Wake up. Press 'snooze' on my mobile and turn around. I know it's no good. Ten minutes is neither enough time to fall back asleep, nor is it enough to persuade me to get up. Not sure what time I went to bed, but I suspect my blocked nose is clogged up due to the shitty coke from last night. In what seems like only seconds after I last performed the action I press 'snooze' again, glancing at the display in my phone. I' m late. Again.
So fucking what? I turn over and try to milk another artificially blissful ten minutes, at this stage more lucid and quite aware of the futility thereof. Fuck work. I'm awake but resisting.
When the alarm goes of for the third time I grab my phone and violently stop the function. I drop my phone unto what I believe is my bedside table, only to be greeted with the sound of matter hitting liquid. Shit. Instantly I sit up, and try to fish my phone out of a glass of water. As I sit on the edge of my bed, my body trying to adjust to reality and the last remnants of Valium and cocaine jetting through my tired veins, I stare at my dripping mobile. Water has already seeped in behind the display and none of the buttons seems to work. Fuck.
Debating whether or not to just call a sickie. This is England after all, so no one would probably notice or care.
Now that the display on my phone is waterlogged, I no longer know what time it is. The day I got my first mobile I stopped wearing a watch. I wonder if I still have my old Citizen somewhere. I wonder whether it still works and if so, the extent to which it will show the correct time. I'm deliberately going through these thoughts, wasting time. I've already decided not to go to work. I hate it anyway. All it takes is a phone call.
Bollocks! I can't remember / don't know the number for my office. I have to make the call before 9.30; preferably now so as to avoid chatting to my boss. But seeing as I don't know what time it is, my progress towards a day of freedom is hampered somewhat. I noticed a half-empty bottle of Claymore 'whiskey' carelessly left opened next to the bed on the floor. As I bend over to pick it up I unintentionally get a whiff. It smells predictably like shit and my stomach groans. Ok, I gotta do this now or it'll be harder to lie.
I stand up, laughing. Upstairs I root through piles and piles of unattended correspondence hoping to find anything with my company's phone number on it. I finally luck out. Instinctively I pick up my soaked phone, suddenly aware again that it is completely not working. Change of plans. I'll have to call from the payphone down the street. I quickly put on a pair of jeans and throw a jumper over the T-shirt I've been sleeping (and living) in for the last two weeks. I stink. The sickie excuse won't cut it, as I'll be using a payphone on a busy street. My brain is trying it's best considering it wasn't expected to be used until much later today and under infinitely more mundane circumstances. I take a long swig of the Claymore. It tastes like shit (of course it does - it's cheap and I hate whiskey) and it burns all the way down. I mimic Jack Nicholson's arm movements from 'Easy Rider' as my body tries to hold down the vile liquor. I give up my search for clean socks and leave my flat in my flip-flops. It's January and my choice of footwear attracts some attention from all the other morons heading to work out of misplaced duty and guilt. The phone box is occupied by some tacky-looking woman from the council estate next door. She's probably in her mid-twenties, but she looks more like forty. The whiskey is keeping me warm, but for how long? I stand around, trying to get some circulation going in my body, debating what excuse to deliver if I ever get the chance to use the phone. The woman in the phonebox is swearing loudly and cursing at whoever or whatever is on the other end. Just fucking hurry up I think to myself, now aware that I'm stood on Goswell Road in mid-January wearing only flip-flops, a sweater and a pair of filthy jeans, clutching a small piece of paper with a number scribbled on it, and I have no idea what time it is. I ask a passer-by who ignores me. I would probably have done the same. If it wasn't for last night's Valium I think I would have been a lot less relaxed about the situation. But I've already decided I won't go to work and I don't really give a toss what anyone may think. This is London. If I want to stand around in the freezing cold stinking of bottom-of-the-barrel whiskey at god knows what time in the morning, that is my matter. Finally the no-hoper council estate bitch hangs up, only to make another call. This time more swearing. She catches my glances and gives me a 'what the fuck do you want, mate?' kind of look. I return the look with indifference. This seems to stir her up. She is still shouting obscenities even the most hardened Millwall supporter would be embarrassed about, but now she seems to want to have a go at me too. I can't be arsed with this right now. In a break between her swearing she mouths 'fuck off' and looks at me. I give her the finger and decide to head five minutes further down the road to the next set of phoneboxes. As I turn around to leave she opens the door to the booth and shouts 'you want some, do ya? You fucking want some?'. I tell her to go back to her council flat and make some more babies. As I walk down towards the Lever Street / Goswell Road junction I can hear her irate screams behind me. Fuck her. Johnny Rotten's immortal words run through my head. No future. Thank fuck I'm not her, her kid or her partner. The whiskey is wearing off and I'm beginning to feel the cold. I find another phone box, and as I feed coins into the machine I'm debating what to say. The phone rings for ages and I'm about to hang up when a colleague of mine answers. Without thinking I tell her that my boiler has broken down and that I'm waiting for a repair man to come out. My colleague doesn't seem to give a shit. Why would she? I tell her the service guy is scheduled to arrive between eight and one o'clock and that I have to stay at home until then. 'You won't see anybody until three this afternoon then' she says, laughing. My ploy is working. Yeah, as soon as he arrives I'll be in I hear myself saying, aware that both of us know I won't show today. I hang up and go to the Turkish on the corner. I still don't know what time it is, but now it doesn't matter. I buy a can of Pepsi and a chocolate muffin. Breakfast. The store owner is friendly and I'm a good customer. We chat until his limited English vocabulary runs out and I head back to my flat. For a split second I am overwhelmed by guilt. Guilt about not going to work, guilt about not sorting my life out, guilt about being alive. Then I remember that I still have plenty of coke left, and my stock of clonazepam and Valium is for the time being in a healthy state.
Once inside, I go online whilst eating my 'breakfast'. A can of Pepsi and a cigarette is the near perfect laxative and I rush to the toilet, getting rid of last night's evidence. I turn on BBC News 24. It's only 9.45. I've got the whole day ahead of me to do, well, nothing. I skin up a joint and nestle under my fleece blanket, letting the current events of the world pass me by. The comfortable droning of the newscasters zones me out. Once the joint is finished I have a nap on the couch. I awake to the weather forecast roughly two hours later. The sun is glaring through my filthy windows, but I know it's still freezing outside. I find a pair of socks that don't smell too bad and go downstairs to my PC. As the machine is booting up I cut up a couple of big lines and take them in two swift movements. My inbox is empty.
As the coke settles I get restless. Now that I've 'taken the day off', I feel I have to spend it wisely. I also know this won't happen. I look outside and nothing seems to change. The clock on my PC tells me it's now midday. I debate whether or not to go somewhere; anywhere but ultimately I cannot be arsed. I roll another joint whilst pondering my options. All my friends are working, so I'll have to rely on myself and my stash for entertainment for the next six hours or so. I could go back to sleep. Just for a little bit. I surf the net aimlessly for a while, then do another line. The contents of the wrapper is disappearing fast, and I'm getting high. Bring out the Claymore! If I'm going to waste the day, I may as well really waste it. I take half a clonazepam and a Valium and wash it down with the Claymore. I then smoke a cigarette and stare vacantly out onto Goswell Road.
Around two o'clock I have another line, pack some skunk and a couple of Valiums in a zip bag, check the battery level on my camera and head out. I work in Shoreditch so I consciously walk in the opposite direction just in case I bump into a colleague. I walk up past Angel tube station, past Sainsbury's and onto Copenhagen Road. It’s cold but refreshing, and I'm still buzzing off the last line I took. When I reach Caledonian Road I enter a newsagent and buy a bottle of water and two cans of Heineken. There's no way I can drink anymore Claymore without the aid of some beer. I turn north, following Caledonian Road past Pentonville Prison towards Camden. I haven't decided on a destination, or even a purpose for my excursion, but I do feel productive.
After about an hour's worth of walking in an arbitrary north-eastern direction, I take a break on a bench and open the second Heineken. A swig of Claymore is followed by a swig of beer. I smoke a cigarette and notice the biting cold. I could go back home, but then what? A guy in his mid-fifties with a long, unkempt beard and grubby fingernails is sitting next to me, gently rocking back and forth. He turns to face me, aware that I am observing him. I offer him the bottle of Claymore. He happily takes a long swig and wipes his beard with the back of his hand. Silence. Suddenly he burst out with the sentence "the only ism that works is fascism". This comment forces me to re-asses him. Upon closer inspection I realise that contrary to my first impression, he is not a tramp or another lost soul. His winter jacket is new and not inexpensive, and his eyes are full of life and intelligence. "You're right" I reply and sip my beer. He is right. The cocktail of drugs I've already ingested makes it difficult for me to string sentences together, so we sit in silence for a bit longer. "You're educated, you know what I mean, right?" he then asks. Unsure where this is going, I nod and smile and pass him the whiskey again. More silence. "The only ism that works is fascis…"
I stand up and decide to find park where I can skin up. The sunshine is beginning to irritate me, as its rays fail to warm my body. Thank fuck I have place to sleep at nights. Without saying goodbye I head off, leaving the stranger to his own circular conversation.
I reach Archway, and take a nostalgic trip around the red-brick estate next to the Tube station. I used to pick up hash from a crazy Tottenham fan on this estate many years ago. I wonder what he is up to now. Probably in prison. From Archway I head further north towards Highgate. I've decided to go to the cemetery and smoke a joint. Could my day be any more pointless? As I ponder this I remember that the alternative was work and my mental balance is restored. The cemetery is open to visitors, but I have other plans. From experience I know that there are several gaps in the Victorian spiked fencing around the sides of the graveyard and I sneak in unnoticed. The place is so overgrown that I have no problems picking a spot where I can't be seen either from the road or the inside of the cemetery. A fallen gravestone protrudes from the undergrowth. I try to read the inscription but years of neglect has made this impossible. They won't mind, they've been dead for a century I muse to myself and sit down on the slab. I roll a joint and smoke it, occasionally enduring a Claymore-Heineken chaser. I check my pockets for my phone and remember what happened earlier today. Shit. What time is it?
For some reason, perhaps for the first time in my life, I need to know the time. I stand up, intent on leaving the peace of the dead in favour of the chaos of the living, and nearly fall over. I feel quite wasted and my motor-sensory system needs more warning.
I am bored. I take the first of the two Valiums I brought and neck it down with another Claymore-Heineken combo. Momentarily unable to get my bearings, I find myself heading towards HIghbury. I need to know the time. If it is before five-thirty, I'm going to take a tube home. I'm cold and the coke is in my flat. It's getting dark now, so it must be four or five in the afternoon. I come across a newsagent and buy another beer. The store owner tells me it's six-thirty. I leave the store, wondering what happened to the day. Outside the shop I'm accosted by a six foot three gentleman of Caribbean origin. "Hey bruv! Bruv! My motor's broken down and I just need some money for petrol. Got any change?". I ignore him the best I can. If his car is broken down, what the fuck will a can of petrol do? He is persistent, however, and tries to keep up with me as I walk down Holloway Road. "You gotta help me" he says, "my missus is in hospital and I need money for the bus fare…". I though your motor was broken I think to myself, now aware that this could turn unpleasant. I muster a "sorry mate - I'm skint" and keep walking. Despite having nearly a gram of cocaine and half a bottle of whiskey in my system, I know the Valiums and Clonazepams will impede any attempt to a) run, b) talk my way out of trouble, or c) fight. I keep waking and my new companion keeps talking. He overtakes me and obstruct my path, forcing me to stop and look him in the eyes. A tense moment ensues, before I resolutely go out of his way and keep walking, this time a bit faster. "What?" he shouts. "You can't help a fucking brother out?". You're not my fucking brother I half think, half mumble to myself. "Fucking racist" he shouts and heads back up Holloway Road in the opposite direction. I'm thinking fuck you, you don't know me what the fuck is your problem, the world is full of assholes and suddenly I'm one and I keep walking because that is all I can do. Rush hour envelops me, I switch to London auto-pilot and find myself home at seven-forty-five. The only 'ism' that works is fascism. BBC News 24 is continuing their non-stop documentation of the decline of Western 'civilisation' with forced joviality. I cut up two massive lines, check my empty inbox and finish the Claymore. I realise I haven't eaten since this morning, but I'm not even remotely hungry. I take two Clonazepams, another line, and debate taking tomorrow off as well. My mental to-do list is now the equivalent of a 126 page PDF document (and it takes just as long to load), I have no clean clothes and I haven't showered for ages. I don't really care anymore. I'll deal with it tomorrow. It's only Tuesday night.
