London calling

So, this post has been produced on special request that I share some stories from a trip to Europe that I took a few years back. Making a short story very, very long is something I tend to do, so whatever.

2009, if I remember correctly, my homey Leaf and I hatched the grandest plan of all time to venture to Europe and suck its dick, but in actuality, this “grand” plan was rather “dodgy” and unstable, but fuck it… we already had the tickets.

We flew to Gatwick. Custom’s officer took one look at us and after we told him our plan he was all like, “You twats think you just show up in a foreign country with no planned itinerary, looking like yourselves, and no person to contact in this country to validate your plan… and we’re supposed to say, Yeah mate, have a go. Best of luck.” He’s not impressed by my natural charm and it takes a few phone calls before we get a hold of Leaf’s family that can vouch for us. And we were in.

Train ride, Underground, overland train again, meet family, post up, blah, blah, blah… we get a hold of these shitheads that Leaf met in P-town out drinking one night at The Florida Room in Portland. He drags these British kids, out on a US tour, back to his place and feeds em mushrooms, smokes em out tough, posts em up royal style and they end up staying a couple days. The promise of their reciprocation was about to pay off as we rolled into North London on the train.

Lemme say that I like to go hard when I’m out partying, but these kids are ‘puttin on clinics’ when it comes to kickin shit up and fucking raging. Everyone, no matter what age in London, parties like their 25 years old. Seriously. Blow is called ‘Gear’ and you can’t do it off the top of the tank in the pub’s bathroom cuz the flusher button is in the way… so you gotta do it off the lid. It’s fuckin nasty. Oh, and also, you do it with a ‘note’ rather than a ‘bill’… and from my short time in London, I will say fo sho that The Queen has had an unimaginable amount of gear tooted across her face! Closed the pub with these fools and follow them back to their place where we can crash and not soon enough cuz I was so fucked up I was ready to pee someone else’s pants, when they say “Aw man, we can’t wait to go out tomorrow night when it’s Friday and we don’t have to work the next day! We’re gonna get our faces fucked.” I couldn’t believe it, I was fucking shwasted and these kids just put in a work nights worth of raging. No big deal.

I was intimidated.

Next night, we got “geared up” at the kitchen table before we headed off. North London is pretty fucking cool. It’s dirty with lots of graffiti and got freaks and geeks walkin the streets. Street vendors (drug dealers), off license liquor bodegas, and tons of Turkish kabob joints, and along with the general sense of contributing good and excessive partying form, made it like their was this electricity in the air and we were about to be part of a special night based on our group dynamic… but really it was probably just the blow.

We rocked out at this costume party for many, many hours, on many, many hits of ecstasy and constantly rotating spliffs. Nobody really smokes herb straight, they all roll it with tobacco and most of the time just smoke hash and tobacco. My heart was sprung! I was in love with Europe for the sole fact that it’s in the world hash belt that doesn’t cover us over in The States. Turkish, Afghani, Moroccan, Egyptian, Greek hash oh fucking my…it was a revelation. But anyway, I think The Talking Heads ‘Stop Making Sense’ played 4 time while we rewrote the book on ‘New Dance Moves’. Ended up in the basement doing Ketamine at like 8 in the morning. Of course, this gets us kicked out and we spilled out onto the streets of sunny British week end morning.

I was lost. The British kids, one was a Pumpkin, one was Ziggy Stardust, one was The Slutty Queen, one was Shirtless Matthew Mccoughnaey or however the fuck you spell it, and Tim (no costume)… the leader of these misfits, had so much K that they are all imitating Kamodo Dragons, crawling and laughing uncontrollably on all four’s doing lizard tongues and shit, fucking crawling across the street, mostly because they have had too much Ketamine, which makes you very heavy and it becomes hard to get off the ground. Leaf left the party hours ago in a cab and I was stupid enough to stay with these fucks. I end up having to pick up on two feet, and ‘Weekend at Bernie’s-ing’ these assholes across the street one at a time to this house where we smoked a spliff in the garden to regain our wits before these fools I was with could walk and we finally made it back to their dirty flat.

No rest there. Ziggy Stardust has his weiner out, as he did most of the night, and is trailing his silver sequin body suit behind him around the ankles throughout the place looking for an egg, because The Pumpkin bet him he couldn’t stick one in his ass and get it out without it breaking, for 50 quid. Game on. Not only does he do it but he then gets challenged to cook it up and eat it.

He did.

I took that as my curtain call and said goodnight. They didn’t sleep.


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