About the author

I am a 28 year old man, born and bred in England’s green and grey county of Berkshire, just west of the great city of London.
I grew up learning the piano, and found solace in Music in the absence of good family life.
I had a tough time at school until the age of about fifteen when I found some new friends and discovered the joy of getting wrecked at parties in the company of sexually exploratory young women.
At sixteen I picked up a guitar and started playing in bands. Unfortunately, the band I chose to dedicate myself to for the next five years left me with little more than one five track demo, a crippling inferiority complex, a fragmented, pot-addled sense of self, and about ten grand’s worth of debt.

Then, while I was sitting somewhat dejectedly in my local pub with a couple of mates, the girl who I’d loved from the first moment I’d seen her walked back into my life. We talked the whole night, I bought her drinks, we laughed and reminisced and caught up. Then she told me she was going away for a month. I was gutted. A month!? Skiing, she told me. I don’t know why but, having just reacquainted ourselves I felt like she was going to disappear out of my life again. But she gave me her number and said she’d see me when she got back.

She did come back and I spent the next year with her, alive as I had never been before. She was, as they say, an old soul and all that she could had I was willing to absorb.

Three months in to this electric ride of love and lust she explained the reason for some of the stranger behaviour I’d observed over the past trimester. “I need you to give me a lift to score some smack.” he was terrified that I’d be angry or shocked but I said “Only if you let me try it.”

She said I shouldn’t and that it wasn’t what I thought it was but I cornered her and told her I wouldn’t take her if I couldn’t have some. She must’ve been withdrawing because she agreed, reluctantly.

I remember the first taste. I felt like Superman. Gone were the guilt and inferiority complexes, the lack of identity, the fear… All that was left was an inner calm and security.

We made love for hours interspersed with breaks for a chase and a joint trip to the toilet to vomit violently, cathartically (heroin is a strong emetic), and giggle at each other.

But it’s ultimately unsustainable, this dream world that diamorphine transports you to; or maybe it was the love I felt for her that made me so impulsive, reckless and foolish. For soon I’d jacked in my job in a fit of rage, crashed my car, got in trouble with the cops, and, yes, lost the girl I loved so much. All I had left was another scar on my heart and a heroin addiction.


It quickly spiralled out of control. I met other addicts, started doing crime, knocking around with criminals in a kind of underworld that would accept anyone from anywhere. I did time in prison before long which gave me time to realise that, actually, I couldn’t ethically sustain my habit by stealing from other people. That’s when I decided to stop stealing and cheating… but not doing heroin.


It’s not a fucking light switch, after all. I can’t just turn it off.


Anyway, now I play in a band, work, read, write, and apart from the occasional relapse, get by without taking ridiculous amounts of drugs 😉


So that’s the story so far…


I hope you enjoy my blog. I do!


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