EVERYONE in the world seemed to be at it. Going out, getting on it, getting out of it, getting wasted, leathered, trollied, mullahed, munted, fucked. Staying up all night at raves, clubs, blues, parties, dancing our hearts out, like nobody was watching. Like our lives depended on it.
A generation of wasted youth? Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘wasted’.
I’d somehow fallen in with the denizens of a crazed student household in Hyde Park, possibly through an acquaintance named Moz who’d attached himself to them as a way into the burgeoning student drug marketplace. That’s about as much as I can recall, officer.
JANUARY can just go and fuck itself. It is a non-month. Barely anything happens, apart from shit stuff. It’s cold. We’re skint. I’m miserable. It’s rubbish.
I understand that there are worse things going on in the world, that many people have a much harder time of it than me and I probably don’t have it so very bad, really, but as far as I’m concerned, the idea of getting enthusiastic about anything in January is just a stupid, crappy joke in poor taste.
In this long, dark recession of the soul, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. We’re in it for the duration. Doom. Gloom. Woe.
Stick me in a box in the airing cupboard with some straw and a couple of carrots until, I dunno, May or something. It’s better for all concerned.