Tainted - A Millennial Waster

Tainted – A Millennial Waster

1.A Million Candles

By the time this story was at its end, I was in love with my girlfriend’s best friend and her best friend's brother. I have always been open about being bisexual and this lust for both sent me into an uncontrolled spiral of delusion.

For those who read this story to the end, please take note that the 8th of September 2013 is very important. But we'll get to that. I wish I could have told this story as it unfolded; unfortunately, things were complicated and it's only now that I can share this. Also, I am not the good guy in this story.

It was 2004 – I had not long left secondary school and was of the foolish belief that I had it all figured out; how arrogant we all were at that age. It was at this time our group began smoking Mother Nature’s natural herb. Damn, I still do that today. Our group consisted of five of us, with me included; the others were Robbo, Darren, Lee and Alan. Like most do when smoking this recreational drug, our group quickly became tight and became known as the stoners of the town – The Stoner Crew. Every other day we would meet up at Robbo's house and smoke everything we had. On weekends we tried being diverse and enjoyed weed in many different ways: baking space cakes, building bongs, lunges, bath bongs and even hot boxing. If you're unaware what a hot box is, it's where you fill up a small area and you smoke until it's unbearable. It's also funny when you exit because the smoke pours out like on Stars in Their Eyes; tonight, Matthew, I will be completely wasted. A little tip for you: if you're going to make space cakes, never use Dairy Milk chocolate; it really doesn't mix well and will make you very ill.

Now this little faction we created had been going for a little over a year and our group had actually increased in number. Two more, Oliver and Bryan, had joined us. These two were actually part of a different group, but saw that we picked up weed more frequently, so decided to join us. This was never mentioned as being the reason behind their decision, but we all knew the truth.

Okay, so it was the summer of 2005 and a member of our group made a suggestion; it was something that'd been on everyone's minds. You see, the thing with a group of friends like ours, like many who smoke weed, is they will eventually adventure further down the list of narcotics. And, embracing the idea, Darren brought forward the idea of taking lady ecstasy. Ecstasy, from my point of view, has two functions: to give you the urge to dance all night and to make you exceptionally horny. The first time I took ecstasy was two weeks after Darren suggested it, at a pub venue just down the road. It was someone's birthday party. I don't remember much about that night, except splitting a pill with a mate, and within an hour I was off my tits. The next thing I remember was being jumped in the pub car park by my mate. He was off his head, telling me how amazing he felt from the half pill we shared earlier. We began to blow raspberries, which indicated we were feeling very chipper.

After that night, it was the beginning of our honeymoon period; a time where, over the course of a few months, we would meet up every weekend just to get absolutely wrecked. We'd try all sorts of pills: supermans, clovers, smileys, boomerangs…the list goes on. Some of us would push the limits on how long we could stay awake; we wouldn't go home all weekend sometimes, from Friday to Sunday. As it stands, my record is 36 hours, and that's after 12 pills. I remember one time in the midst of a hot summer, Lee had taken a week off work and in one day consumed 32 pills. He spent most the time in a supermarket trying to figure out why Heinz beans were more popular compared to other brands. In fact, I vividly recall bumping into Lee after an 8-hour shift; he had his t-shirt wrapped round his head like a turban and was guzzling water from a 2-litre bottle. I didn't see him for a whole week after that.

It was just another average weekend with us getting totally twisted at Robbo's place. The whole gang was there, and were dropping left, right and centre. Tonight was going to be a heavy one. We had all done our 9–5 jobs and were ready to let loose; tonight was going to be a change in perception, a path that would completely change things… forever. Earlier that night, just before the popping frenzy, Lee turned up with an amazing find, a lamp with the power of a million candles. Probably a purchase he made whilst off his nut on the 32-pill marathon he did. Needless to say, it was impressive and no doubt could be used for a Bat-Signal. 

It was close to midnight, and the obvious signs of having taken happy pills were displayed: the clammy hands, dilated eyes and the all-expressive “I love everyone and everything”. And at that moment the front door casually swung open and Robbo's younger brother Aaron stepped through. Aaron is openly homosexual, but, back then, at this house party, it was a very confused and timid Aaron, who hadn't yet discovered it was the 21st century. Everyone apart from me went to the same secondary school as Aaron, so they knew him a lot better than I. He was by far the campest man I had met, but a lovely bloke all the same. 

Aaron decided to chill with us for a little while and it was at this time that people pushed the big question upon him. Bear in mind that, at this point, we were all as high as could be, and were willing to be open about anything. So, with us all crowded round Aaron, Lee popped the big question, “Tell us truthfully, are you gay?” I don't want to say that things felt awkward, but I could tell for sure that Aaron was feeling a little pressured by what was asked. 

After a moment of silence, we all, one after another, said “It's okay if you are, we won't judge.”

And, with a big sigh, Aaron responded, “Yes, yes I am.” 

Cheers roared across the room as everyone congratulated him, telling him how proud we were that he had finally come out. I personally think that it left Aaron feeling happy about what we did. Some might see it as us pulling at something that has nothing to do with us, but, honestly, he didn't care any more about what people thought; he was happy and accepting of the outcome that took place.

Dawn was not far from breaking and the party had thinned out. A few had work in the morning and shut-eye was needed before the day officially started; there's nothing worse than doing a Saturday shift when you're hanging on to a killer come-down. Luckily for me, I didn't work weekends. So, I grabbed another pill just to keep this party going to at least 9:00 in the morning. Alan had just rolled a massive spliff and then sparked it up. In the laws of smoking weed there are golden rules to abide by when rolling a fatty boom batty: one, provider and, two, rollers rights. As the provider, you can put in tobacco, papers or the weed. Usually, there's more than one person providing. But if you're the one rolling, then you are instantly granted roller's rights.

Lee had been going on and on about how he wanted to test out his lamp. Darren, Alan and Robbo were engaged in smoking the herb and playing video games, so, with a sigh, I agreed to test it with him. Across the road from Robbo's house were the Sandiacre woods: the perfect place to try out the lamp. Lee and I walked about a quarter of the way into the woods, when Lee brought up Robbo's brother and went on to tell me about how great he thought it was that Aaron no longer has to hide in the shadows about his sexuality. At that time I was coming up pretty hard, and agreed with every word he said. Then, out of nowhere Lee said, “Do you ever, you know, think about that stuff?” I knew instantly what he was talking about, but I had never really given it a second thought, until then. To this day I don't really know why I said what I said. 

“You know what, sometimes I do. Do you?” I replied.

“Yeah, all the time”, he said, “I think it's called, being bi-curious.” For a moment I thought about what he said. I could sense Lee might have felt he had said something that's considered to be a taboo, but, honestly, I think deep down everyone's a little bit bi-curious; it's just whether you want to take it to the next level. And that night did change things for me in every way. Those eight words that were said were only a tiny ripple in the sea compared to the choice I was about to make. Lee looked at me and said, “Do you want to give it a try?”

I looked straight back at him and replied, “That spot by the tree will work.” 

We lay down by the tree, side by side, and began to touch each other softly and contentedly. I had never touched a man like that before; I don't know if it was because I was coming up like a demon being summoned from hell, but it was exciting and nerve-wracking all at the same time. He unzipped himself, grabbed the back of my head and turned slightly. I went head level with his member, and held it. I took a moment, knowing this was going to change me forever, looked up at Lee, then switched off the lamp.

2.The Flat On Ridge Lane 

It was 2006 when I moved back to my mother’s house after having left home the first time to share with Darren. We shared a flat in the town centre, not far from the river that flowed through it. The house parties that went down with the old group were off the wall. We'd tried to throw the best parties in town by decorating the place: we stuck neon lights down the hallways leading to different rooms, some were colour coded for each room. I believe these rooms were designed to reflect people's moods as they progressed through the night, but I couldn't be too sure. I think the idea of having a rest period before continuing to dance your tits off made good sense. 

The dance room was the most visited, especially earlier in the night. There wasn’t a DJ back then, just a stereo playing hard house and dubstep, and some strobe lights. But, by the end of the night, most people were congregated either in the kitchen or in the “ambience” room, where artists such as Terminal Sound System were played. If you haven't heard this artist before, then I suggest that when you're chilling after a heavy session, you sit back, roll one up and listen to his first album in its entirety. 

Anyone who has been to or held a house party knows that people will inevitably end up in the kitchen at some point, and stay there for a while. Maybe it's because they're closer to the fridge for a nice, cold beer, or it's the kitchen counter that makes a good place to snort a bump. Who knows? But, whatever it is, it makes them feel comfortable enough to talk complete and utter bollocks for hours on end. 

Once there was a party proceeding in a flat opposite ours. A hat party, which later I realised it meant just that: you cannot enter without one. Now, the only reason we found out this was happening was because, whilst in the middle of our kitchen congregation, there was a stern knock at the back door. A man in his late 30s was standing there, curiously looking through the door. He had a bottle of beer in one hand, a protruding cigarette in his mouth, and was wearing a hat in the shape of what I could only assume was a chicken. I opened the door with a confused expression and said, “You alright there, mate? Can I help you?” 

“Sorry, brother; sorry to bother you. I know this might sound random, but do you reckon I could snort off your microwave?”

I turned, quickly making eye contact with everyone in the kitchen, and, as this abashed feeling passed us by, we all, at same time, burst out laughing. “Yeah, sure,” I replied, and the man wasted no time. He stepped in and walked straight up to the microwave, pulled out a bag of pills and took out two. Casually, he placed them on top of the microwave, then took out a ten-pound note, laid it on top and proceeded to crush them with his beer bottle. Rolling up the ten-pound note, he banged it up his nose in one. Don't think I've ever seen anyone do it like that before! I could see it was a first for everyone else too. 

On his way out I asked, “Where'd you come from with that fancy chicken hat?”

“A hat party just over there, mate. You'll need one to get in though,” he pointed to his hat, “and it's not a chicken, it's a turkey.” This is just one of those strange things that unfolds when you're in a kitchen. 

We all searched the flat for almost an hour looking for a hat. Apparently Darren had one somewhere, but at that time neither of us had unpacked properly so most of our stuff was still in boxes. After a good, long exploration to find a hat, we were finally successful in doing so. It was a fluffy top hat with fluorescent-orange-and-black tiger stripes running down it; it also had dreadlocks of the same colour hanging all the way round the brim of the hat. It looked ridiculous, but was a hat all the same. Since there was only one hat, we each took turns going in. Darren went first, obviously, because it was his hat, and it seemed only fair. 

About 15 minutes went by before Darren reappeared. He had a Hawaiian orchid lei round his neck and a pint glass with what seemed to be some sort of fruit punch in it. He took off the hat and placed it on my head. “Have fun,” he said, with a blissful tone in his voice as he continued to stumble back into our flat. 

I bustled my way into the hat party. The first room I entered was a tiny kitchen filled with people bantering with each other. The lights were dimmed in there, and colours were flashing across the table tops and tiles. An attractive women approached me. “Welcome,” she said, as she put a lei around my neck and handed me an ice-cold beer, complemented with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Thanks for the beer,” I replied, feeling very taken in by it all. 

She ushered me toward a doorless doorway. “The party is just at the other end of the hallway,” she said. As I walked down the hallway I noticed that the walls had been painted with neon paint and sofas had been placed all the way along each side, where more people sat having a good time, though one or two were passed out. Muffled music could be heard from the other side of the door as I reached the end of the hallway. On opening the door, the sound hit me full beam, like sticking your head out of a car window whilst speeding on the motorway. The room was borderline majestic; there were no lights on the ceiling, just a disco ball, more neon paint on the walls, strobe lights, and an actual DJ, who was tucked in the back corner. The light show was definitely modulated for the people's intake of narcotics and to entice them to stay all night. Someone here had gone to great lengths to keep this party going as long as possible, and, in hindsight, set the bar for the rest of us. 

Things turned sour near the end of Darren's and my stay at the flat. Our times of hitting it hard on the weekends had begun to slip into the weeks, and I knew if this continued, then eventually something was going to give. I didn't want what happened to Darren to be true, but he started to show signs of serious paranoia. I'd come home from work in the week and find people dozing in the flat and there would be no sign of Darren. “Where is he?” I'd say to some random guy who was chilling with his feet up, eating my food and using my electricity. There were also some women passed out on the front-room floor, flat out on God knows what. 

“I don't know, dude,” said the guy, with a gone-out look, to which he added, “Who are you?”

“Really!” I said, slamming the front-room door as I walked away. I headed straight for Darren's room and kicked it wide open. “What the hell, Darren?” I said as I stormed into his room. His room was in an outright state; there were empty wine bottles everywhere I looked, piles of dirty clothes in every corner in his room and plates with mouldy food on them. It was disgusting. Darren was sitting in the middle of the room with the duvet wrapped round him and just his head popping out. He was babbling some nonsense as I approached him. “This room is a dump,” I said pushing aside wine bottles with my feet. Darren quickly stood up and rushed to the bedroom door to close it. He signalled me to be quiet. 

“Don't talk too loud; those in the front room are in on it and they'll tell the others,” he replied. 

“What are you talking about? What others?”

He then got right up in my face. His breath was unbearable and smelled like that of a homeless person. He said, “It's the cameras; they’re in this flat somewhere. Looking, always looking.” Darren slowly retreated back to the middle of the room and lowered himself into the position in which I first found him. Out of nowhere, he pulled out an ecstasy pill, washed it down with a half-empty bottle of wine and continued to mumble to himself. I stepped back out of the room, knowing full well that this situation was out of my control. Approximately two weeks after that, I moved out. 

This doesn't happen to everyone. It definitely didn't happen to me, but sometimes people can lose themselves with ecstasy if they take too much. This drug is only designed to get you so high before you crash, and some are suckered in under the false pretences that the more you take the higher you’ll get. It's simply not true and, eventually, it will break you if you believe the idea that the more you take, the better. Don't fall for it.

This Haunted City - 3. Part 1

By 2008, the old group has been dispersed for quite some time and I was on to the next stage of my life; the city life. The arrangement with living back at my mother's didn't last long; I was briskly kicked out. In all honesty, I deserved it. We had an altercation over money and me not being in work didn't help. Back then, I had a total lack of respect; I would smoke weed in my room, come home in the early hours of the morning and then sleep all day. And, after the argument, when she wasn't around, I stole a cheque she received from her sister for a thousand pounds. I knew I couldn't cash it in, but that was the point, I think. If I can't spend it, then neither could she. After that, she didn't speak to me for almost a year and half. Could you blame her?

The only option I was left with, and, to be frank, it was a decision that was an absolute considering the circumstances, was to call my close friend Mikel, who lived in the city. We'd been friends for many years by this point; he was actually the mate who'd jumped me in the pub car park when I had tried pills for the first time. In a state of hysteria, I called him up explaining my predicament. But I must have mumbled what I was saying because what I said and what he heard were two different things. Mikel always had a way of making me laugh, even in the direst of plights. What I said was that my mother has kicked me out and I didn't know what to do. To which he replied, "What? You've killed your mother and you don't know what to do?". I couldn't help but laugh, with tears sluggishly running down my cheeks. "No, you fool," I said, as I went on to explain myself again; he got it the second time round.

My stepfather at the time had given me lift in the city with about a quarter of my belongings in the back; he made it clear that he could only store the rest of my stuff for so long before chucking it out – mother's words not his. That was okay though because staying at Mikel's was a short-term thing and I had just landed a job in the city anyway, so it wouldn't be long before had I saved enough cash for my own place. Standing outside the door to Mikel's flat, I pushed on the buzzer as I watched my stepfather drive away, knowing full well that was going to be the last time I saw him for a while. A voice spoke from the speaker next to the buzzer almost immediately; it was an out of breath Mikel inviting me up to the flat. After walking up a set of stairs, I came to an open door where I could hear "Hammer smashed face" by Cannibal Corpse faintly playing in the background. As I stepped in, I was pleasantly surprised to find his flat was immaculate. The first room was the front room, with two doors either side, one leading to a bedroom and the other to the kitchen with an off-kitchen bathroom. It was a small place, but cosy all the same. Mikel came rushing out his bedroom in what I could only describe as a panda costume, and headed towards the bathroom. "I'm really sorry about this mate, but I'm supposed to be at a fancy dress party. I'm getting picked up in about five minutes. There's food and beer in the fridge, and some smokes in my tin on the table, so please help yourself and I'll be back in the morning." His exit was so brash that I didn't have time to say anything. He was there and then he was gone. I dropped all my stuff on the ground and helped myself to the pleasantries, and proceeded to fress for the rest of the night. 

***

Mikel and I got acquainted and set our boundaries over the next couple of weeks. I was to sleep on the fold-out bed in the front room and make sure to turn off all the appliances, along with paying £50 a week board. And Mikel made a promise to cook every night on the agreement that we both chip in. He was an exceptional cook, putting together dishes I’d never heard of before; like a Korean cuisine dish called soondubu jjigae – a spicy seafood stew, with curdled tofu and a poached egg in the middle. Not my first choice in food as I dislike seafood, but I was actually confounded by how much I enjoyed it. Like I said, an exceptional cook. 

One evening, when walking back to the flat after an aggravating shift at the second-hand store, I found Mikel chilling out on the roof just outside his bedroom window. He lived above a takeaway, which was next door to a tattoo parlour; from the other side of the window you could climb out onto the roof of the tattoo parlour and sit out on the ledge. He looked down on me and said, "Dude, get your ass up here. You're going to love this." I made my way out onto the roof, it seemed sturdy enough so I didn't worry about my footing, then placed myself on the ledge. I noticed that Mikel had a carton of eggs by his side, which was ominous in itself, I thought. 

"What's with the eggs?" I said.

"I'm glad you asked; I was in town earlier today when I overheard a group of students banging on about how it's freshman week and the second year undergrads are planning pranks on them, like some sort of initiation amongst the students, and in about two minutes they're going to be walking past with their tour guide, who'll be showing them the places to go in the city centre." And, like clockwork, there they were, walking by the tattoo parlour; there must have been about fifteen of them. Mikel swiftly grabbed the eggs, placed them in between us, looked straight at me with a slightly mischievous expression and said, "Let's show these assholes a good time." Even though it wasn't my idea, I, in fact, drew first blood. I threw an egg with such precision that it cracked, literally, on the back of some young lad’s head, instantly putting everyone on alert. The poor souls made the fatal error of turning around to see where they were coming from, but it was too late, as we rained down more eggs toward them – it was a yolk bath. They scarpered quickly out of sight, like reindeers sensing their predators. "Yeah, run little piggies, run!" shouted Mikel, launching another egg, just for good measure. 

From this vantage point things became clear for the potential of this roof. Heading into the summer, we seized the opportunity to have a good time at any chance we got, whether that was smoking weed, drinking beers or harassing the public. We kept a tally going for every time a perplexed person asked, "How'd you get up there?" But my favourite moments were watching the fresh-faced early birds walking by, hitting the bars to drink away their apprehensive lives only to see them a few hours later stravage home in a complete state. 

***

I had recently got Mikel a job at the second-hand store for games, a little perk I acquired when getting a promotion to supervisor; it was the least I could do since he had given me somewhere to live. All of those who worked there were down to earth people, but widely varied in character. A mixture of a generation of influenced by pop culture and vintage minds. His first day started off as good as any. Three others (Pony, Jan and Mango) and I were standing outside on a cigarette break when Mikel turned up for his shift. I introduced him to Jan, our manager, first, then Mango. But there was really no introduction needed for Pony and, as the saying goes, first impressions are everything. Moments before Mikel arrived, Pony was telling us that he'd pretty much do anything, except sexual favours, for money. And, with that in mind, Mango, who was just recovering from a cold, violently coughed and spat out phlegm onto the concrete floor. "Would you eat that for a tenner?" The timing was just right, as Mikel took his last step to stand next to us, Pony dropped in to the press up position and in one foul scoop, slurped up the phlegm. If you need a minute to heave, then that's fine, I'll wait. 

I'd like to say that times were hard, but the truth was we weren't very good at saving money. We'd get paid on the last Friday of every month, which wasn't feasible for the hourly rate that was paid to us. Some months have five weeks; those were killer months, especially when no one got paid. So Mikel and I were always looking for opportunities to make a little extra cash on the side to make ends meet; we had to. We had sold most of our DVDs and games to the very company that didn't pay us on time, and now we were almost broke. That was until an unexpected, unruly and somewhat insubordinate to my position opportunity presented itself – the iPhone scam. The company had decided to extend their branch by opening another shop on the other side of town, but this was to be just for selling phones; second-hand, of course. A lad named Liam, the assistant manager whose name escapes me, Mikel and I were chosen to run it, and when I say "run it", I mean we bought/sold dodgy phones for ridiculous prices. It was decided that two would manage the shop in the morning and the other two would manage it in the afternoon; that way everyone worked equally whilst learning the job. The only problem was that Mikel and I were bad influences on each other, and had to be split up. 

On a pretty quiet afternoon I turned up to start my shift, when Liam caught my eye from the other side of the glass window, which was a display for the mobile phones; he beckoned me over with some delight on his face. "Hey dude, come here. You'll never guess what the assistant manager has just shown me and Mikel?" The tone of his voice was foreboding as I approached him behind the glass. There sat a laptop on a little table with some sort of binary app running across the screen; he then went on to explain that it was software that unlocks phones for all networks. It was very illegal, but also quite smart for what it was and, for the associated scam to work properly, you needed two cash registers. The process goes like this. First, you take the money that's required from till number one; in this case, £350. Then, second, take the money to the nearest phone store, which for us was the O2 phone store, and you buy a brand new phone on O2 with all the money that was taken from the till. Third, take the new phone to the laptop with the illegal software and unlock it for all networks. The phone is now worth £420 because unlocked mobile phones are bought/sold for more money than ones that are locked to specific networks. Now for the final and fun part, you sell the phone from till two for what it's worth; now you have £420 in cash. You put the £350 back into till one and pocket the £70 that's left over. Rinse and repeat, making sure you've got a sufficient amount of money in till two, until you feel you've made enough cash. You've made money and the company now has sold phones that are worth more than they should have been, and it looks good for stock values. We treated this as compensation for not getting paid on time. Mikel and I did this for almost two months straight without getting caught, so you do the math.

This Haunted City – 3 Part 2

The sun was out and the heat was up; it truly was going to be a great summer. It was a shame that this time of the year was going to be spent jobless and penniless. Mikel and I had sold everything we had to the second-hand store and, when the phone scam became too risky, we looked elsewhere for extra cash. It wasn't the best idea in the world, but it worked for a short while; the idea was to purloin console memory cards, then sell them back to the store. Inevitably, we were caught red-handed, and our time at the place came to an end when they let us go. In hindsight, we were let off lightly with no charges made against us. It was a stupid move to make; if only they had paid us on time, maybe we wouldn't have had to resort to such petty crimes. We didn't make those decisions lightly; there was no malicious intent, born from a need to feel great about what we did, it was all out of pure survival instinct in a time made hard for those uncertain of the future's clarity. 

Almost a month had passed, and Mikel and I were now living off the dregs of our last ever paycheque. The job-seekers allowance that Mikel had applied for wouldn't be accessible for another two weeks and, right now, we couldn't even afford a McDonald's Happy Meal between us. Not that his business of signing-on had anything to do with me. It was just that I, on the other hand, couldn't apply for this as I was very much living there illegally and, given the fact that I was committing some sort of fraud already, letting certain people know about it wasn't really high on my list of great ideas. I easily stayed clear of that potential disaster and waited for something better. I was in a state of "no interest" when it came to getting work at first, but, after a considerable amount of time, I began to get rebarbative and complacent about the task at hand. We had regularly made trips back to our home town from the city, though using public transport wasn't viable due to having no money, so it was down to the next best thing – walking. Over the entire summer, we had walked a total of 120 miles, there and back, just so we could eat. Back when we were younger, Mikel had stayed at my house for a few months due to complications at home, but not on anything that concerned me. He was a friend in need, and that's all that mattered to me. But, whilst he was there, we'd enjoy late night fry-ups; coming home at stupid o'clock in the morning and cooking anything we could find, without cleaning up after ourselves. Believe me, this did not go down well with my parents, as it become the custom for us to receive a good scolding every Saturday morning. 

On the last ever trip we made to our home town, at the fag end of summer, Mikel and I decided to make a little detour on the way. A reminder was set in place earlier that year, as this time of year was perfect for picking magic mushrooms, and our hometown had a field that was notorious for sustaining them. So, we set off at around 5:00 in the morning with coffee in hand; the coffee was in coke cans that had the tops chopped off and the sharp edges bent inwards so they'd not cut our lips. It was a three-hour walk from the city centre, and I'd be damned if I wasn’t going to get my caffeine intake. The early morning walk across the city centre provided a completely breath-taking scene, a moment of bliss amongst the sleepy minds that would later cause disorder in the streets, and, as we passed the leaving sign for the city, rain began to fall. Mikel looked at me with a content smile and said, "Well, this is going to be fun; it's a good job I'm a pluviophile."

About two miles before reaching our destination, in the next town over, we turned off towards the befitting and fetching outskirts of our beloved hometown. The journey didn't take as long as we’d thought, so we changed the plan and agreed to pick the mushrooms first, then grab some food after. The rain had finally stopped when we arrived at the field; in the distance, small figures were already arched over, picking from the land, and a sense of light competition was at hand. We knew it wouldn't take long before others attended and reaped the benefits this field had to offer. 

So, with the sun finally shining through the cimmerian, milky veil clouds, Mikel and I took off our shoes and socks, tucked our socks into our shoes, tied the laces together so they'd hang around our necks like scarves, rolled up our trousers and got to work, putting what we picked into a carrier bag. There was something quite peaceful about having the grass squishing between our toes; it was cold and notably wet on the ground, but warm on the higher parts, and brushed delicately across our ankles in the breeze.

We had been in the field for almost an hour, our bags a quarter full, when it was time to finally get some food. We still hadn't eaten since the day before, only had water and the coffee this morning, and that's when a sense of a weird morality came over me, how have we not eaten yet in this first-world country? In other places children haven't had a cooked meal in months or even ever. How could we complain at times like these? The problem we had was that, even though we live in this first-world country, it still felt like being in between a rock and a hard place: the rock being our government and our way of life, and the hard place being the third-world country; we just bounced between the two, never progressing in the right manner to become more than what's owed as a tax-paying civilian. I hated it. This feeling of there being those worse off than us, but yet my survival tendencies bypassed that worry and empathy just to live a little longer. So many of us had a mother who would point out that there's starving kids out there, so don't waste your food. Yeah, no shit, but I wasn't born there, so stop trying to make me feel bad, just because you can't cook. 

Mikel had the cooking underway as soon as we arrived at my mother’s house, she was at work for a least another four hours, so we had plenty of time to do what we needed. We had a simple fry-up: something quick and easy to clean up afterwards. After achieving contentment from the food and the swift tidy-up, I grabbed a pot and started to boil water for the mushrooms. There are a few ways of taking magic mushrooms, but I think having them in a brew is by far the best method because, let's face it, they taste bloody awful when raw. I can't stress enough that if you are wanting to experiment with this drug, then do your research thoroughly, kids, and I mean both for picking the right ones and how to ingest them; it could mean your life – for real!

Two things will commonly occur in the lead up to being high, once you've taken magic mushrooms, which also serves as sign that the stuff is working: the first one is a yawn, which is then followed shortly after by an overwhelming sense of dread. You could use this as a kind of checkpoint, just to know where you stand. I’m not too sure why these sensations happen: I'm not a chemist, biologist or whatever profession it is that finds out this stuff. I'm just a participant in the game of taking legal/illegal highs. I was expecting vivid colours, unknown visions of sorts, but that wasn't the case. Instead, my perception was just altered a little, inanimate objects slithered in perceived motion rather than in actual physical action; blending into one another like coloured paints amalgamating. And the concept of time went out the window, as most of it was spent staring at cows and bridge arches, and, truth be told, it took just under three hours to get there and five hours to get back, giggling our asses off all the way. 

Mikel's girlfriend, Karen, was already at his flat as we set foot through the door; she was sitting at the dining table with a close friend, Liam. They had got through three bottles of red wine and a range of dark chocolates. 

"Well, it's about bloody time," said Karen, with a glazed look in her eyes. "What took you guys so long?" she added. 

"What do you mean, it's only…shit." Mikel, with an astounded look, realised that the time was much later than he thought, which made two of us.

"Did you forget that we were going out tonight?" said Karen, in a condescending tone. I never had a reason to dislike Karen, not with those beautiful, shiny, brown eyes of hers; she was smart and well-adjusted, and far too good for Mikel, but sometimes, when she'd had a few too many, she became quite intolerable with her arrogance and preaching about better things to come. Her real problem was the baggage she carried, that being her friend Liam; he was from a middle-class family and a right little flamboyant bastard. His family were the butchers from my hometown, who had obviously not dealt out the discipline required to make a man out of a kid, so then they were saddled with a man-child. With that said, he did offer to pay for us all on a night out. 

The effects of the mushrooms had finally worn off as the four of us carried on with pre-drinks before hitting the town. Our first stop was The Flannel & Towel, a pub/venue located in the middle of town. I had been to this place many times in the past and every time I'd left not knowing where I was; that night wouldn’t be any different. Liam piled in the drinks, one after another, and alongside them eight Jägerbombs, so, by about 9:30, we were all pretty much out of it. Mikel and Karen were face hugging, whilst Liam chucked me a £20 for more drink, then continued flirting with no one. It was hard getting served in this place, always had been, and it was a student night, so I then had to contend with young, drunk idiots spending their student loans to fanfaronade about how much money their parents had; I made sure to push pass those gibbons.

As I proceeded to pick up the tray of drinks from the bar, I heard this voice from behind me. 

"Holy shit, I don't fucking believe it." 

I cautiously turned round to see a well-built, good looking man, about my age. I stood there, confused for a few seconds, before I realised it was an old friend from school.

"It's Wayne, Wayne Roberts; do you remember?" he said, being more excited than one should be. Of course I remembered, but, in situations like this, as most people will know, you have to pull off the surprised-look approach, so they feel some sense of worth. I put my best perplexed face on and greeted him with the comfort of understanding that I knew who he was. 

Wayne and I headed over to my table, which was now vacant; Mikel and Karen were now gone, and Liam was passed out on his chair, probably due to his interesting conversation with nobody. Wayne gladly invited me over to his group, who were sitting on the other side of the pub venue. I still had a tray full of beer and Jägerbombs that now had no home for indulgence, so I used this as an ice breaker to a group I had never met before, and it went down splendidly. He introduced me to his girlfriend, Cara, as I handed out drinks to people who seemed to be way younger than I; Wayne was in the year below me, but surely these guys weren't of the same age. 

Knocking down a Jägerbomb, I curiously asked Wayne what he'd been up too, and he replied in an earnest and confident manner, after a gulp of his beer, "I just started my first year of university; a foundation course, access for a degree." He carried on, reeling off the pros and cons of uni life, as I sported a face of slight interest, until one part stood out like a spare prick at a lesbians' wedding. 

"I'm sorry, what was that last part?" I asked abruptly, playing off my ignorance to loud music. "I got an £8,000 tuition fee, with an added £2,000 student loan every year for three years," said Wayne. Now, on the outside, I kept a straight and calm appearance, but, on the inside, in my mind, I was spraying my drink from my mouth over everyone at the table. Eight thousand pounds just for basically attending: now that's something worth pursuing. I think that's when Wayne became my new close friend; I proceeded to ask more questions, which ended with me articulating – where do I sign up for that?