This is not quite a story about me, but it is one of my favourite stories ever...
This is a story about Simon Walsh, a flatmate in my first year university dorm. Simon is reportedly dead now, which is unsurprising given the kind of life he lived - he had the best stories ever.
He was a recovering smack addict. His ex, Dee, left him for the guitarist from Hawkwind ("amazing guitarist though"). He'd been a tree surgeon, and done some work for Eric Clapton (in hurricane winds). He drank White Lightening (cheap white cider, commonly used to clean cassette heads). We will never see his like again.
One night the flat decided to go see a film at the local cinema. I opted to stay behind with my friend Simon Lloyd and roll around on cars pulling 70s cop show poses wearing 70s jackets and pointing toy guns at each other.
Yeah, we got all the ladies..
After a few hours the rest of the flat came back, minus Simon Walsh.
Where was he? No-one knew. They'd last seen him as they walked past Shiftnal Street, Bolton's red light district.
Clearly Simon Walsh had made a diversion.
An hour later he appeared at the flat, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
He poured himself a pint of White Lightening and sat with the rest of us in the kitchen whilst we played a board game (possibly Talisman).
We didn't pay much attention to him, as was tradition, and soon realised that Simon Walsh had vanished again, and left a half pint of paint stripper on the table...
"He never leaves alcohol," we observed.
Sure enough he reappeared some thirty minutes later, significantly less chipper, and finished his White Lightening in silence (none of us had touched it. Not after last time).
The evening drew to a close, and we stood to leave the kitchen and go to our respective rooms. As we opened the kitchen fire door we were greeted by the most god awful smell. I'd once thrown cat shit onto my parents rayburn, and that had smelt bad. This smelt worse. Much worse.
One of my other flatmates, an impish ex-chef from Norwich called Dylan, grabbed me and bundled me into his room, barely containing his glee. He began to tell me a story..
Simon Walsh had indeed separated from the group in the red light district and approached a prostitute. Not for sex, oh no, for something else entirely.
Simon wanted heroin, and the best place he could think of getting it from was a pimp. So he had to talk to a girl.
The girl introduced him to her guy.
The guy introduced him to a car full of other guys who drove him out somewhere to meet another guy.
The other guy sold him some smack and the car full of guys drove him back.
On the way, they shared a joint with him. They also advised him to hide the stuff, as the police had a habit of searching people walking out of the area.
Simon put the heroin in his sock, as advised. Good job too, as he was stopped and searched on the way back. They didn't find it.
This is why he was so pleased with himself when he got in. He'd had an adventure, gotten stoned, evaded the police and was about to get totally off his face.
The reason he looked so dejected afterwards, and the reason for the god awful smell, was they had sold him an OXO cube.
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