the TV after the last party, and sleep all day tomorrow? Well, let me see about that. Let's weigh the options, balance the benefits, adjust the scales slightly, realise there is only one sensible course of action and then ignore it blatantly and leave for the pub safe in the knowledge that when I stumble home hours from now I shall neck the two brown tablets without further thought.

Which I did and now here I am. Sat on the sofa with Jack in front of the TV. Jack had a few beers at the pub too and now we are drinking a fine pinot noir. When I say drink, I mean gulp. The thirst has been ignited and the fires are being doused healthily. I can feel the tingle at the base of my spine and in my lungs and throughout my ribcage. Craziness is coming. I stand up suddenly and storm to the kitchen. Jack calls after me:


"I need my port. The wine just isn't doing it. Do you want anything?"


Jack catches the chunk I throw to him as I wander back in. I collapse down onto the sofa and the sudden change of altitude makes me draw a deep breath in surprise as small fireworks explode pleasurably in my frontal lobes.

"Bruce, did you take both of them?"


"How are you feeling?"

"Considerable, man, considerable."

I am blowing great big lungfuls of air out into the room and sucking back down cigarette smoke. I am smoking them too quickly for me to roll them. I can tell the MDMA is kicking in because my jaw starts chewing on nothing and I'm running my hands through my hair, rubbing the back of my neck and thinking thoughts in a great big rush, all things giving me excessive amounts of pleasure.

"Jack man, I'm coming up man, these fuckers are fucking brilliant I think, I'm buzzing already and I only dropped 'em twenty minutes ago and I'm already pissed as a fart and drinking like fuck and fucking didyouseethat?!"

We're watching Jackass and someone has just done something horrendous and funny because now I'm laughing like a hyena and poking Jack trying to make him laugh and he does because now I'm bouncing on the cushions and speaking in tongues.

"Pills, man, pills! I hate them! All the falsity! 'Yeah, best mates, mate!' Fucking bollocks, give me speed anyday. Pure poison that, you know what you're fucking with; makes you dance like a bastard and you don't have to talk bollocks all night to fuckheads who are all pilling as well. Fucking, I'm buzzing mate! Have it!"

Jack is smiling at me the smile of someone who is not tripping out. He watches me as I make a drugged spectacle of myself, arms flapping about, tongue wagging at ninety miles per hour pushing out all sorts of nonsense, all tinged with the happiness of one who has successfully chemically induced euphoria.

"I am buzzing mate! Fucking brilliant. These are good pills man!"

"Yeah, well I'm off to bed."

"You fucking what?"

"Bed Bruce, I'm going to bed. I'm pissed and I have to get up tomorrow."

"Faaaaaaack thaaaat maaaaan! Party!"

"You're doing alright on your own. Have a good one. G'night."

"G'night ya bastard! Fucking have it!" as I throw a cushion at his head. I'm sure that lamp was from Ikea. Fuck it, I'll replace it next week.

This is what is known as having a domestic. No, not a fight with a housemate but dropping a couple of pills with no intention of going out to some dark and sweaty dance pit to multiply the effects of the drugs and send you spinning madly. Rather, stay in, watch some films, drink lots of booze with no fear of dehydrating, smoke cigarettes, make phone calls to mates at 1.30 in the morning telling them that, "Jase, I fucking love you man! You're my best mate and it's not just the pills speaking. I mean it!"

"....... Well Bruce, it's five past two now. You woke me up at 1.30.."

"I know man, I know, and I'm really, really sorry man but like, you know what it's like, I just had to call man and after you didn't pick the phone up after the sixth time I rang I knew that if I just called one more time you'd pick it up and you did! Sweet man, fucking sweet!"

"Yeah Bruce. What? Oh. Erm, Tammy wants a word..."


"Tammy! Fucking brilliant! How you doing? Are you well? How's things? Whatch'a upto?"

"I'm trying to sleep at the moment."

"Oh right, yeah, cool. That's cool girl. I guess you want me to stop rambling on the phone and hang up?"

"That would be lovely Bruce. Would you?"

"Of course Tammy, no worries babe, anything for you. You know that!"



"Well, goodnight then."

"Tammy, just quickly, whack Jase back on."

".....(rustle, whispering, rustle)....What?"

"Jasey mate! Wahey! I fucking love you man!"

Anyway, that was about three hours ago. I've been writing maniacally in my book since then. It was unstoppable. It is guaranteed to be complete junk but I've had a lot of fun doing it. I'm starting to come down now. The only thing about a domestic is that they don't last as long as a night out clubbing. You don't pump up your body so much so that the juices of ecstasy are made to flow for longer. I think I'm just going to have a last cigarette and crash. These pills were pretty clean and I'm still drinking so I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping. Especially not if I go and have that four hour wank I've been promising myself.

Three hours later and sunlight is lurking behind the drawn curtains, waiting to shimmy through and illuminate the scene of the wreckage. Bruce is asleep in his executive leather chair in front of the computer which has some hot bird undressing on the screen, set on loop. Earphones on ears and boxer shorts around ankles, toilet paper stuck to hand and cigarette burning a whole in the mouse mat. This was a proper domestic.

2 Mar 2005

I have a few proper nouns to list. Firstly try these on for size: Elvis, Jim, Jimmy. Now try these: Mick, George, Lou. Everyone is expendable. Everyone knows the first three but struggle for the latter trio. Why? Well, because whilst the expendability is never in doubt, the lasting impression is. I have nothing more to say on the subject, it is obvious and I have better things to do.

So, the Hunter is finally dead. His terrible and awful presence upon this sorry globe has come to an end at last, preceded by the curt cock of hammer and oily squeeze of trigger. I bet he used his magnum .44, with the extended barrel and optional optical sights. He probably would have taken the sights off as even an old and decrepit, foul-minded, drug-using spent invalid would have trouble missing a big ol' bald dome such as his from arm's length. He is gone now, spirit fled from Woody Creek, Colorado, away from his preening peacocks and bike and car and arsenal and information centre. Thank god he killed himself, rather than sink into the mired ignomy of older age and loss of faculties. It could be argued he should have done it sooner. He talked of ridding himself from this earth, to make way for the franchise that would follow and it is a good thing he has done. His suicide is life-affirming. He knew the deal, knew his gig was up and he knew when to move the fuck along. My best wishes to Juan. Let Hunter and Oscar tear the heavens from their brackets.

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." Hunter S. Thompson.

Adios Stockton, you Brilliant Nutbag. Posted by Hello

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?