Ecstasy, an Indian Buffet and legionnaire’s disease

For my 18^th Birthday there was a surprise party with all my family and friends and a buffet cooked by Dad#2.  I didn’t eat much as I had earlier swallowed several ecstasy tablets.

This was not the first time I had taken ecstasy....that story is on the substories site here (yes I'm greedy and have 2 sites!)

After feigned surprise, family hugs and friendly high fives we commenced the drinking....only problem is it’s really hard to get drunk when you’ve taken ecstasy.  I cannot begin to contemplate how many beers and shots slid through my sweaty palms and into my quivering face hole that day.

The party was great, Dad#2 created a delicious Indian themed buffet (he was an A' la carte chef before moving into catering management), a friend had supplied the decks and between three of my mates they controlled the tunes all night (actual mixing of course not just party DJ) and to top it all off I was utterly ruined, as any 18^th Birthday host should be.

I don’t remember at which point in the evening family members sloped off but eventually it became myself and a large selection of my party loving, chemically enhanced or just plain drunk friends left to tear up the cordoned off back room of this small town pub....which we did until at least quarter past midnight...oh yeah! I said Midnight! Hahahaha (small town, no late licences in them there days!)

We all dwindled away from the pub and I left with a particularly smashed friend to find a new location for fun and frolics (not everyone had the extra party fuel that Ecstasy provided).  En route I needed a wee and for completely unexplainable reasons thought it prudent to jump a 5 foot stone wall onto the embankment of the deep trickling river that dissected our small town. 

I tip toed through the undergrowth conscious of my new “Birthday outfit” (Disclaimer: “Birthday outfit” is in no way affiliated with “Birthday Suit”), which consisted of expensive jeans, a crisp new T shirt, a handsome watch and some box fresh trainers.

"Birthday Suit" from the film Bruno by Sacha Baron Cohen

Edging close to the rivers edge so that my stream of steamy urine would enter the river with a hearty splash, I have no idea why this was so important to me but it was, I release a tester squirt.... I am not close enough... I clamp my winkie in my hand stemming the flow and shuffle closer...

It was difficult to see the edge and as I teetered around groping for support, cock squeezed in one hand, blindly fumbling forwards with the other, I found a particularly sturdy branch slightly to my right.  I clenched it tightly with my cockless hand and fairy stepped towards the murky water.

I released the pressure and my hot urine arced into the river...glorious!!   I closed my eyes and savoured the moment contemplating my movement into man-dom...18 years old...this ecstasy is fucking brilliant...hang on...

I had started to lean but with closed eyes I hadn’t noticed....the particularly sturdy branch was clutched in my hand, no worries, I’m fine.....hang on (again).....the particularly sturdy branch is 15 foot long and attached way back up the embankment off to my right....as my weight shifts I stumble towards the water, the long branch creating a grounded Tarzan style swing...my flailing body tumbling quickly towards the green, sludge topped river.

I came to rest, floating face up, cock out, with a new scarf of green mould.

As I clambered out and made my way back up the embankment, over the stone wall, to the vigorous thigh slapping and tear inducing laughter of my close friend I felt like Sasquatch.

Harry and the Hendersons

Slightly stone faced with the shock but still fizzing inside from the chemicals I couldn’t help but laugh too.  My previously box fresh trainers squeaked (in a not dissimilar sound to the word “Sasquatch”...almost but not quite onomatopoeia) and my not so crisp T shirt dripped with mucus coloured river water....at least my new watch was waterproof.

We continued our walk, now with a squeaky soundtrack, laughing and joking towards a friends house who couldn’t make it to the party but should have been home by now.  We arrived on his driveway to find a worrying lack of lit up windows....my friend picked a small stone and attempted to throw it gently at the upstairs bedroom window.

On the third attempt he smashed the window and the remnants of the glass pane fell from the second storey onto the tarmac driveway....shit that was loud.....we looked at each other like two gormless meer cats before wordlessly deciding to sprint.

So to celebrate my shift into becoming a bona fide grown up I had wasted a perfectly glamorous Indian buffet, wandered around like a wide eyed, over talkative idiot amongst my close family, swallowed liver curdling amounts of alcohol, danced and laughed like a crazed giraffe, taken a dip in the local river with my cock out and been an accomplice to the beginnings of an attempted break in....all in all a pretty good Birthday.

Falling out with my brain, purple storms and glass coffins

As I write I am amused about the way in which my brain likes to regurgitate memories, for some reason the bad memories seem to be stored closer to the surface.  I don’t know why it works this way but I presume this is normal and attempt to get on with my life.

Because the subject matter of dullboyblog is basically my life story you would think it simple to churn out witty and concise posts about things that have affected me, however, I am becoming increasingly aware that my brain is less of a friend than I at first presumed.

I have some very intense (yet darkly comical) stories to share with the cyber world in the future but I don’t want to rush into them just yet. (Mainly because as every newbie to blogging will understand it’s bloody hard to get people to read your blog and I don’t want to spuff my load too soon!)

I’ve made this venture to share my soul even more of a challenge by choosing to include future subject matter that is extremely personal to not only myself but people I am still intrinsically attached to, there are subjects and scenarios that such people would not want spoken of let alone scratched into the cubicle wall of the World Wide Web.  Because of this I am not publicising dullboyblog within any of my existing social circles, both web based and of the actual homo-sapien variety.  

Anyway, I digress, back to the memory thing...I decided to create dullboyblog after stumbling across a mind map I created one drunken evening which details a lot of things that I felt made me angry and sad inside.  With a less hazy view, after rediscovering said mind map in a sober condition, it became apparent that although my life so far is in no way a trauma filled sob story, it is potentially interesting and has a little of something for everyone. 

There will be stories that you would only expect to dubiously skim through in a glossy magazine, you know the ones ....“I gave birth to a bear!” or “My husband can’t stop eating rusty nails!” (neither of these two scenarios will actually appear) and there will be stories that make you wince, laugh, become angry and maybe even spill a tear.

So the reason I now doubt the strength of my relationship with my own brain is that the drunken mind map seems to have exhausted all memories I’m being allowed, I’ve maxed out my internal hard drive and as I said the memories within my brains rationing scheme all stem from something that makes, or made, me angry and sad.  

I don’t feel like I’ve had a bad time and bewilder myself with my inherent inability to conjure up even the smallest snippet of rose tinted reminiscing that I’m fucking sure must be dwelling somewhere within the depths of my peanut shaped head.

An example....dreams now elude me altogether.   

As a child I remember dreaming every night and waking up knowing exactly what I’d dreamt with a clear yet surreal imprint of the dream passed over from my slumber to my newly percipient self. Now, as an adult, I only very occasionally drift into consciousness with the blurry remnants of a dream, never any detail, never any real understanding of what happened, why, with whom or where.

The fact that I’m inept at retaining any understanding of where my brain goes when I sleep, coupled with my difficulties fetching memories from my over abused grey matter mean I have only two dreams that I can absolutely guarantee I’ve had, both make me sad and angry.

The first stems from a seemingly innocuous event when I was a very young child. I was taken to visit my Nan in hospital, she had cervical cancer.

In my mind the location is a vast grey building a long way from home, not dissimilar to the institute I visited my Aunt in.  When we arrived we were told that she was having several hours of treatment and we would be unable to see her as the treatment was completed in a sterile and secured room.   

We walked the grounds of the hospital and eventually found a high window that we were hoping to peek into to catch a glimpse of my Nan.  I was hoisted up to the window to see my Nan laying motionless in what I can only describe as a bulbous, closed top, glass coffin, she was receiving radiotherapy in the affected area,yes, actually internally 

Statistically 6 out of 7 dwarves aren't Happy

This vision became a regular on the bill in my childhood dreams and for unknown reasons was combined with the boys bathroom at my primary school, each time the glass capsule would be situated in the primary school toilets and it would usually contain my Nan although sometimes other loved ones and very occasionally myself (although I would still enter the bathroom and look at myself in the coffin).

The second dream I still today cannot fathom.  I am wandering through a generic old people’s home searching for something, I have no idea what.  The old people’s home, or rather one that bears a frown inducing resemblance to the dream location would several years later be built very close to my teenage home.

The weather is beautiful until I step outside to continue my search for the unnamed treasure and then the skies would immediately turn purple and furious, thunder, lightning and a deluge of oversized rain drops clouding my vision and forcing a frustrated retreat back inside.  I could never find and never did find what I was looking for. 

These repetitive dreams are the only ones I ever remember and although I’m sure there were also plenty which included superhero abilities, glorious victories hemmed with mass applause or gargantuan sugary treats it still makes me wonder.....have I forgotten how to dream?

Maybe when I patch things up with the old grey matter (a bit of Sudoku might do the trick) it will allow me the wondrous escapism that only a bleary eyed reminisce of the nights drowsy travels can provide.

Bottle top glasses, secure facilities and a roof top escape

As promised, this post will talk about my absolutely fruit loop Auntie.

First however, it might be important to explain to any new readers that “Stories of a rather dull boy” is a true story about my life, it is also being kept in a roughly chronological order.

The story began at “The non blob, blog” where you can learn about my early years prior to any post on this blog.

If any of the posts confuse you or make references to previous events that you don’t understand or recognise then it’s your own fault for not being here at the beginning.....you could of course just read from Post 1 onwards....there’s not too many and if you don’t enjoy every one I offer a money back guarantee, just supply your full bank details in an email with your estimate of the time spent to read whichever post is deemed to be of insufficient loveliness and I’ll be sure to transfer the necessary funds....don't forget to include the 3 digit code on the back and details of a current standing order on your account.

Anyway....back to my mental Auntie (she’s the one who’s house I visited as a punishment for getting caught smoking pot in “dullboyblog goes live – Post 1”)...

She was a lovely person, a great mother, a doting wife and an all round good character.  However, she was struck down with a cancerous brain tumour in her 40’s and underwent life saving surgery.

The surgery was so aggressive that it unintentionally left her in a coma for 3 months.

I visited her limp, lifeless body several times during these months only to watch machines pump liquid and air into her fragile casing.  It was an awful site to behold, shaven head sporting a huge pinched scar, bloated limbs due to water retention and a bag of piss and shit hanging on the side of the bed.

Eventually to our surprise and relief she awoke, bleary eyed and confused as if a new born, although admittedly less noisy.  Her muscles had deteriorated whilst in the coma and she couldn’t lift herself from the bed let alone contemplate walking.  For several weeks she didn’t know who we were, that includes her own mother, sister and children.

After many months of rehabilitation she walked and talked at close to a normal level and the doctors began drip feeding reality back into her life.  She returned home confused and lonely and proceeded to go slowly nuts.

This image has no real relevance other than chickens seem a bit thick and potentially mental (Ralph Steadman)

No one can blame her fragile state of mind on anything other than the trauma that preceded it but her future actions certainly made some ripples throughout our relatively steady family life.

She once chased her daughter out of her own house after a petty argument, grabbing the nearest thing to swing at her, which happened to be one of those steering wheel security bars.  My cousin, the daughter, ran along the street and clambered into her car for safety.  My auntie continued the chase like a rabid beast and when realising she couldn’t open the door jumped onto the bonnet and attempted to smash her way in through the front windscreen.

It wasn’t long after this that she was committed for the first time.

I visited a tall, grey, secure building, somewhere obscure, within the outskirts of London.  We were buzzed in after taking it in turns to show our face to camera so images could be stored in preparation for our memorials or the soon to be newspaper article concerning our demise at the fists of a gang of dangerous mental patients.

Whilst waiting for my Auntie to appear I suggested a game of pool with one of the other “clients”, my request was met with a unexplainably blank yet angry stare and a smidgen of full body twitching.  I waited longer than I should for a response and eventually backed away fearing I may have just signed my own death certificate, or at the very least added an asterix so someone knew where to sign.

When my Auntie did arrive she had in tow a hulk of a man, at least 6’6” and as wide as a small outhouse built for disposing of human waste.  He was introduced as her new boyfriend and had an amazingly soul searching glare that was intensely magnified by the thickest bottle top glasses I have ever seen.  Seriously, I didn’t know you could hang that much glass on someone’s face without fear of causing serious neck injury!

Eddie "The Eagle" Edwards...don't recognise him? Read a little sub story here, surprisingly heart warming

Two weeks after this visit I received a phone call to say that my Auntie was in police holding cells, she and her bottle topped boyfriend had made their way to the roof of the secure hospital and despite efforts from Police helicopters would not come down.  Eventually the escape was thwarted with delicate words and fast acting tranquilisers.  She and the hulk were released from police custody under the mental health act and deposited in two different hospitals.

Eventually my Auntie was deemed fit for integration back into society and moved into her own home on the fringes of London.  For several years I would endure heart wrenching phone calls as most of my family, including her mother and daughters, could not cope with the intricacies of her prescribed drug fuelled fantasies so I became the one she would call when she wanted attention.

She would often ring me on a Friday night to share her woes.  Once she called to say goodbye, reporting that she had swallowed several packets of her favourite pills and was waiting for them to take effect.  I wiped my tear stained face and immediately called my mother who in turn informed the police.  We both lived miles away and felt helpless, the police arrived at my Aunties house, broke down the front door and found her sat in the front room doing a jigsaw and drinking tea.

Another similar scenario ...she rang me from the car explaining that she was drunk and had ingested too many anti depressants.  Her plan was to drive into something hard or off of something high (she hadn’t decided which yet) and again was ringing to say good bye.  This one ended in her being non contactable for several days and reappearing stating that she had just stayed with some friends for a while....what were we all worried about?

Eventually her attention seeking wore thin with all family members and most have now disowned her completely.  I still take or make the occasional phone call and always send Birthday and Christmas cards but she seems to have succeeded in alienating everyone who loves her and has prescribed herself a lonely if not fantastically delusional route to the grave.

Stop and search, Nanny shame and girly hair

During our time driving around looking for places to smoke we frequented an empty piece of land which was later to become a superstore.

It was hidden nicely out of the way on the outskirts of our town and there would often be two or three cars full of us sucking up some green, sickly fumes.

Inevitably the police cottoned on to the fact we were using this place as a kind of smoky hideout and eventually rocked up and searched us.

All of us had successfully hidden our treasures so other than a stern look and a grunt we got off scot free. (wanna know where the term “scot free” comes from? Click here)

We sauntered away like Ronnie Biggs (pre second arrest of course)

As bolshie teenagers we presumed that the police would not turn up again (hoping they would believe that we would never be so stupid as to arrive at roughly the same time the next day for exactly the same purpose......we were however, exactly that stupid)

This time they killed the engine of the car, turned off the lights and free wheeled up behind us completely unnoticed until they gave a quick flash of blue and were already out of the car....we were absolutely ruined and made no attempt to hide what we were doing.

They confiscated the pot they found on the dash board, which was not much more than the size of an M&M, and were intrigued by the pipe I was smoking.  In a rather surreal 15 minutes I demonstrated how my pipe was designed to look like an inconspicuously large bolt but when in fact you screwed the components together in a different way it became a lovely brass pipe.

They gave me a ticket and told us not to be so stupid as to get caught again.  The stop and search ticket was worth no more than bragging rights amongst friends.

The next day, guess what we did?

Yep, we went back..... same scenario although no pot confiscated this time however an abundance of resin stained smoking paraphernalia littered around the car meant we were of course busted again.

The police, to be fair, were quite polite and tried to make it clear that we were doing little else but wasting their time.

When asked if we wanted another ticket to keep a record of this search I said yes because I thought it would funny to show my friends two identical tickets dated a day after each other.

The policeman must have recognised the smugness in my tone and said “oh dear we seem to have run out of tickets, I’d better call the Sergeant”

Yes another Banksy....you know me by now guys

 

Fuck......another car turned up with Copper Big Knob inside, I was made to feel small, threatened with cuffs and a sleepover before eventually being driven home in the back of their, admittedly well valeted, police car.

At my front door I went to thank them for the lift with the best shame face I could muster, hoping it would be a swift good bye but no, I was instructed to go and tell my parents or guardians that the police were at the door and needed a word.

I walked into the front room to see my mum watching TV and my dear old Nan knitting some hideous jumper that a close relative would more than likely have to feign affection for at some soon to be celebratory event.

There was no opportunity to ease them into the current scenario so I lead with “The police are at the door, I’ve been caught smoking pot”.....the look of devastation with a drizzle of confusion still haunts me a little today.

Long story short, after an emotional bollocking from the Mum / Nan double team I stormed from the house in typical teenage fashion to spend the night at a friends house.

It was a female friend who had rather understanding parents and occupied a 3 storey town house not far from my own home.  I knocked and heard the second story window open, my friends mother glanced out into the dark before wordlessly ducking back in to advise my friend of the teenage shaped visitor.

I waited a few moments only to be met by my friend sporting a ridiculous look and then releasing a hearty laugh and point combo....not only had my friend spotted me looking rather glum on my recent voyage in the back of a police car her mother had suggested that a girl visitor had arrived (I had long hair and was pretty scrawny...although definitely didn’t have any chesticles).  What a great way to enter my supposed “retreat”.

Eventually I went home and my mum was indescribably calm, she was honestly more concerned about me being in trouble with the police than she was about the particular substance that got me into that predicament.....I was warned against the danger of harder drugs and offered the opportunity to use our “utility room” as a second lounge so I could smoke pot outside the back door rather than wandering (or in our case driving) the streets and risk being caught again.

In reality the “utility room” was actually a single layer brick room that at one point would have been a coal shed attached to the back of our house...it was however mine, had its own entrance and was perfect in every way.

Next up maybe a little about my mental Auntie....until next time dull lovers

Upside down cars, photographic evidence and tumble dryer girlfriends

As a teenager I worked within walking distance of home (yes the one where my boss went fruit loopy with a crossbow, see previous post) and because of this I didn’t learn to drive until it was absolutely necessary.

My friends however were eager to get out of our shitty little town so one by one they all passed their tests and bought shitty little cars.  For some strange reason I seemed to be the talisman of bad luck and in total was an eager passenger in 4 separate car crashes...one of which was admittedly my fault.

The cars also became “stoner mobiles” which we could park in secluded places around the local countryside, shut all the windows and get rather glassy eyed.

A friend, let’s call him Hamish just for fun, bought every mans dream car, a rusty yellow Mini.  The first altercation involved said rusty mini lying awkwardly in a ditch because once stoned I presumed it would be funny to hold my hands over his eyes as we pulled out of a junction on a country lane...it wasn’t that funny.  

We walked for 2 miles to the closest village to knock on a strangers house in order to borrow the phone (NO...we didn’t have mobiles at the time!)

All the way he wouldn’t speak to me.....2 miles is a long fucking way when your stoned and have no one to talk to!

The same car was eventually dragged from the grassy ditch, repaired and almost immediately involved in a second calamity.  Hacking out of the countryside towards civilisation we approached a busy roundabout at 60mph only to realise the brakes had failed and Hamish had no choice but to drive up over the curb and into a hedge which was unsuspectingly perched on the edge of a 6 foot ditch.

Again, the brave little Mini was repaired and again on a slim country road, at a speed that would feel unsafe even in the largest of cars, a stone hit the front windscreen turning it instantly white.  Hamish slammed on the brakes and we shimmied to a halt with no further injury to us or the Mini.

We had to smash the windscreen out with a tyre lever and drive 15 miles home with no windscreen, the autumn breeze trying its hardest to tear the skin from our boyish faces.  This wasn’t the third crash, you can read about that here but it’s not all that funny.

The most impressive crash I participated in was that of another friend called Johnny, he had rich parents and a Vauxhall Nova sporting excessive body work modifications and an exhaust almost large enough to camp in.  Most of the time he drove like a complete dick but on the day of the accident black ice was to blame.

We rumbled around a long sweeping bend at only 10mph over the 30mph limit, met some black ice and started to slide towards an oncoming Ford Sierra.  As a new driver Johnnys limited skill set meant his first reaction was to steer away from danger with hands as heavy as a silverback.  The Suped up Silver Nova (we had given it the name after Oasis recorded “Champagne Supernova”) began to fishtail across the road, narrowly missing the oncoming Sierra and ending up skating sideways into the mouth of an adjoining road.

We hit the curb of the adjoining road sideways, the car slammed, launched and then gracefully spiralled.....once, twice, three times (a lady) before sitting down on its crumpled roof and continuing to skim a further 50 foot down the road.  The windscreen had smashed and sprayed glass into the car, the roof careering along the tarmac provided a delightful display of sparks to join the pebbles of glass bouncing from our grimacing faces.

Coming to a stop, the silence was surreal, Johnnys face and knuckles were white (and a little grazed).

He gripped the steering wheel with the ferocity of a bear clutching a salmon and without moving he said “is anyone dead?”

Grrrrrrrr

I wasn’t and my girlfriend at the time screamed to signify that she too was still alive.

I undid my seatbelt and fell onto the crinkled roof skin, my door was crushed, the window opening half its original size, and the door would not open.  

I undid Johnnys seatbelt, he fell out of his upturned chair, broke his nose on the steering wheel and called me a cunt.  This was to be the only real injury any of us carried away from the wreckage.

My girlfriend, who was not wearing a seat belt in the back, had been treated to a bit of tumble dryer action.  When we finally kicked the driver side door open she pushed between us, clambered out of the car and sprinted immediately away...I think it was shock, I didn’t see her again that day and our flourishing relationship seemed to dwindle quickly afterwards.

Johnny and I staggered from the wreckage, checking that our limbs were all attached properly and looked at the scene we had created....hang on....what’s that?

With the sound of sirens in the distance we both simultaneously realised what looked odd, not the shards of metal and glass sprinkled behind the wreckage but the photo’s scattered up the road, about 100 of them dancing friskily in the wind.

When the car had rolled, the glove box had sprung open and a packet of photos had bounced around the car emptying its contents through the several broken windows.

I picked up the first picture which fluttered around at my feet and found an image of myself with a cheeky grin...... and a hash pipe.....the photos contained images of me and my small group of friends getting stoned via various intricate and modestly over engineered contraptions.

Johnny and I sprinted (I’m sure it was more hobbled) up the road collecting the photos as the sirens got closer, I imagine it was very Benny Hill.

We were still collecting the last few as the ambulance and police cars arrived....”yes officer the conditions are terrible, no officer we are not hurt” subconsciously thinking “please for whatever reason do not ask to look in my pockets”.

There will be one other significant vehicle based fun-time featured in the future but for now dull lovers, tutty bye.