i am human and i need to be loved just like everybody else does

Reading Festival was attended again. This time it rained. Tedious bullet points follow:
  • I was a cunt to everyone but perhaps not overly so
  • We regrettably decided to camp in the worst lands ever – the ground was completely waterlogged in spite of a million bales of hay and we often shared our tents with frogs
  • However, userinfoKappo brought an ounce
  • We met userinfoguntrip, userinfo_pariah and userinfosofamafia then later userinfoyalson and a tripping userinfotom13
  • I randomly bumped into my bestest buddy from primary school who I haven't seen for years and years. He's called Greg and now looks a million years old
  • We did hundreds and hundreds of bulbs of nitrous
  • I had to walking everywhere barefoot and my toes instantly began to rot
  • I boned Fay for no reason which was supreme laughs according to userinfoRussell
  • Successfully rolling a jay in the 80s Matchbox mosh was a victory
  • Loudly selling nitrous non-stop for an hour next to the chick who charged £2 a balloon was also. I successfully caused a dude to enjoy himself enough to buy £20 worth and another dude to total himself
  • userinfoGraam passed out from doing too many drukqs
  • Fun times occurred adventuring with userinfoLaura along the Road Of Death and meeting mans such as the one who was really a Royal Mail postman
  • I did seven balloons in a row which seemed hardcore at the time
  • Catriona told hilarious ghost stories
  • A mans purchased a poorly rolled jay at the Main Stage for three punts
  • Ross and I tried desperately to keep a fire going with coal, the NME, beer, plastic bags, userinfoJadders' tent and vodka mist
  • I met up with first Hannah and Gigi then userinfoplug_in_phil during an incredible British Sea Power set and later on we got "pumped" by two girls armed with a board marker
  • I brilliantly scored MDMA from a hammered mans who got lost and wandered into our campsite before I struck up a conversation of randomness with him
  • We failed to find userinfo13stars for nine years due to userinfoKappo's love of Dubya and failure to know anything, not least a girl called Olivia . Then we bumped into Lizi busy being a fag
  • userinfoKap was inspired enough to sell a Henry to Henry right next to the pigs
  • userinfo13stars was thoroughly outjuggled by Henry Lodge
  • The dude from The Soundtrack Of Our Lives was touched whilst rolling
  • Then I left userinfoyalson (with notebook and nitrous scars) and userinfoDean at The Kills to visit the moronic After Shock tent where I danced away to shit tunes with a stupid grin on my face. I borrowed water from a mans, gave out a bunch of free balloons and accidentally inhaled some amyl nitrates in liquid form. Two hott chicks talked to me and gave me stickers advertising giveusdiamonds.tk
  • I organised multiple adventures with the crew and picked up brilliant people on the way
  • Being distracted forever whilst looking for userinfo13stars because we were busy dishing out nitrous
  • Joining in the hokie cokie
  • Being punched in the face whilst finding a phallic light
  • Chatting in my tent with Red Chris, userinfo13stars, userinfoDean, userinfoKappo and userinfoBanks about brilliant things including, but not limited to, receipts of purchase
  • Adam Daley finally finally boning userinfoSarah
  • Doing nitrous non-stop on the train back home
  • userinfoJadders and userinfoWenny's incomparable failure
  • userinfoSam's failure that was possibly larger yet
  • Not meeting userinfomsblackamerica, userinfomiss_sparkle, userinfosynesthesiac, userinfobellston, etc. Wah
  • In retrospect, I saw very few bands indeed
In another place, the world is so damn weird. For the last two years my existence was put on pause as I always refused to believe I was actually living at King's. Now I've been enjoying the most brilliant summer I can imagine, but all the kids I hang out with are having to deal with their social groups being split up for the first time in seven years. And yes, I'm really eighteen and I'm off to university. It just doesn't make sense...

is this the way they say the future's meant to feel or just 20,000 people standing in a field?

Forget everything I've ever said or written. Ignore the fact that I'm another sheltered middle-class kid desperately trying to rebel and get kicks from mummy and daddy's money. Pretend I never said that Glade was fun; that my first few pills made me love infinity; that anything was ever good before or after. In my last post I said that the last week was great: this week was incomparably better. I've been blown away.


And then after my mother picked me up from the station, we went shopping at Sainsbury's. I yearned for sleep but dragged myself behind her like a zombie. As I entered the supermarket, I went past the guy who'd supplied the previous evening's philosopher's stones. He was performing a normal function in the real world now: shopping with his wife. Regardless, he noticed me and we exchanged a very knowing smile.

so bring it down, let it fall, into a drizzling bliss then we'll hyperventilate in the old forest

I took userinfoDavid to an Indigo Children party in Willesden. We were taken there by a man named Bill who was, in my opinion, the finest specimen of a dude you'll ever meet. He owned a dog named Teddy who is, in my mind second only to Muffin. While we danced, a man scaled a silver birch and breathed fire over all of us. I'd continually forget that he was there only to be amazed once again by a massive warming ball of flame above my head. I danced for a very long time and had the most fucked up CEVs I've ever experienced. In the morning, a techno rig had set up in the middle of the road across the canal. What a laugh.

Collapse )

The next Thursday we received our A2 results. I achieved good results (although two modules of 13% and 20% dragged my maths down to three marks off a C) and hence attained entry to my first-choice university to a sigh of relief from my parents. Celebrations consisted of a journey to userinfoGay Richard's free house where I very quickly became inebriated and met a man named Bob who could roll the best, unelvisable spliffs I've ever seen. After sharing a kebab with userinfoSamuel, I went home, satisfied.

It had been an ace week.

let's get electrified the world is on fire can i take you higher

The dream began as follows:

I was sitting on one of the wooden chairs on the small patio in my back garden with my friends; it was getting dark but the outdoor halogen light was on. It seemed less intrusively bright than usual. A few minutes earlier I'd been slowly regaining consciousness from yet another balloon of nitrous oxide – from a viewpoint outside of and behind my head, I saw myself begin to sit up with the biggest smile on my face. Now a girl who I hadn't noticed before took my hand and before long I felt her whole arm in contact with mine. I looked at her and smiled; time passed and sometime later we were lying entwined on the trampoline. We pointed out shooting stars screaming across the bright night sky to each other. We sucked each other's fingers and it was more erotic than I ever remembered. Her trousers were loose fabric and her mouth warm and soft.

Next I was in the house - half a dozen of us were sitting around the kitchen table. A moronic drinking game was taking place and I was discomforted by my inability to avoid flashes of honesty in front of my sister. Caroline joined in enthusiastically even though her sole companion was a once-cute blonde whose breasts had grown at the expense of her innocence. I failed to remember what she used to look like and the game continued despite my ineffective attempts to recall the mental image.

Later on I took the shooting star girl upstairs and the remainder of my guests also retired. She made strange noises as she slept and she woke early. She told me she expected to ride her horse through the countryside while the sun rose and I thought this was vaguely endearing (notwithstanding my hatred of all things equine). I wanted to hold her but she and something else prevented me from doing so.

I was no longer in my bedroom. I led people through a sunny field toward the road – they caught a horrendously late bus to Crawley and I imparted disappointing farewells to my companions. Now I was in Redhill walking out of the station like I often do. There were few people about and I didn't recognise any of them. The day seemed to be in the latter stages of twilight, but I think much of the darkness was imagined by me. My phone rang and I arranged to meet userinfoDavid and Catriona: we were attending a party together. I caught up with them after walking through the park for the first time in my life. They had seemed unnaturally small in the distance. We arrived at the party as userinfoDavid seemed to know the way.

Some alcohol was imbibed. And then, played out to a terrible soundtrack: a mans was met, some fags were present, I failed to talk to the people I wanted to, public telephones were operated, cigars were smoked, userinfoJadders was kissed, a ghost train was embarked upon, Catriona smiled, Lizi tasted of a delicious beverage. I struggle to fathom what this all implied. As it was I felt an impatience for adventure and a niggling notion that I ought to be elsewhere. Thus I found myself leaving early.

I ran through the unfamiliar streets and for once the pikeys lining the pavements didn't even seem to notice me – they were busy pushing each other into the unlit road. I was worried by their presence, but also knew that I would be safe. I reached the station and boarded the train dripping with liquid expectation – everyone seemed to be going somewhere big that night; we were all embarking on our own uncertain journeys. When we arrived at Victoria, a passenger thought I was sleeping and tried to rouse me from non-existent dreams. I thought: "It will take much more than that."

I scoured tourist maps because I had to get to Caledonian Road. After two hours struggling with London's night buses and the unmarked roads outside Pentonville Prison, I walked past two dodgy fucks and into an orange building that seemed to have been constructed from cardboard like an old McDonald's Happy Meal container. By then, I was completely sober. The damage was seven pounds and I danced some and then explored. I discovered other areas in the building beside the main rig: the bar and chillout room. I acquired a couple of balloons, nine Spaniards turned up and, after spending a few moments plucking up courage, I scored hilariously easily. The party was beginning to liven up, although some tosser clad in a bright red 2004-2005 season Arsenal shirt was prancing around, and shouting like a cunt. He represented the dregs of society that makes me cry.

And then the worst occurred: the room was hushed, the music turned down and, even before the arrival of the pigs was announced, I had a strong premonition of something bad happening. An organiser spoke over the PA: we were promised that the party would go on (Love live the party! You cannot kill the party!). But alas, within half an hour, cops were shining their flashlights in our eyes and leading us outside. I had a flash of paranoia because I had a white star in my wallet but felt too invincible to get busted.

We were outside now, milling about on the warehouse's forecourt-style area. A nice mans with a shiny mobile too expensive for a real hippy wandered among us giving out infoline numbers. I overheard people discussing various other events going on in the area. I looked at my watch: it was five o'clock in the morning. This prompted me to look up to the sky for the first time. The sun was thinking about rising, but I was alone in north London and far too terrified to ask where to go. The organisers were explaining to the four squad cars and one riot van present the difficulties in arranging legal gatherings in a post-Criminal Justice Act world, but the Arsenal fan was behaving in an uncouth and yobbish manner nearby. I was disgusted by him – "They should just arrest him," someone muttered and I silently agreed. Was he really so frustrated that he had to screw everything up, does he really have so little respect for himself and others? What hope do we have for making things better if we can't even sort things like this out at a psychedelic party?

At that point I wanted to be home. I set off in an arbitrary direction hoping to walk to a place where I could catch some form of public transport. After a few yards into the darkness, I turned back (I'm not sure why). I started talking to a large drunken Australian and a temerarious young Mr. Suave. The talkative yuppie persuaded a passing Italian to share a taxi with us. He stepped onto the road to wait for a taxi and an illegal cab appeared from nowhere and was instantly hailed. We piled in the back and headed for Kilburn, leaving the cops there.

The journey was lengthy and hilarious, probably because we were all rolling. The smart, well-dressed twentysomething couldn't stop speaking and related every minor comment to a lengthy narrative about unimportant recent events in his life. He knew exactly what to say at all times and I enviously watched him make flawless small-talk with absolute ease. Meanwhile, the boozy Aussie giggled at his inability to shut up and the Italian from Venice pretended to do a runner at a service station. I was trying to pay attention to the route we took, but I'm certain I could never remember one turning even if you offered me the penetration of Alice Artwoman. Our lawless driver was relentlessly mocked for his fiancée's nationality and the fact he met her via http://www.filipinawives.com/, but I thought he took the jesting all in remarkably good heart considering everything.

After handing over a paltry sum, we were kicked out on a deserted highway and the three gentlemen I was with immediately demanded I lead them to a keraaaaaazy party since I'd been the one who made the claim that I knew where one was being held. I knew we were looking for a large silver building and, after trotting a few yards down the road we found it. We picked our way round to the back but could make out no discernable entrance nor the plaster-muted beats we hoped for. A CCTV camera pointed in our eyes so we wandered around some more and, as a last resort, explored a near-empty underground car-park in search of potential entry points. Upon emerging from the pitch-black basement area, we were greeted by three beefy black guys silhouetted again the one entrance that they blocked. At least one of them was wielding a heavy metal bar.

"Oi; what do you think you guys are looking for?"

If my mind had not been augmented by chemicals, I'm certain that my life would have flashed before my eyes and ended with black bin liners containing my remains being dumping in a badly-lit alleyway in north west London. One of us had the presence of mind to hopefully utter,


The iron pipe dude in the middle ('eez a shady fuck, beemer three series and two fat fucks backin' 'im up) chuckles to his mates,

"Well it sure ain't fuckin' down there, innit?"

We nervously smile as we're led through the solid metal door we never spotted before. Upon stepping through I'm met by insanity unseen outside of movie sets. A bunch of massively built dudes huddle round a kitchenette probably playing poker or something. Next to the microwave is a black and white television showing the CCTV image from outside. In one corner are some makeshift weapons and devices for securing and breaking open doorways. In the opposite corner four or five people are leaning over a smooth, low table and snorting some sort of powder from various piles. We are courteously informed by the large men that the evening's entertainment is taking place on the fourth floor but that the elevator is out of order. I set on up the staircase.

As I ascend, I look around amazed. There are people everywhere; all sorts of people. There are dozens of rooms, all beautifully graffed up to the max and several reserved as private bedrooms. In one room, power trance is being pumped out loudly, air conditioning units are assisted by several fans, nitrous is available and a bunch of cool kids are passing joints in a smaller antechamber. There is a functional kitchen, working toilets, a storeroom and another rig on the same floor in a room decorated with marvellous mushroom murals in UV paint. I notice a laser printout of a diagram illustrating electron diffraction before the young smart guy who organised our taxi accosts me and starts talking.

I had difficulty articulating my thoughts to this man. Meanwhile, he interrupted me and mentioned that he'd done well at the International Mathematics Competition (this is seriously big-name shit) and achieved a first class degree in Maths and Philosophy as well as the University Prize from Oxford University. His statement was not overtly arrogant and I saw reason to disbelieve him. Over the next hour this man acted as my guru, offering all sorts of advice to assist the living of an enjoyable life. We covered drugs, sociology, politics, the East and lift in general: even taking the MDMA into account, we appeared to be remarkably similar. He was rolling so hard that he hadn't closed his mouth for hours. I then excused myself to dance while he wandered off to make impeccable conversation with complete strangers. He had told me his name several times but I didn't hear it clearly once.

And so tunes were played, people were recognised; some conversations were joined, others not. I wandered around marvelling at everything I came across - a thousand smiles must have been shared. I danced a fuck of a lot and shook hands with one of the marvellous DJs. I learned from a list stuck to the wall that his name was Carlos Santan. I even lay down on some soft cushions and caught half an hour of sleep despite being inches from the right speaker of what must have been a 5kW chillout system. I danced some more and bumped into the guys I shared a taxi with. We looked at each other in recognition and smiled, but didn't say anything.

I looked at my watch and the time was ten am. I rushed out of the main room to peer through a window: the sun had already risen over the grey city. Greengrocers were dragging crates of vegetables onto pavements, dustmen were doing their rounds, suits were walking to work, old women were catching buses to high streets and tea shops. I stepped out of the building's back entrance into the blinding sunlight and walked amongst these people in search of a bus stop. I noticed that there was a bass report still faintly noticeable beating through the air. The city was just waking and these people were going about their daily lives a mere dozen yards away from where I'd been stomping away. Only moments earlier I had been peaking at a prototype to heaven and they were completely oblivious to it all. I tried to look people in the eyes to see if they too could hear the beat I was privy to and no one gave any sign of realising what was going on. I felt so privileged.

After getting confused by a map I found, I finally caught a bus that would take me back to Victoria station. Nodding to sleep, I almost put my head through the window. Then, whilst travelling on the train with my headphones on, I awoke with a jolt for no discernable reason – I only just made it out at Gatwick before the train's automatic doors shut. From there I caught a bus and walked the remaining one point five miles home. As I unlocked the door, I glanced at my watch again. My journey home had taken about four hours, but I gave not a shit.


When I awoke and could see from the window that it was late afternoon. My head felt a little muggy but the memory of my reverie was still sharp and lucid. When I woke up, I instinctively checked my 'phone for messages – there were none. However, I then noticed that the battery was very low and that a new number had appeared in my phone book under the name "DIARMID".

It was then that I realised that it hadn't all been a dream.

The last week we've been treated to the most amazing skies and it's really been the best time of my life.


I still believe that I saw shooting stars from my trampoline that night. Apparently, that week we were treated to an unusual flurry of Perseid comets. Some morons mistook them for aeroplanes or satellites.

dizzy new heights blinded by the lights these people are for life

And now for the hackneyed observations of a first-timing prospective e-tard. Forgive me, but it really was that good. It was hard enough to avoid turning this entry into an epic and it will definitely sound braindead and moranic to any who has a) experienced MDMA more than once or b) never experienced MDMA, but please allow me it this time only.

I almost didn't attend this party. Returning to my nine to five so soon after Glade prevented me from making concluding reflections and or attempting the assimilation of all my experiences from that weekend. userinfoRussell's phone call woke me up from an afternoon nap and, the mammoth train journey notwithstanding, managed to convince me that failing to go would permanently have me labelled "lame".

I met Jonny (also on his way to the party) at Ashford station before finding out that I still had two hours to wait until my buddies turned up. After wandering around town looking for a cheap burger, userinfoRussell, Casey, Begg and Billy finally rolled up. They were delayed owing to Billy's regurgitation of his lunch in the car. We waited for Mount to text me the directions and spent our time avoiding being robbed at the hands of the boy racer subculture or failing to get through to the answer machine messages on the infoline. We set off at eleven and were flagged down by Seb in a high-visibility jacket at twelve. A not-insignificant amount of time had been wasted driving down the wrong B-road and with me sent out to run down dodgy-looking tracks or listening to the evening breeze (in vain, naturally) for the emission of amplified music predominantly composed of successive beats. Thankfully, I persuaded userinfoRussell that, no, he wasn't tired and yes, it would be worth it when we finally got there.

The location turned out to be fucking superb. Mud had dried out to the extent that my shoes were salvageable and I only saw a couple of small-engined cars get stuck on the hill in the field-cum-carpark. The most stunning canopy of greenery arched over a beautiful little clearing that was lit by innumerate campfires and these groovy little torches-on-sticks. My companions soaked in UV rays and blew a tenner on nitrous while I assisted Mount in scaling dodgy aluminium ladders to hang the gorgeous psychedelic banners he'd somehow obtained. More cars began to arrive and the place became busy with an almost-tangible vibe of expectance which saturated chilly forest air. And then the soundsystem started up. Oh boy: the soundsystem.

point to the sky feel free
sea of people all equal
smiles in front and behind me
all smiles all easy
where're you from, what're you on and what's your story?

The beat was contagious and before long I had to start dancing. I acquired a pill by less-than-scrupulous means from a fellow wearing Mad Hatter-style headgear. Billy joined me with a speck of MDMA and we danced with Casey, userinfoRussell and a million others all moving together, almost as one. Fuck you all: it was beautiful. We were full of love and couldn't stop hugging everyone like the goons we are. Human contact was just so very rewarding. There was big-time emotional affinity. We rubbed and mashed our palms over our faces to feel every last contour and texture. We devoured liquorice rizlas and nothing had ever tasted as nice before. I personally was overwhelmed with feelings of comfort and belonging around these people whose names I didn't even know. Dare I say it? There were no hints of phoniness and it felt like a life-changing, profound and almost spiritual experience.

many faces from places you ain't heard of
where're you from, what's your name and what're you on?

Mount pushed a bottle of port into my face and I drained the sweet nectar. I felt like a saint; a disciple being offered holy blood. Indeed the majority of the worshippers celebrating around me had consumed "the body of Christ," God's Flesh, psilocybin – that or LSD and MDMA. Love resonated our corner of the earth and sustained itself with all-enveloping sibilance. The air was fresh with the deliciously sweet smell of em jay as a million joints were passed my way, and I wanted nothing more than to share my bottle with anyone who asked. A million nice people talked to us asking how we were and where we hailed from and, for the first time in my life, conversations were strung together effortlessly and without anxiety. I was embraced by them all from teenaged fluororavers to pensioners wearing Burberry and baseball caps.

cos me and you are the same
known you all my life, i don't know your name
the name's european bob
anyway, have a dance now see you later
pleased to meet ya
likewise; a pleasure

The sun rose shedding its light through the delicate leaves above. We had outdanced the world and I bathed in the flux of love from above. It was amazing being able to dance without earnestly searching for approval or self consciously looking at your feet. There was something atavistic about it – that square of countryside was made into an autonomous zone by us, mere people! Good vibrations continued to wash over me, beaming like a cretin.

all come together for this party

The pills inside precipitated natural expression and I could almost see what others felt from their movements. The chick with dreads and an amazing skirt bumping into me from behind? She's tripping balls and transfixed by the tracers her spiralling fingers make. The tweaked out guy with the faded t-shirt – he's five feet under from exhaustion but still doesn't care for the chillout rig; he's just thinking to himself how glad he is that he finally quit his job. The hive, the crowd keeps us all going. Here there are no braindead arms in the air to the chorus from the latest Hollywood car chase, there are no superstar DJs being fellated after their half-hour slot. This ain't the club scene with kids going through moves carefully-rehearsed in the mirror before just in case someone with a tight ass is watching.

When I had to catch my lift about seven thirty in the morning, I'd have done almost anything to be able to stay there a few more hours. Going home would have been a mission, a real chore if I couldn't just swear that the beats somehow remained pulsing in my head. The music came back with me and nothing could take away the special fact that I was there, a part of it.

That summer's night on the 24th July 2004 in Chilham, Kent. I was alive and I was there, whatever it all meant.

7 Stages. 3 Days. Open Air. Belter.

A forty year-old "Big Red Bus" forcing cars to reverse down country lanes; a town containing only a canal, a co-op, fake homes, a single ATM, and a station with more trains passing through than stopping; rolling green hills and a lake surrounded by trees in an English country estate high amongst the clouds; six thousand people who wish they could remember the sixties looking for the best party of the decade; tangible magick saturating the outdoor air. After surviving an amusing bomb scare at Redhill station and meeting a character from King's (I spoke to this Funeral For A Friend fan for the first time ever: we learned that his band was mastering their EP in Guildford and he'd be at Reading), userinfoDavid and I arrived at the Glade Festival site near Aldermaston around eighteen o'clock on Thursday the fifteenth.

celestial enlightenmenttents

My damaged tent was erected first time, hunger was placated, and we wandered out on an exploratory adventure across the fields. Last minute soundtesting sent out marvellous noises around the echoing hills. Our recce uncovered a brilliant mans who chatted to me about my Mexican home mushroom-growing kit; some massive, bulbous psychedelic flowers made from purple fabric billowing toward the sky; and several fluorescent jackets rushing around nailing things to the stages and unloading shiny new portaloos. The first evening we had nothing to do and no alcohol was available for sale yet, even at exorbitant bar prices. Such is our social deficiency, it seemed impossible to enjoy ourselves at a festival where we knew no-one and had no drugs. To drag down our sprits a little more, userinfoDavid had nil funds in his bank account and had also managed to misplace his cash card.

 bulbous psychedelic flowerswoah

Thus we began a lonely trek up the slope among various circles of tents filled with laughter, marijuana smoke and crushed lager cans. With no mood-altering chemicals in our bloodstream, the prospect of joining in mashed campfire discussions and shouting "Bollocks!" at each other seemed depressingly distant. However, it can't have been long before a mans wielding a long pole (to which he'd attached blue glow sticks at each end) engaged us in conversation on a topic I don't recall, but was almost certainly an attempt to peddle illicit substances. His efforts to vend "bombs" and bud were entirely unsuccessful because the vernacular drug lingo was entirely foreign to us both. Regardless, we were invited into his abode where I was asked to roll a joint and, after introductions to his chums, he continued to inform all present just how "hammered" he was.

The Origin StageNano Records

That evening, several marijuana cigarettes were shared, the merit of the Coen brothers' various audio-visual outputs was discussed and some MDMA that was supposedly pure was acquired by me for a massive laugh. We also met a hottie who danced a lot and one of the best Quake II CTF players in Europe talked about his favourite maps and tactics with us and his hott girlfriend (gamer with a gf – what was all that about?) The evening took on a surreal turn: tetrahydrocannabinol warped time as well as short-term memory and, after being regaled with stories of erectile dysfunction, some brilliant nu-swing records and much more hilarity, userinfoDavid and I made our leave and visited the Solar Chill lands. They were all far too cool for us anyway...

You ever have the feeling that you're not sure whether you're awake or still dreaming?

The chill-out area was magnificent in its delicate beauty. Paper lanterns suspended from the trees by invisible strings danced erratically in the evening breeze; sculpted thai mushrooms stood erect and people lay on the grass or sat cross-legged at small curvaceous tables half a foot off the ground. Everything was glowing eerily, outlined by UV-reactive paints. People laughed with each other quietly, and reassuringly chilled music lilted ambiently through the smoky air. After some time, we walked back to our tent and shortly went to sleep until ten the next morning.

All the time. It's called mescaline and it is the only way to fly.

An almost-chubby girl with a porcelain face and a deliberate tear in the seat of her jeans – it was just below her panty line at the base of her left cheek – stole our money as we boarded the Big Red Bus heading to a nearby town on the Friday. She wasn't at all hott. I withdrew almost £100 and we purchased provisions: cider, Bacardi, cherry cola, bread, baccy, skins. The alcohol was decanted into unmarked plastic bottles as middle-aged women walked past for their weekly perm or perhaps toward the launderette. It wasn't necessary to conceal the unlicensed beverages in the end because, by virtue of our proficient social engineering skills, we slipped through the gates along with our smuggled goods. I bought Jelly Babies and we sat in the doorway of the tent and dropped 30g of fresh cubensis mushrooms. While waiting to come up on my dose, I rolled cigarettes.
stomp stomp stomping up the dirt to beats beats beatsPOI!

Once more I am obliged to admit that the trip was the most amazing experience of my life. Forget teenaged fumblings and inelegant groping, immature dabblings with crap gear, and rich kids snorting coke off dull suburbs girls' breasts. Other kids depressingly spend their college years going on 18-30s holidays in the sun, trawling Newquay clubs in search of underage chicks or praying for the next weekend so they can get twd again. Meanwhile, I'm more convinced than ever: This is what it's all about; this is where it's really at. For an hour I sat in dust clouds kicked up by infinite stomping feet, gawping at the UV faeries that effortlessly twirled and flowed through the crowd. The one that looked like Tracy Emin scared me the least. At this stage I was still typically self-conscious, although I couldn't help inanely nodding my head to the beat and anxiously rocking my shoulders. I was so envious of the people dancing around me: devoid of inhibitions, partaking of the shared ecstasy, simultaneously not caring about anything but the beats pumped out of the 28KW sound system and totally at one with each other. Hydrophonic's organic trance seemed to effervesce and coagulate into itself: the tunes graciously morphed together and I was entranced. After a significant length of time, I finally noticed that the decorative butterflies had the patterns of eyes in their wings and chuckled to myself.

The Eye Of Godmmmm, MDMA

I don't wish to write much else about the trip. Truth be told, I can remember less about it than any other time I've taken mushrooms. As the threshold effects washed over me and I approached the plateau, I wiped a thick coating of dust from my cheek and went to sit on the grass on a hill that was situated quite close to the left subs. For the next few hours I sat transfixed by the feelings the drug was allowing me. Before that day, I'd marvelled for hours at impossible topology and geometry-defying shows projected in fractal dimensions onto my eyelids. The best part of last summer was when I spent a Thursday afternoon watching clouds rush over my face as though the world was rotating on speed. But this time, the hallucinations were minimal and the cerebral journey through a human's quantum mind and consciousness explored relatively few synapses. However, the euphoria that washed over me as I slowly came down in such naturally beautiful surroundings made all of existence worthwhile to the nine. The edges of the trees around me glowed with divine supernatural halos. Massive, proximate, immaculately white clouds reflected my eye: I stared into the infinite, into nothingness and into the future - the sky was blue, blue, blue and it all made sense. The night before we'd been craving alcohol like the gutter tramp whose gin ran out three days previously. Now, my eyes were wide open; I was more confident and relaxed than ever before and I no longer needed drugs to overcome the social anxiety that I'd allowed to become ingrained over the last eighteen years. Life was now openair and free – I was in orbit and felt weightless. We were no longer slaves for our minds were now free.

The first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world. Where none suffered, where everyone would be happy.

Call it an epiphany – call it whatever you want. It was special and it was magical and best of all, it was real.

Origin StageUV pixie dust

I danced lots and, with every pulsing beat of the music, felt the absence of my worldly worries reinforced and my newfound carefree demeanour was bolstered. What was strange about the trip is that I don't remember many of the intricacies and self-similar details of my thought processes. I wasn't interested in reductionist analysis of the minute, preferring to consider (and thus fully understand) creation: existence as a whole. And boy, did I marvel gleefully at it all. Rather than act as a revolutionary experience in itself, the trip was a prophetic precursor to the entire weekend as its own self-contained unit. It allowed me to escape the shackles of my self-consciousness and embrace in the shared joy, blessing and genuine understanding of those present.


That evening Mount even turned up, but shitty UK licensing laws meant that the Origin stage had shut down by twelve. I traipsed off and watched fire spinners with a mans from Scotland who didn't seem to notice them at all. He started talking to me then shared a couple of bowls of dope with those around us before I excused myself went off to have an early night.

'av it!goblins

The next day I scoffed a baguette and immediately made my way toward the psytrance. I danced some, dropped my MDMA "bomb" and then was introduced to some of Mount's chums while he and a dude named Dawson munched thirty gees of assorted mushies each. Overly aware of the risks of dehydration (and also hyponatraemia), I made sure I drank about half a litre of water to every hour of dancing and, as such, urinated a lot. I didn't really notice coming up and as I was naturally high and drank quite a bit of cheap cider: I put down the earlier shimmers of love down to transient placebo effects. At about T+0:35, I was impatient and made a judgement that perhaps I wouldn't have deemed wise or worthwhile when sober. I wanted to really feel the drug during my first experience. And so, I dropped a small powder-containing capsule I'd managed to obtain on top of the original dose that I hadn't really felt yet. Despite failing to notice the launch, I really doubt both hits were duds. In retrospect, while they were both a little speedy, I noticed the acquisition of borrowed energy, some mouth dryness and enhanced appreciated for music. That day was one of the most enjoyable I'd ever experienced. Both ecstatically off our heads, Samuel Mount and I danced like damned fools to The Egg playing live in a freshly hotboxed main stage. Beaming so widely, he conspiratorially mouthed to me, "Try explaining something like this to the people at school." I could only dumbly nod my agreement.

inside the main tenthey you fittie from Canters

I didn't start gnawing at the inside of my mouth as my dealer had assured me, but I certers felt some degree of latent entactogenesis – being alive at this exact moment and in this exact place was almost too wonderful for me to bear. There was a feeling of emotional closeness with both others and myself that went beyond the normal festival spirit, but that felt entirely natural at the time. Inhibitions and communication restrictions also seemed to have dissolved: I'm sure I wore a gormless beaming smile the whole time I was dancing away with the bassy report of the psytrance beats resonating joy in my ears. That day I danced non-stop for eight hours under the most beautiful sky, in a broad green field and surrounded by the most friendly and stunning people I'd ever connected with. Together we recouped some of the sense of the shared infinity that childhood allows and that is rarely recognised before it's gone.

please stand up, please stand up

There was nothing to care about anymore. This was the way things could be. Trashy tabloids print scare-stories and E is classified as a Class A controlled substance but, with the benefit of sobriety and foresight, I would have smugly discontinued living after that day. Really I would. I'm only too aware of how much of a "woah, deep duuuude" tit this discourse makes me appear, and deeply regret if I'm giving psychedelic trippers (or even all recreation drug users) a bad name. I do hate to sound like the whiney "look at me look at me" Nathan Barley-esque character who thinks he's cool and special to have taken drugs when he's, shit, only eighteen but really, to say anything else would be denying this experience the aura of divinity that it deserves.


That night I continued dancing through Tristan, an incredible Hallucinogen set, the end of Squarepusher's self-indulgent wankery (plus a brilliant live performance of Journey To Reedham) and finally had to sit down to catch Aphex Twin and his freaky visual show. I crashed early that night once again, but woke the next day with an enormous sense of well-being. The remainder of the festival was spent smoking baccylicious jays, worrying about rain, trying to inhale phil stos, scoring gear off a hippy, giving away rubbish, laughing at the fags who camped near us and did nothing but sit in chairs, trading spliffs for ice creams, dancing next to the hottest chick ever to exist, and being approached by a mans from Rugby who spoke about UK Hip Hop events very very slowly in the amazing surroundings of the Solar Chill area.

You are a slave. Like everyone else, you were born into bondage, kept inside a prison. A prison for your mind.

Seeing as we'd have to miss Protoculture, I allowed myself half an hour more of psytrance before we departed. I asked a girl running a nearby stall to look after my bag while I danced – she was very pretty. As soon as we had we ridden the Big Red Bus back to the train station, the depressing reality of (un)reality hit us when uncouth pikeys strolled cuntishly into Thatham station. userinfoDavid longed even more than I to light up a last jay as we travelled back toward Redhill. But we were now away from the festival and the outside world was still shackled, still needed to be changed. Despite this, when I arrived at home, I realised that nothing would ever be the same again.

Have you ever marvelled at its beauty? Its genius? Millions of people just living out their lives – oblivious.

disarm you with a smile and leave you like they left me here

And so that was my last ever term of secondary education. I haven't learnt much nor grown particularly as a person, but I'm certainly thankful for the last two years of my life.


It began with me borrowing my dad's electric drill for some alterations to the walls. This was followed by smashing up my desk (vandalism == fun) in an effort to allow the power cables required by my box to reach the one socket. Unfortunately, once I'd finally hammered away the entire backboard, I realised that this one piece of wood was solely responsible for providing lateral stability and that, once removed, the desk was no longer free-standing. I solved this problem by delicately balancing the desk in position then nailing it into the walls. In the course of doing this, I narrowly avoided piercing the water pipes for the main bathroom but it all seemed to turn out fine (as long as no one ever intends on repositioning the furniture). Yoko had some spraypaint, so I graffed the vital piece of wood that I'd removed and propped it up outside my window where it happily remained until half term. I also pinched a monitor from one of the computer rooms to experiment with a side-by-side multimonitor display. The final result, while a little blurry, turned out to be very satisfactory. Thankfully, nobody noticed my theft the entire time because I hid the stolen monitor behind a curtain whenever I was out of the room. Later I stole a King's Week sign that now sits at home.

Throughout the term I pushed the limits of modern engineering by constructing a positively ingenious mezzanine floor to instantly double the amount of real estate in my room. Complicated construction works took place for several weeks but, after begging, borrowing and stealing furniture, decorations and bedding, it was ready in time for study leave. The triumphant final result was truly a marvel, especially given the budget (a quid or two) and the lack of tools (hammer and drawing pins). The most difficult problem encountered was that of safety. The mezzanine was three metres off the floor and, as the majority of it was designed to be my new bed, it was important that the chance of me rolling off the edge in my sleep was minimised. We ended up recycling someone else's shelving before nailing it into place and then concealing the whole structure by using old sheets as lovely drapes. All the work was worth it in the end because I successfully skipped innumerate assemblies, meetings and other time-wasting events by hiding up there fast asleep.


Recently, I've been mostly spending my days walking down the high street contemplating the moranity of life and trying to catch glances from cute young French girls in tourist parties. I bear lessons on autopilot, browse Slashdot during Games and, after supper, I play Frisbee without fail. It ought to be noted that this does have the ulterior motive of giving me the chance of checking out hotties who don't know my name. A girl named Fiona is pretty and smiles at me cutely, but we're both terrified of each other.


A few months ago a bunch of OKS had visited and spread rumours of underground tunnels. Apparently, not long after Canterbury Cathedral was built, some dude built a massive waterworks system that spans half the fucking city. After a few evenings spent exploring, we found a couple of entrances to the tunnel system. Sadly, one was made of fuck-off rusted cast iron and sealed with tamper-proof rubber. However, the other one was down a concealed stairway, had been visited in the last decade and had WWII-era lighting installed that had long since ceased functioning. After an initial reconnaissance, we made plans to investigate the waterworks after half term. Theodore and I assembled a crack-squad of elite miners/minors for the mission ahead: we acquired the services of Mr. Blessley and Marnham Jr. as well as stealing various pieces of equipment from lower yeargroups.

We gathered together all the kit we could find, sketched maps, drew up contingency plans and began to plan a couple of subterranean expeditions. Everyone in the group was sworn to the utmost secrecy and we had to sneak out at night whilst avoiding the infra-red CCTV cameras to go adventuring. We were impatient and itching for adventure so the first quest began.

The tunnels really were horrific. Years' worth of spider webs lined the ceiling which was so low we had to crouch in a manner that is sure to produce arthritic knees. It was pitch black and so dusty that we couldn't see more than half a yard through the grime. The bricks smelled incredibly musty and the air was stale as vinegar.

About twenty or thirty yards down the main tunnel, there was a right turn followed swiftly by a small hole leading into a tiny room probably 1 m by 1.5 m and barely 2 m tall. Immediately above my head was a heavy manhole cover and to the left was a tiny cast-iron circular door, not unlike that used to access a safe or maybe even exit a small submarine. I was able to lift the manhole cover a couple of inches and refreshing cool night air crept in along with a slither of moonlight. The door was a little more challenging. At first I was worried it would be rusted shut, but I was able to open it and revealed a tiny little porthole into unknown darkness.

I could barely fit through it; no-one was brave enough to follow and heaped up in piles on the floor was a strange fine, very dry black powder that stung like a bitch. While I shouted to the others to be reassured that they hadn't deserted me (they hadn't although they did sound mighty distant), I looked around my immediate surroundings. To the left was another lengthy tunnel very similar to the one we'd initially come down (apart from the dusty powder lining the floor). Ahead and to the right: solid redbrick walls. In the back-right corner however, a ring metal protruded some five inches. A foot above it was an identical ring. And then another. I reached up to touch one a couple of metres off the ground and my eyes followed them up, scaling up the wall ten feet, fifteen, then twenty. After about twenty five feet even the most powerful torch beam couldn't penetrate the sheer darkness over my head. I realised that the metal rings were in fact rungs on a ladder leading upward - I waited for the black dust that had coated the rungs to settle but the shaft above me still seemed to stretch up indefinitely.

This made no sense at all. When I'd been standing but half a metre behind my current position I could reach up with both my hands, push up a cover and climb into the outdoor air. Here I could stretch my arms as high as they'd go and touch nothing. It was as though I'd stepped into another dimension within these ancient tunnels. This underground system might well be centuries old, but it didn't explain why a region of space that by all rights ought to be open air, was in fact an infinitely tall dusty chute.

I was very perturbed (for days I was convinced that the tunnels allowed for trans-dimensional travel), but vowed to continue exploring regardless. I tried climbing the logic-defying ladder, but was forced to turn back only a few metres up. Some of the rungs didn't feel particularly sturdy under my weight and every single one had a fine covering of the ubiquitous painful black powder – every time I reached up for the next one I knocked a fistful onto my face. It was in my eyes, my throat, my nostrils and all over my hair. I must have swallowed a couple of handfuls of the stuff.

I was completely blinded and began to choke desperately. I couldn't breathe at all. The tunnels were so stuffy and filled with such stagnant air that even before I was coughing up grimy phlegm my respiration was seriously impaired. It was unbearable – my throat was raw and coated with the caustic dust that burnt into my flesh. I dived back through the circular doorway and felt my way gingerly back down the tunnel to the exit. In my haste to escape, I pushed Marnham in front of me and where my dirty hands transferred some of the dust onto his bare skin he yelped with pain.

I sprinted up the stairs, and took delicious lungfuls of the night air in between empting my throat of thick black mucous. My whole body was beginning to sting now where the dust had crept through my clothing and, forsaking any attempt at subtly creeping back into my room, I sprinted across the Green Court and ran straight into the shower room, stripping off as I went.

A full hour under a boiling hot power shower and two bars of soap later, my body was still smeared with the grime from the tunnels. My hair had been washed three times with shampoo, but my hands were filthy and my shoes and feet remained black. My jeans never really recovered. Worst of all was the tiled floor of the shower room. The whole thing was completely black and, no matter how many buckets of water we poured over it, it remained that way. The stinging had died down, but breathing was still troubled and my throat absolutely caned. We amalgamated our discoveries, left our clothes out to dry and crept to bed.

The second adventure took a lot more planning. I made a visit to home and stocked up on equipment. I bought some climbing ropes and gloves from a car boot sale. Digging around in the loft unearthed some moon boots, a bunch of old clothes as well as a boiler suit and some ski goggles. We consulted the maps we'd drawn up, found the manhole on the surface and wandered around ruins near the cathedral in search of more entrances to the tunnels or just more information about them. We performed numerous internet searches in the process of digging up relevant histories and researching everything even vaguely related to the waterworks. However, no amount of looking offered any answers for the mystery of the infinite shaft. We were still unable to explain how moving a yard along the plane of the earth's surface resulted in the ground moving from immediately above a person's head to far beyond thirty feet up.

The second expedition was slightly more successful. Blessley lives in Qatar and was able to construct Arab-style face masks for us. Nevertheless, they were largely ineffective in preventing us from choking. We continued according to plan up to the manhole cover but everyone was too scared to follow me through the circular iron door. In the end, I persuaded (read: intimidated) Mister Marnham to come through and hold a torch for me to climb the ladder.

Despite purchasing bungees, karabiners and other mountaineering apparatus, I had no suitable climbing harness and our rig was entirely inefficient. There was nothing for it: I'd have to climb the spatially-confusing, physics-defying ladder shaft without any safety gear. I adjusted my woefully inefficient face mask, asked Marnham to adjust his torch beam and set up the ladder. My pace was slow and careful, but before long I was about thirty to forty feet up. I'd left Marnham behind long ago, it was pitch black and I couldn't even hear my companions shouting below me. Looking up I saw the same sight that I'd been following the whole climb – a ladder stretching upward further into infinity. Terrified that I'd fall from the slippery rungs and concerned that I'd lost communication with Marnham below me, I began the steady descent, defeated.

Despite our extra precautions against skin-contact with the caustic dust, my eyes were watering profusely and I was practically choking with every gasping breath. I reached the bottom of the ladder safely and set off to explore the remaining tunnel systems while the others rapidly retreated out into the night air. After fully mapping the rest of the underground passageways (my lungs thanked me that I reached dead ends after only a few dozen metres) I scrambled out and sprinted to the showers again.

The next day we'd finally scrubbed the shower room vaguely clean and determined that nobody had been left to asphyxiate down the dust tunnels. All that remained to remind us of our adventure was our dirty clothing, a few black shower curtains, sketched maps, memories, a film canister containing a sample of the powder for chemical analysis and a suffocating cough for all expedition members. Theo was in bed for a day and I felt like I'd smoked a million millon badly rolled fags with the benefit of nil Swan filters. I pride myself on my superb immune system but it took me weeks to lose the cough and I went through a couple of packs of throat-relief lozenges plus countless lemsips each day. Only later would we find out that the tunnels we explored used to part of the sewer system and the dust that lined our throats was in fact the dried out remains of the combined bowels of fourteenth century Canterbury. Despite all the ick, I still feel that it was well worth it. We passed all our experience and knowledge onto Mini Marnham so that future generations of pupils may carry on our legacy of tearing down frontiers.


I remember several days being spent endlessly rewinding userinfoLaura's Shakespeare's Sister cassette on a borrowed Walkman in order to hear that track again and again through big headphones. Also The Error did something amusing.


The final weeks of term turned out to be a massive laugh. I made a blowup of goatse 4 m by 4 m and hung it outside Theodore's window. I drank far far far too much gin with Rosie and others. I covertly videoed the Removes completely taping up Theodore's door and then waking him up at some ridiculous hour in the morning. I've never seen someone so angry in my life and likewise, I've never seen such bad bruises before. Theo didn't speak to me for three whole days and I didn't even have any part to play in the whole affair. And then on the final night I got the Removes drunk and introduced them to Withnail & I. When that finished I broke into my housemaster's flat and was caught stealing his booze. That was kinda a bummer and pretty damn shameful too.

Farewell King's!

all i ever wanted all i ever needed is here in my arms words are very unnecessary theycanonlydoharm

2004-05-03 23:50

I achieved less than 30% in my last six A2 mocks and had lengthy and serious discussions with several of my teachers after lessons today. I need to fucking cease failing at life because, no matter what I say, I actually do care a bit. At least doing badly in classes makes me look cool – still, I'll deal with it.


userinfoSammie was irritating because he whined about a passport photograph of Catriona nine times over. I can't explain to him that I fully understand, but that he's wrong. He is forgiven though.


userinfoLaura texted me in physics to say she's broken up with userinfoGraham – it was devastating news. The way they made each other smile provided some of my happiest moments. The worst part is that they are both moranic and, as such, it's almost certainly due to retarded reasons (duh). I fucking hate gayboys who are cute then they only break with lovers so as to not be a "burden" and the like or because they're so filled with self-loathing that they can't bring themselves to see any worth in the mirror. I hoped something would get sorted out but then gave up. If anyone out there is fucking up something good because of misunderstandings, please just learn to communicate, kiddies.

And then I was struck with background echoes of sadness because I remember I care that Holly hasn't communicated with me. I also continually make myself upset by talking to Sophie who's clearly re-established herself as way out of my league and insists on moaning about her boyffffffuhfuhfuh. Castration is the answer I tell you.


Good one: userinfoLaura now hates me for mentioning the break up to her friends just as I find out that, for some reason, I was the only one meant to know.


2004-05-16 00:20

Later on I can laugh at myself for trying so hard to be hurt again like in a million bad movies. I convince myself that Sophie might genuinely want to be a friend, before noticing that she only speaks to me when I've initiated conversations in order to be polite. Even then she only half-heartedly talks about things that end up making me feel sad. Fucking hell: I need to stop analysing my own lack of penis length like a prepubescent. I still flirt outrageously and she laughs it off in that long-perfected soul-crushing way. It so annoying because I still think she's hott despite continually misreading her unenthusiastic politeness as vague affection. But then I have been in the sort of mood where I need to be pissed off by the whole, "you're a really sweet boy" and "I know I can talk to you, Jon, if I'm feeling upset or my boyfriends dump me" thing...


And then, out of the fucking blue, userinfoLois emails me on the 15th of May. How long has it been? About two years? She says we should meet up, haha.


Still, I cheer up by reminding myself of the fact that userinfoSuda really does fail at existence. And after all, when I'm not being a self-indulgent prick, I'll admit that life's been great for ages. Apart from examination stations, the only things that make me ride the waaaaahmbulance could, as ever, easily and instantly be solved by severing my penis. I'll say it over and over until you morons understand.


This entry was brought to you by yet more tedium and my almost-complete lack of motivation.

iamaconstantsatellite ofyourblazingsunmylove iobeyyourlawofgravity thisisthefateyou'vecarvedonme

This has been the weirdest fucking day evar. I stayed up all night trying to make my leavers' page less than hypergay (guess what: I failed) and thus slept not at all and was running on fumes for the whole day. I crashed around lunchtime when I was too tired to even feed myself and collapsed into bed with The Bicentennial Man for a couple of hours of much-needed slumber. I'd been hit by the whole userinfoWammie/Catriona thing a couple of days before and had been struggling to get my head round my feelings for the whole thing what with my atrophied brain and everything. userinfoPolish Matthew had kindly filled me in the night before, but it was all too much of a shock for me to be able to synthesise my thoughts in any way at all. Then I was a fag and cared because Holly didn't text me once and my daily email didn't ever arrive. Next, userinfoSam boned me and we attempted to talk about his Catriona situation for a while before I started racking my brains for positive memories and thoughts of King's.

Then, that evening userinfoSam and I wrote words about the last few years of our lives: we puzzled over our lengthy falling out in the fourth year, I explained to him the whole userinfoSuda/userinfoLois episode, we even mentioned Larry C, Miss Schlong and Fox Girl. He's the only person I told about my Holly and Sophie "dilemma". I often cannot thank my friends for being nice mans, but it was easy this time – I think I had some gin to hand.

And then I was supposed to sleep and do a chemistry examination the next morning?


another two hundred and fifty million spermatozoa writhing toward death444

The last couple of months have been fucking weird. For the first time in forever I've had a vague amount of pseudo-attention from girls with Holly giving me her number then actually texting, as well as Clare faggishly whining a bit. After falling more and more for Holly but continually fretting that, somehow, I still want Sophie "deep" down, I had a realisation today. It may all be inspired by my patheticness after Sophie said she wanted me once, but I just can't let go no matter how much I want Holly and feel that I need her. They're bessie friends for chrissakes. But I felt little reaction to her looking for partners at parties and burying boy's faces into her breasts. Sure I had an overwhelming urge to have her with me at the Hope Of The States gig and I was furious when she couldn't come to my house, but today Holly just casually mentioned that Sophie was out tonight "boning" her year 10. This news hit me straight away and I reeled as though it had been a physical blow of jealousy. I ought to stop pretending to myself but I still don't know what to do.

And so another post that started off positively has degenerated back into wah wah wah...
  • Current Music
    Feeder – Polythene Girl
  • Tags