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Far from being sensible, as always, I find myself reemerging into the slightly differently tinted light of a day, a week, a month, without the tendrils of hallucinogens tweaking my cerebellum. It is all because I have taken full participation of a little known and publically frowned upon season that occurs sometime around September. Each year the exact dates differ and I think they mostly depend on the weather and the toilet habbits of one's local bovine populace. I am talking, of course, of the Mushroom Season.

I recently met someone in one of my local public houses, this one being The Junction on Mutley Plain, who has dreads down to her backside and a face full of metal, leaning against a speaker and staring intently at the ceiling. I watched her for awhile noting how she occasionally rubbed her small pot-belly showing between her top and trousers, how she licked her lips and how she smiled as she watched what she saw above her head. I knew perfectly well it was only swirly patterns of paint but I could see that she was twisted, one way or another, and that she was seeing far beyond what was actually there. The band that night, a loose collective of eight who have the audacity to call themselves "Riffalicious", kept me entertained for a while but I couldn't keep my eyes off this tripping yogurt-weaver and on the way to the gents I tapped her on her shoulder and said hello.

Hey there. Is the sky about to fall on our heads?

My head is the sky. What? Er, what?

It's okay, I was just curious as to what you were seeing.

Oh. Well, the normal. You know.

Yeah, I think I probably do. Shine on.

On my way back to my table we smiled wickedly at each other and she carried on twirling about to the metal and staring at the ceiling.
Two days later and she came into the shop with a friend and we got talking. It transpires that her brother-in-law has a farm and one of his fields is annually home to gazillions of mushrooms. Liberty Caps. Smallish, lanky, soggy, weepy, chewy, emesia-inducing shrooms of mush that when imbibed allow the imbiber a temporary release from the constricitons of mental normality. Yes, you trip the fuck out.

So that's what I've been doing for the past month and a half. Not everyday because then you build up a tolerance to the little bastards, but several times a week. Some people boil them into a tea, or eat them between bread because they can make you vomit violently if you're stomach is not hardened to such things. My personal method of self-application is cherry yoghurt. The yoghurt covers most of the taste and the bits of cherry flesh mix up with the stalks and heads of the shrooms and you can gobble down fifty caps in seconds.

The trip on fresh mushrooms, straight from the field, is quite calm really. Even if you take upwards of 200, depending on your mental constitution and experience, things never really get out of hand, like they can do on strong acid or deep in a plummeting K-hole. I've been munching about fifty a time to facilitate a nice and easy mellowing of perception into an amalgam of free thoughts that make a change from the normal ones. I have also been watching the entire A-Team series back to back whilst tripping, TV I have not seen since I was about ten and the funny thing is that I have started eating Sandwich Spread again. By the bucketful. I can't get enough of the stuff. I remember when I was about eight or ten, I used to eat Sandwich Spread on toast in front of the A-Team. Talk about a flashback.

Then the season comes to a close, because the weather becomes too harsh for the spores to spread, and you are left with those mushrooms which you haven't gobbled and are now drying or dried out. Now, I haven't done mushrooms seriously for about a decade and it appears that I must have forgotten some bits of useful information about the whole practice in the intervening years. For example, well, no, the only example of this is that I forgot that dried shrroms are about three times as potent as fresh ones. Admittedly, I only forgot this for about the fourty minutes it took me to come up on the first handful of dried shrooms that I took, but I was certainly reminded in no uncertain terms. The expression you are looking for is ,"Tripping my bollocks off!" I used it many times that night, normally in conversations with the mirror or the cardboard cut-outs of Uma and Will Ferrell floating about my flat.

Anyway, all that has come to a close now and it is almost as much of a trip to return to normal, everyday perception. Apparently Chev has dried some shroms and will distribute at Christmas time.




Another of my best friends tied the knot recently. It was another great wedding and as Charlotte was repeatedly heard to exclaim, "This is really FUN!" And so it was and so it should be. Here's some of the pictures that tell the day's story from my point of view. I can't be arsed to write anymore. For God's sake, I haven't written anything in months and you want more?! Well, I've got news for you - this is it buster. Deal with it. And send those you-know-whats. Please. Merci. De nada.

As soon as I work out how to effing do it.

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