Christian Moron

I saw this today, and found it to be one of the funniest things I've ever read. I found it on Sarcastic Bastard's website. Enjoy...

Quote of the Damn Day from a Damn Pinhead

Everyone knows scientists insist on using complex terminology to make it harder for True Christians to refute their claims. 
Deoxyribonucleic Acid, for example... sounds impressive, right? But have you ever seen what happens if you put something in acid? It dissolves! If we had all this acid in our cells, we'd all dissolve! So much for the Theory of Evolution, Check MATE!

[NOTE: I particularly like the Check MATE! at the end, like he's made such a great point or something. What a fucking moron.]

It ain't all fun, fun, fun

I'd been receiving prank calls late at night. Well, nt prank calls, but calls that I didn't want to answer. Calls from a man called Dixie; a clown, a waster and a fool. A man that drank to the point of insensibility, that ued whatever drugs he came across, that believed his London accent and an ability to talk big made him a man of consequence. Thing is, when he was discussing brutality, or suggesting a robbery, or trying to arrange the ripping off of a dealer or runner, well, thing is, itwas always around more capable people; he wanted to be a big man and do big man things, but he was at heart a small man, a coward, someone that felt he had to impress wih his tales of terror. A nothing with a police owned phone, an unstable paranoid dedicated to an idealised mother.

He'd been calling me late at night. My friend Mick and I lived together, but he'd gone to his other place to receive a visit from Eva, his girl. Dixie had got our numbers mixed up. I killed my phone's ringer as a result when I went to bed. I awoke to 64 missed missed calls, 38 voicemails and more texts than I could count.

Eva was beautiful. She was a lovely girl, early twenties; pretty, kind, thoughtful, loving, polite. A really nice girl. In everyway. I thought she was wonderful. She was special. She was my best friend's girl, and she was an alcoholic. We were friends, all of us, and had forged a really close bond in rehab together. We were all on good form together, laughing and joking. Eva was particularly fun, ripping the piss out of both of us.

Mickey and I are ver very different, opposite in every way. He's black, I'm white. He is a seriously tough man, I'm not. We are friends though, very close, and with Eva we made a triangle. We were wearing maching hats, with pigtails on.

“Go on, kiss! You make such a lovely couple!”

Things were good, we were happy. One Friday I came over during my lunch break. Eva was playing cards, as always making up the rules as she went along, so that she was guaranteed to win; for her many good qualities, she waswithout a shadow of a doubt the most unscrupulous cards player I've ever come across. We were chaffing insults at each other, interspaced with kisses between her and Mick, and I left them to it. All was well with the world.

I got back to the flat a few hours later, after work, and Mick and I went out to do what we do. While out, I had a terrible reaction to something I'd eaten. I desperately needed the toilet, but nowhere was open. I eventually found a coffee shop, got a key to their outside toilet, and destroyed it. It was awful; the most terrible crap of my life. Usually, being a man, I take a certain amount of quiet pride when I produce a dreadful smell. Not this time, I was choking on my own fumes. 

After a little while; a time of protracted burbling and splattering sounds, I began to clean myself up. A mammoth task taking whole minutes, but eventually I was as good as new. The toilet however wasn't. I'd somehow got shit all up the cistern, the seat, the wall behind it and the floor. I threw the key back to the shopowner, and ran. I thought that would be the story of the day, but it was trumped in the worst way possible.

We made our way home, with beer, and I left Mick to it with Eva, and went to my bed. The next thing, it was 9am, and I had a multitude of messages waiting for me. I looked at them, and the most recent simply said “Eva's Dead.”

I started to shake, and called Mickey repeatedly until he answered. He was busy, and I only got a quick chat, the gist of it being Get Here Now.

I ran to the fridge, shaking, and glugged down the little bit of cider I had left. I know it's weak, but I wanted a drink. It was a cold February day, a Saturday, and it was gloriously sunny. I sprinted the half mile between our houses and promptly found myself being interviewed by the police. They were convinced we were on drugs and that Eva had suffered an OD, but gradually that was disproven.

The next day was awful. What am I saying, the next weeks were awful. The post mortem, the funeral, all of it. The fallout when we found it was alcohol poisoning from some moonshine a neighbour had given her, when trying to take advantage of her, was violent and led to several people fleeing the city for fear of reprisals. I dealt with one of the others, and he's left town; the other Mick got hold of, well, he's vanished too.

Our lives were upside down for a while, and Mickey's still is; he went off the rails and is in jail. Mine, well, I think of her every day and miss her, and the friendship we all shared. It affected Mike and I too, but we survived.

It's what you get when you sign up to a life of substance abuse, be it booze or drugs. You lose vital people, and your life is never the same afterwards.

A response to Nobody Special,

I'm away right now and monitoring the blog from my mobile. It won't let me comment for some reason, hence new post.

Nobody Special made an odd comment I didn't really see the relevance of earlier, on the entry titled "Finally, I post."

I'm not sure how you've got that idea, I think you've misread or misunderstood something. I'm 31, born August 1979.

I'm happy to answer any questions you have. This blog is entirely open and honest.

Thanks for reading.

Also, I'd love to know firstly what you find fishy, secondly how you came here, and thirdly what you think the point of me lying about my age would be?

If you do have a sensible question, I'm happy to help any way I can.

Finally, props and thanks to Gledwood; he and Shane inspired me to hit the keyboard.

Teenage innocents: honest

“Fucking leg it!”

That was the first sensible thing that had been said by any of us, all day. Barely glancing behind me, I grabbed Ashley's collar, dragged him to his feet and began to run, sprinting until my lungs burst and I'd reached the corner of the road.

I heard sirens coming from both directions and saw the first Police cars flying towards us. I was grateful I'd paused for breath on the corner, if we'd have been running we'd have been done for. Ash was panicking, the police cars in the distance were coming closer, and we knew they'd be looking for us. 

"Stay cool, Ash, walk slowly, with me” 

I looked for escape routes. The day was bright and sunny though, we'd be seen in an instant if we hid in a garden, or behind some bins. We were on a sprawling 1960s low-rise council estate, my eyes were flickering round, searching out potential cut-throughs and alleyways. Nothing presented itself as being a good option, but we had to get off the road. Quickly. My face was swelling at the side, Ash was bloody, we were clearly responsible for this onslaught of Old Bill, and if the Panda cars got a glance at us, they'd tumble us. I saw a shop over the road, and thought, “Sanctuary.”

"You got any money?”

"What?”

"Ash, do you have any fucking money?”

"How's that going to help, oh no, we're fucked, we're fucked, what're we going to do?”

"Shut up. Just come”

I sauntered over the road, ahead of the approaching cars, simulating relaxed conversation, trying hard to look like any normal teenager wandering about on a Thursday afternoon. Ash came with me, head twitching and jerking; Pinocchio under the control of a puppeteer with Parkinsons. I got him into the shop just as the nose of the first car screamed past.

I breathed out, rummaged through my own pockets, and Ashley's, took the money we had, and invested it wisely in some sweets and a couple of cans of beer. I took an eternity choosing, to let the cars reach the site of the emergency. We left the shop after some light hearted banter with the shopkeeper, trying to work out what had happened, but as we were leaving, a witness to the accident was approaching from the other direction.

I pushed Ash down a sidestreet and we ran, heads down, fists pumping, knees a blur until we came to the edge of the estate. We hurdled the low fence, crossed the main artery into town with barely a glance, and headed over a field into a copse.

We sat for a moment, trembling and sweating, both of us in some sort of shock from what had happened and both of us thinking about how we'd get out of it with a whole skin. Ashley wasn't proving to be the calmest person in a crisis. The load was on my shoulders, and if we to get home unscathed I had better get my act together.

There had been five of us in the car when it crashed, and I remembered seeing all of us leaving the scene. From what I'd gathered, Andy had broken his arm, Steve was ok, and Yorkie had seriously hurt his leg. There was no way they'd get away, they'd gone back in the direction of Steve's house and they were all well known locally. I wasn't, nor was Ashley. Yorkie didn't know either of us, Steve wouldn't grass any more than I would, and Andy made a big thing of how tough he was, so we should be safe there too.

All this passed through my mind in an instant, and it registered that the most important thing for us was to get out. There were witnesses, we were too near, and the police would be looking for two battered boys, with a bag, wearing red tops.

We poured water over ourselves, scrubbed the dirt and blood off, dumped the jumpers and the bag;  I pulled on a hat, we  drank our drinks and headed out to the main road. We had a four mile walk home along the main road, but that was a real no-no, and we'd have to go through the countryside.

The walk home, once we had got out of the immediate area, was pretty nice and uneventful. It was a beautiful day in late spring, the terror had receded and we were beginning to relive events; relief washing over and through us, relaxing us and allowing us to come up with a cover story to explain my swollen face and Ashley's cuts and bruises. As so often happens when something out of ordinary has happened, we came across a credit card lying in the side of the road. My natural instinct was to go spending (CCTV not being so prevalent then) but I figured we had enough on the debit side of the ledger, and perhaps this once I should be on the side of the Angels. I broke the card and dropped it down a drain.

Over the miles the scale of the incident receded; we were laughing and joking, the sun was in the sky, our hearts were light, and we'd managed to get away with it. We spoke solemnly about the plight that our friends were undoubtedly in, and we rehearsed our cover story until we knew it backwards. We turned the corner to get to Ashley's house and all of a sudden our happiness, our sense of security, our good humour vanished. It had simply been a veneer, covering our fear with a cheap layer of plastic, as easily scratched and penetrated as cheap worktops. A police car was parked at the top of the road. 

The cars we heard passing became the sounds of the tumbrill, the summer birds' cheeping and chirping became the sound of knitting needles, clacking together to show the mothers meeting disapproval. We walked on to our sure and certain death; we would soon be in a cell, and there was no chance to escape. We could run, but where to? If they wanted us, they'd find us, so why put it off. With that thought in the forefront of my mind I told Ashley to say nothing at all, not to explain , or justify; do nothing at all except admit you were there, and that you had no idea we were doing anything illegal. There was no time for depth, I just had to hope he'd do as he was told and keep the trouble to a minimum.

The back door opened as we approached. Ashley's Mum was there, and she opened her mouth to speak. Ashley and I looked at each other and braced ourselves;

Would you like a cup of tea boys, I bet you've had a busy day with your friends?”

There was a pause.

Are you boys all right? You look a bit pale.”

I should say we probably did. The police car at the end of the road was a coincidence. I took a deep breath, and a time out. The day continued much like that until evening time, ups and downs; one minute we were fine, the next we'd hear a siren in the background and our pulses would rocket, our hearts beating through our chests, our palms becoming clammy, our bumps and scrapes twice as uncomfortable.

The next day we were going bowling, so we rose early, got ready and went to Doncaster. The day was blazing hot, and I remember arguing viciously about the merits of mineral water, before calling Steve to see if he was free. He was, but said we may need to watch our backs. Andy was being a bit evasive about how he got on in the interview, and wouldn't share his tape with Steve. Steve had said we were two of Yorkie's friends who he didn't know.

The sky darkened, and once again tendrils of fear crept around my stomach and squeezed. 

Once again, we ran through the story; we were innocents, misled by older, badder boys. With that settled, we went home and met Ash's Mum. As we were preparing the food, Ash saw the daily paper, with a picture of the car on the front page. He showed it to me, and my reaction must have shown on my face. Ash's Mum zeroed in on me and asked what was wrong; I explained it looked like Steve's car. She looked at our bruises, looked again at the paper, looked again at the bruises, and was distracted by a bang at the door. She opened up, and there stood two police officers.

John, Ash? I'm arresting you on suspicion of burglary, aggravated TWOC and criminal damage”

"Shit”.

Ash's Mum dropped the paper to the floor, her hands flying up to meet her O shaped mouth. The paper fluttered down, landing with the front page upwards. As I looked at my feet I caught sight of the newspaperp, highlighted vividly against the dark brown and amber swirls of the carpet. The leading article was a near-full page image of the Ford Sierra we had stolen, crumpled to the size of a Smartcar, in the living room of a bungalow, beneath a 68 point headline reading "YOB CULTURE".

A light hearted embarrassment from my pre-heroin days...

I don't really remember the first time I tried heroin; I remember though that I smoked it on a pipe. I was surrounded by long term addicts; prostitutes, the illiterate, the damaged, and they smoked it on pipes. I was in crackhouses licking the rock regularly, then tried heroin to stop the jitters. To be honest, I didn't get onto heroin properly until I had come out of rehab. I used sure, and had pinned once or twice, but after rehab, after leaving coke alone, I started using gear daily, smoking from foil. I've only been injecting for a period of months. My arms are ok (despite my veins being very deep naturally, which is annoying), and I'm content with my habit.

Why did I move onto the needle? Economy. My friend uses intravenously, I smoked, but it was costing me silly money and whenever smoke coiled off the foil, away from my tube, I saw pound signs going away. I also knew about the slam you get from banging it up, and did I ever want some of that. Hell yes.

Maybe the time I'll regret this will come. I doubt it though. I'm stable, sure, I use most days. When I'm rich,I use quite a lot, when I'm poor, I muddle along with little until I'm rich again. I have rules; I don't sell possessions, and my family doesn't go short. Should I break those rules, then I know I have a problem, and I need to stop.

Anyhow, I'm sick of being so serious, so I thought I'd delve back into history and tell you all about perhaps my most embarrassing sexual encounter, just to give you a bit of a laugh.

I was a bit of a late developer with girls; I had opportunities, but was always too much of a gentleman, and thought not taking advantage would get me further in the long run. Yeah, I was dumb. Anyhow, at University I started to make up the deficit, and for a brief period my youthful, slender, toned self was shagging for England. No girl was too pretty (or too ugly), all I needed was a heartbeat, a full set of limbs (well, at least 3 out of 4, “Hey baby, spread your leg!”) and the horn.

Mystic Rod and I had been out on the lash, and had somehow ended up in a taxi near our old student residences. We had no money, and as the taxi pulled to a halt, we ran for it. In the dark, we were safe from pursuit, but had no thought in our minds outside the need for escape. Fleeing headlong through the drizzle, I lost my footing on the peak of a slope, sliding in the mud and tumbling over, colliding with Mystic Rod and rolling us both down the hill at a rate of knots, our limbs intertwining, heads clashing, gathering mud until our momentum ran out and we were able to gather our thoughts.

I tried to stand, and after losing my footing once more I raised myself upright, leant on a tree, checked I was ok, and puked. I was covered in mud, slightly cut and I had a black eye already beginning to bloom on the left side of my face. Rod was in a similar state, and the two of us decided that we were miles away from home and we needed a cup of tea, and respite.

We limped over the road, and stumbled to a house nearby. This house was where my friend Mel lived, and we figured she'd take pity on us. She had before, when I'd been absolutely smashed, and we hoped she would again. She did. Opening the door to two mud-spattered, blood streaked, bruised and confused young men, she ushered us in, sat us down, sponged my wounds, made a tea, and listened to the two of us prattling.

The house was pretty big, and I was sitting with my back to the door of the living room. There were throws on the sofas, and the lighting was kept low, lava lamps in corners pushing patterns up the walls, and colouring the thick white smoke generating by the joints that were going round the room. The atmosphere was laidback, friendly, warm and cosy but the peace was suddenly shattered by a crash of the front door, keys dropping to the floor, before an apparition burst forth from the shadows, asked who the fuck we were, and slapped me round the head.

It took me a moment to recover from the shock, but when I did, I like to think I rose fluidly, in one motion achieving balance and turning on the invader, a lion reacting to a hunter, turning the tables on them with muscular, acute co-ordination. I stepped forward, grabbed the creature, pushed her across the hallway into the downstairs bathroom, forced her into the tub and switched on the taps. I laughed and left her dripping wet, swearing impressively in the bath, under the harsh, bright strip lighting.

I went back to my peaceful enclave, but seconds after sitting down, just long enough to establish I'd met Eve, Mel's housemate,  I was tugged up by the ear and before I properly knew what was happening, I was being kissed and bitten, and was kissing and biting, a soaking wet, athletic, attractive, psychopathic brunette. We left the room and fought our way upstairs, alternately slapping and kissing, tearing and biting, passion radiating from us as though we were a Japanese Nuclear facility. Our route to bed was described by discarded clothes, fallen furniture and water, mud and bloodspots on the walls.

We fell into bed, and things continued as they had, furious, unbridled, animal lust. Unfortunately, halfway through, there was a fanny fart from Eve. Ever the gentleman, I immediately denied responsibilty  “That wasn't me!”– this wasn't too bad, she laughed and we continued ripping each other apart. Moments later though, I felt windy and that imp living inside me, the childish, poor taste loving, scatalogical, inappropriate imp, forced out a fart. “That was, though” I cried out, boyish grin upon my chops.

The moment was lost. We carried on, but the passion was noticeably dimmed. There was no reprise either. Since then, I've learned my lesson. Fart jokes during sex just don't work.

My thoughts on recovery

I've been having a bit of a think over the weekend, prompted by Syd. I've been dipping in and out of his blog for a little while, and was a bit puzzled by someone who is not an addict/alcoholic being so focussed on recovery. I'd actually misunderstood the groups he goes to, and the reason behind it; I was unaware there was an organisation dedicated solely to the families of addicts, I'd never come across it before.

He was kind enough to write a really clear and lucid response, and in doing so he has given me quite a lot of food for thought, and has forced me to re-examine my own attitude to sobriety and cleanliness. I also appreciated his open-mindedness in stating “whatever works for you, works for you.”

I have the same belief as that – if someone wants absolute sobriety, great. If someone wants to have a few beers or lines, then fine, no drama, if someone wants to spend their life in a gutter, needing hits every four hours, selling everything other than organs to fund it (mainly because nobody would want a hardcore junkie's liver or kidneys!), then again, I pity them, but fine.

I suppose I should give a history of me here; or perhaps I should call it a brief “share.” I got into weed in my teens, and sold it before I smoked it. I'm a trader by nature, and I like buying and selling. I went to University and survived my time there spending 6 nights a week in clubs, including my own night, and had the franchise to sell ecstasy 3 nights, and did it while being followed at other clubs. I had a big business turning over around ￡18k a week, lived like a king and then, being a fucking clown, got a coke habit and ran my business and self into the ground. I fled, legs intact and bills paid (just), and resumed a straight life.

I missed the buzz though; I went from being whippet thin, fit (ish), always on the go, with money, and always needing to be in four places at once (one day, I remember as being my best day, I turned over bout ￡6k and had my phone ring over 200 times. It was hectic beyond belief; I was on foot, and must have covered seventeen miles or more). From that, to working a dull 9-5, having time, but no real money, well, it was a major downer. Still, I muddled along, enjoyed it, but began drinking really heavily. I've always been a boozer, but I used to dance it off, and in my mid twenties I got fat. This depressed me (still does!). I was very proud of being slender, and of my six pack.

Eventually, I started doing coke again, and my habit just came back on strong. I maxed my cards, had heart palpitations and fits, and knew I had to stop, but couldn't bring myself to ask for help; it was a secret, and hidden, and I panicked. To try and feel better, I started taking crack. Smart, huh.

Basically, as I wasn't on heroin, I thought I was OK. I lost my wife and son, and house, and then over the next 5 months things went really downhill. I ended up living on a sofa, with no power or hot water, dodging psychopaths, robbing, defrauding and scamming, got onto heroin and essentially my life imploded. I dropped off from work, and at that point I really was in trouble and at rock bottom. 

I was pushed into rehab by work, who fronted the money (about ￡6k, which was then repaid), stayed there, and it worked well for me in that I cleaned up, and I got a time out from the life I was in. This time out was vital, and allowed me to refocus. I never wanted a life of sobriety, but I wanted a life in which I was clear headed, lived as a normal person and then enjoyed myself appropriately. Coke and Crack ruined me; they're drugs I simply can't afford to touch; I don't like the affect of them, but I find them compulsive. The high is ace, for 30 seconds, then the night is awful and sleep becomes a stranger.

I never had a problem with heroin. I still don't. I like a drink on a Friday, and I like also to have a hit in the evening to relax. It's a choice, not an absolute necessity; I enjoy it, I like it, I look forward to it, but on days where I have no money, or if it's not available then sure, I'm disappointed, but I manage. I occasionally suffer a bit, but generally I am ok. I am prescribed morphine which helps keeps withdrawal away.

This works for me. I'm pretty content, and my life is pretty full. For example, April this year has consisted of; 5 weeks of work, around 13 hours a day, including travelling, plus emails and calls in the evening and weekend (I'm committed!). At weekends, one weekend has been a weekend of housework, gardening, general busying about maintaining the cars and suchlike. The next weekend was tied up with family visits to elderly relatives, and taking my son around to meet everyone. The next, this weekend just gone, Friday night, my team were plying locally so I went to the game, a couple of beers after, then drive home (a few years back I'd have been on the lash and not able to drive), then both Sat and Sun were taken up with attending birthday parties for my son's classmates. Next week I'm taking the family on a weekend break, and the weekend after that we're away with my parents, then seeing friends.

The reason I say this is to show that my life isn't some pitiful trek from dealer to squat to crackhouse, and to illustrate that not all users of heroin are crooks and thieves. 

During my spell in rehab, and when I left, I attended a lot of meetings; both AA and NA. I was kinda brainwashed into believing complete sobriety was the only way forward, but in my heart I didn't feel that. I felt “recovery” was just entering stasis, a frozen state in which I'd be denied the pleasure of a cold cider on a summer's day, or a beer at the game, or having to beat myself up if I had a pill at a club (which I haven't done as I never go out like that any more). I felt like I was being told I had a terminal disease; that I could prolong life, but with all the small pleasures removed. Drink and heroin hadn't ruined my life; crack, coke, depression and poor decision making ruined my life, and that's what needed to change.

When I expressed this at NA, and when I asked for a sponsor, and education, and guidance as to the steps, I found people were keen to pay lipservice, but not actually to help. I had a determination to be sober – if it's how to keep my life together, then great, but I found no real help in NA. 

I found the groups depressing, and miserable, and always focussed on the same few people, their problems, and their delight in being sober. I kept thinking, sure, you're sober, but your life is still shit. You live in a dump, you've no money, you're scruffy, you don't work, what has being sober brought you?

If you were from outside their immediate experience there was not a lot of understanding about, and I found the fellowship to be very superficial. I also didn't like the Higher Power thing, it was fuzzy, and I felt it took responsibility away from the addict. This may be what some people need, but I don't like it. I don't believe addiction is a lifelong illness. I don't believe we have no power over it. I do believe that it is something that is very hard to defeat, but it is mainly psychological. I know what a rattle is like, and it's awful, but when it's done, the psychological battle begins. I believe addiction makes us do things we wouldn't normally. It turns us into people we are not, and it's insidious. Thing is, it's us doing it. Every time we cook up, or chop a line, or roll a joint, or go into a bar, we have a choice. Whenever we see an open door, we can decide to break in, or walk past, or shut the door.

I left NA as I got no real help in trying to work the program, and I was only half convinced about it to begin with. I knew that I had to stay away from crack and coke (and I have, with very few exceptions), but I saw nothing wrong with enjoying myself with other things. When I explained this in group, it was sneered at, and people became almost evangelical, calling me a dry drunk, saying that even the thought was wrong, and so on and so forth. I fucked it off. I'm not being sneered at by a bunch of losers that see sobriety as the be all and end all. 

A day sober, great, well done but if you do nothing with that day, if you have no goals, no ambition, no desire to achieve anything, no desire to create something, nothing other than a desire to be clean, if you don't LIVE, well fuck you, I'm not taking your shit. I have goals; I like money, I like being busy, I like being the best at what I do, I'm a competitor, I want success, I want to lead, I want freedom to do what I like, when I like, I like to create things -  I write for my own pleasure (and having been out of practice for so long, it's hard work, and I'm not as good as I'd like to be. If and when I am, then a link will appear). I want to spend my life doing things, rather than spending it focussing on not doing things...

I found NA didn't work for me. Props to those it does work for, and I'm pleased for you, but I think I've found what works for me.

I have been reading Tori's blog recently. I feel for her, and her son, but his life reminds me of mine in that he is mixing with gangs, and people with no structure in their lives, who do nothing but crime, and drugs. The lifestyle is chaotic, with no structure, and I think that is more corrosive than drug use. I think that this life does lead to addiction, but as soon as the lifestyle stops, so does the addiction, in that form.

If life is manageable and structured, and interesting, then drug use can fit in round it, if you want it to. If life is chaos, with no structure or discipline, then you're in trouble. I know I'm always a hairs breadth from trouble. If I fuck up home, or work, then in an instant I'll be hustling. I have to maintain these things to have a nice life, and maintain my habit, so I do.

My typical day – wake up at 4am. Swear a bit, put the alarm on snooze, oversleep, curse, stumble downstairs, wash, iron shirt, dress, find keys, grab lunch, drink water, neck painkillers, go to work, get half way, have morning hit, pick up colleague, get to work. In the office until about 4.30pm, then back to my hometown, have hit, home for dinner. 7.00pm I put my son to bed, have another hit, then do my jobs reound the house, feed the rabbits, have half an hour or so with my wife, then bathe, and bed with a book by about 9pm. 

Perfectly normal, perfectly sensible, perfectly manageable.

I'd be interested to hear what you think.

Relapse...

Something just occurred to me; my first relapse after rehab. It's a pretty big relapse really, it's been 29 months now! I left rehab absolutely sober, going to meetings and doing all that stuff. Then, one night, I was out of rehab. I met some friends and after a few hours of abstinence I raised  a pint of cider to my lips and -BANG- all gone in one go!

We were in a pretty scruffy pub; fruit machines blinked in corners, paint-covered and heavy booted workers who'd finished their day's labours shouted to each other, a handful of old men and cripples sat separately, nursing their pints and trying hard to prolong their pleasure or perhaps, delay the inevitable further misery of going home.

I had a bit of dough, enough for a few beers and sat back to relax. As I did so, a very pissed, very offensive man came in. He shouted the odds at people and then finally, after insulting everyone, asked us to buy him a pint, with his money, as the bar wouldn't serve him. It was tempting to refuse, but we spotted a free beer. We accepted, and as he opened his wallet a glow seemed to emanate from it. Our faces bathed in light reflected from the glorious spectacle in front of us, Jay and I looked at each other and, as our eyes locked, a pact was made. A crisp twenty was handed to us, drinks were bought, he sat down outside and we followed, proclaiming fellowship and good health.

Jay and I worked hard to establish trust and rapport, a difficult task to complete with the inebriated and obnoxious, but we managed it. Conversation flowed, and we were asked to score him some weed. We sold him an Oxo cube for twenty quid.

Later, as he bought more drinks, we began to spike him with vodka, rendering him incapable of anything more than a general anger against the world. This anger would soon find new targets, as his new best friends were preparing to betray him.

The vodka affected our target badly, and he began to want to retire home for the night. Jay and I helped, taking the strain as he rose, staggered and toppled forwards, tumbling towards a face breaking impact, same as a statue of Saddam on Liberation Day. Saving him from impact allowed us to take hold of his arms and we walked him forward towards the taxi rank, propping him over our shoulders. He looked like a drunken Jesus being carried from the cross, but the Crucifixion was only beginning.

A taxi slowed and pulled into the side of the road. We pushed him into it, he got the address out, and we left him, waving him off at the kerb. If he'd have looked closely, or had the ability to see properly, he's have noticed that in my right hand, I held his wallet, and £290.

I walked back to the pub, bought a round, split the dough with Jay and then quietly slid out of the back door, made a call, and went to meet my man. 

That was the last crime I committed. I'm not proud of it, and I've come a long way since. Still, it's a fair representation of what I was, and what makes it worse is that I didn't do it from need, I just did it for a laugh, because I could, and of course, for the money.

I changed my friends afterwards, and have no contact with any of them any more. It's not where I want to be. Sometimes though, I miss the buzz, the kick, the excitement of running about the place, having to do a million things at once, and all on a knife's edge.