There is no doorbell and no-one answers the knocks so I climb around the back of the house, and in through the kitchen window. He's home. It smells of oven. It's quarter four on a Saturday afternoon, but he's sat in his massive, bare living room, doing lines off a Fisher Price plastic mirror. Each snort echoes twice round the room. He moved in five months ago but all that is there is a sofa, an upturned bin, a forty inch telly and a cardboard box; the content of polystyrene bones spilled across the carpet.
"Alright mate?", he doesn't look up. Sweaty pikey fuck has the same thing on as Saturday; creased shirt with stains down. On the left hand side of his lip hangs a "coke-bogey", like those luminous white balls snotty kids have in the playground, and it's sliding half towards the mirror, half towards his open mouth. The other one, Jew, is in the kitchen, cooking God knows what. What exactly do these people actually eat? I'm here because Liam is company and he gets some pretty good blow from the Albanians he knows. Plus, the longer he keeps on going, the more generous he becomes.
"Hold this", he hands me the mirror, "I'm going for a piss, help yourself".
I start grinding it up with a Sky card, the fatter the line; the cheaper my night is gonna be.
My girlfriend hates coke. She said that she always imagined it would be some sort of glamorous, sophisticated experience but she never tried it cos her mother (who was a groupie with some fucking awful band in the 80's) used to be a dealer and used to hide it in my girlfriend's dolls house when she was a kid. When she finally did it, she said it was like when she had tried Karma Sutra; hanging on, hanging on, but when she was actually allowed to come, she couldn't. For me, coke is like stepping onto a double decker, only it is really fast and once you get on, you can't get it to stop. Time passes you, flies by, and you are ringing the bell to stop, but it won't let you off. So actually...both our analogies are pretty much the same.
Liam comes back; he's smoking a fag now, but it's not even lit. Fucking druggie. And he's inhaling it, flicking the ash but I don't dare light it- cokeheads get very fucking nasty. I'd rather jump in front of a police dog, jackets full of fucking smack and pills than insult a fucking cokehead. Definitely the more deadly of the drug user.
I'm Barcelona, he's Madrid. I let him win. I get a "commiserations" line. Who'll be fucking crying when the Albanian hands him a massive fuck off bill. Not me Son. The coke makes me more aggressive and I beat him 3-1. Not bad, but when I beat him again he asks the Jew what the sharpest thing in the kitchen is. Lucky for me, it's a tin-opener.
We plug the rest of the coke and head to the G's and it's the same as usual; drugged up dick heads and dolled up slags. We head to the bar and Liam buys me a drink. He tells me he hasn't been to sleep in three days, so when he buys me a Stella I don't dare tell him my usual is a vodka.
Christ it's busy. Some fat girl in this elastic pink number is trying it on with this gay guy in the corner. Evie's friend is here, the hot one, doing this sort of sexy slow dance with this guy my ex cheated on me with. Fucker. Does look pretty hot, except the music is the Prodigy. Hardly high-class romance. Bored, and not nearly as fucked as I want to be, I grasp a near full pint near my wrist on the sticky bar.
The Jew comes back from the bog, his eyes bloodshot, not fixed on anything, dilated, fucking oblivious as fuck to what he's been doing. Yet he still manages to pull. Bastard. This place is a fucking dive, mate. You wanna wash her face before you put your tongue down her throat, pal. I meet a friend from my old job who's into selling MDMA now apparently. I give it a tester, persuade some girl to buy me a sambucca. Raaaaaaay! It's now my birthday..a drink on the house please Sir. It gets a cheer and another free beer. It works. Perhaps I'll get a birthday shag and all.
Fuck me, if I spent my birthday like this, I'd fucking hang myself.