It's a great phrase that one, on acid. People use it all the time and I don't think they consider what they're saying at all.
"It's like the Wombles, on acid." So what would that mean, exactly? Wombling free, they start to tidy up but get so fascinated with one Snickers wrapper they sit and stare at it for three hours and no one can rouse them? Cos that's the kind of thing people do on acid.
People use that phrase when they're trying to describe something or someone who's that little bit wackier, crazier or more fun than what they're comparing them to. But my experience is that people on acid are boring to be around. Sure, they're having a good time, busy in their head with all sorts of crap. They can examine the curve of the back of someone's head for an hour, and go on you about its shape, hypnotised by the golden ratio or some shit. They giggle to themselves and don't share the joke.
I once watched my boyfriend Jase on acid, sitting at his computer giggling at the titles of his junk mail. He kept reading the headers, then collapsing with how funny he thought it was. I have to admit, he did get me going after a while reading all that shit that comes through about bigger penises and more ejaculate, and Nigerian businessmen with money to give him if he would just send them his bank account details and passwords. It was even kind of funny when he decided to google 'Google' to see what would happen. Not much, obviously, but enough to make Jase fall on the floor and laugh for about an hour.
The two worst experiences of my life involved LSD. But I ain't going there here or now or anytime. All I'll say is that this bloke I knew, well, he was like Frankie Cavanagh on acid. And that's pretty mad, by anyone's standards, I got to admit.
Showing posts with label Frankie Cavanagh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frankie Cavanagh. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Anarchy part deux
The street below seemed to explode. I noticed an element I hadn’t seen before, louder, nastier. There were a bunch of skinheads throwing things and breaking windows. It was like they came out from hidey holes when they saw the police coming, ripe and ready and up for a fight. The street was filled with shouting now, and the rushing of the broken hydrant and glass being thrown and broken.
People around me were getting twitchy. Someone sent word up that the protestors had got into the building, but I don’t think any of us believed it. Most of the men headed downstairs, telling us to stay put. I ignored that, and walked with Nick back down to the trading floor. I wasn’t missing the action.
When you open the door and walk into the trading floor, usually, you’re hit by a boom of sound. Today it was different; there wasn’t much trading going on, though there was still a deal of noise. Locals and brokers were stood in groups, chatting. There was the smell I associate with the place, at it worse times, during nasty crashes that leave our screens sprayed red with the numbers that have gone down, so that it looks like there’s blood all over the room. It’s not an easy scent to pin down; sweat, tears, adrenaline, the smell of bodies under stress.
A couple of security guards came rushing into the room, shouting at us to stay back. Of course, they were ignored, and people ran past to find out what was happening. There were protestors coming up the escalators, waving sticks and bottles in the air. A couple of the projectiles came our way, but most of the invaders kept hold of their weapons. Some of the lads were straight in there, getting stuck in at the top of the escalators and sending a few protestors flying. Others were taking it turns to lose it and get ready to get stuck in, and holding back their mates saying ‘it’s not worth it’ and suggesting that our visitors ought to buy some soap. Close up, the anarchists did look unwashed, jagged at the edges.
Just as the fastest, and perhaps the most organised, anarchists made it to the turnstiles and were climbing over, a barrier started coming down. It was like the metal shutters they pull over shop windows at night. Most of the protesters were trapped the other side, though one or two had come through, and there was one poor guy trapped under the thing and trying to wriggle free. Anarchy suddenly didn’t seem such a good idea to the ones left on our side and they quietened right down and looked at the floor. There was lots of ribbing from the traders then, and one or two who walked right up to the unwashed blokes, menacing, but nothing proper kicked off.
The building was cleared of anarchists and we all went back to work. But not for long. The water from the burst hydrant was flooding the basement so trading was suspended. Stop the City, that’d been their plan. An early finish would normally be a bonus, but we weren’t allowed out of the building. We were barricaded in until nearly Six O’Clock.
When they finally let us out into the street, the scene looked like a bomb had gone off. Loads of broken windows. A car on the forecourt of the Mercedes Garage had been trashed and there was graffiti screaming CAPITALIST PIGS and FAT BASTARD CATS from every angle. There was this young lad with blond dreads pulling down a banner, tidying up. Jase had come to meet me, and he walked over to him.
‘What the fuck was this all about, then?’ he said.
The boy shrugged but Jase pressed him.
‘Well it’s about capitalism and all that, how it’s bleeding this country dry,’ dreads told us. His voice was bought and paid for, Eton or Harrow, I’m guessing.
Jase grimaced at him. ‘Yeah, that’s about right. Keep hold-a mum and dad’s cash, eh?’ He looked like he might do something then, so I wrapped my hand under the crook of his elbow, gave him a gentle tug to move on. He stood giving the boy a hard stare first, though.
We were back in work Monday as usual. The windows were mended, there was a new Mercedes on the forecourt. All the graffiti had been cleaned away. They hadn’t stopped the City, they hadn’t dented it. They hadn’t even left a mark.
People around me were getting twitchy. Someone sent word up that the protestors had got into the building, but I don’t think any of us believed it. Most of the men headed downstairs, telling us to stay put. I ignored that, and walked with Nick back down to the trading floor. I wasn’t missing the action.
When you open the door and walk into the trading floor, usually, you’re hit by a boom of sound. Today it was different; there wasn’t much trading going on, though there was still a deal of noise. Locals and brokers were stood in groups, chatting. There was the smell I associate with the place, at it worse times, during nasty crashes that leave our screens sprayed red with the numbers that have gone down, so that it looks like there’s blood all over the room. It’s not an easy scent to pin down; sweat, tears, adrenaline, the smell of bodies under stress.
A couple of security guards came rushing into the room, shouting at us to stay back. Of course, they were ignored, and people ran past to find out what was happening. There were protestors coming up the escalators, waving sticks and bottles in the air. A couple of the projectiles came our way, but most of the invaders kept hold of their weapons. Some of the lads were straight in there, getting stuck in at the top of the escalators and sending a few protestors flying. Others were taking it turns to lose it and get ready to get stuck in, and holding back their mates saying ‘it’s not worth it’ and suggesting that our visitors ought to buy some soap. Close up, the anarchists did look unwashed, jagged at the edges.
Just as the fastest, and perhaps the most organised, anarchists made it to the turnstiles and were climbing over, a barrier started coming down. It was like the metal shutters they pull over shop windows at night. Most of the protesters were trapped the other side, though one or two had come through, and there was one poor guy trapped under the thing and trying to wriggle free. Anarchy suddenly didn’t seem such a good idea to the ones left on our side and they quietened right down and looked at the floor. There was lots of ribbing from the traders then, and one or two who walked right up to the unwashed blokes, menacing, but nothing proper kicked off.
The building was cleared of anarchists and we all went back to work. But not for long. The water from the burst hydrant was flooding the basement so trading was suspended. Stop the City, that’d been their plan. An early finish would normally be a bonus, but we weren’t allowed out of the building. We were barricaded in until nearly Six O’Clock.
When they finally let us out into the street, the scene looked like a bomb had gone off. Loads of broken windows. A car on the forecourt of the Mercedes Garage had been trashed and there was graffiti screaming CAPITALIST PIGS and FAT BASTARD CATS from every angle. There was this young lad with blond dreads pulling down a banner, tidying up. Jase had come to meet me, and he walked over to him.
‘What the fuck was this all about, then?’ he said.
The boy shrugged but Jase pressed him.
‘Well it’s about capitalism and all that, how it’s bleeding this country dry,’ dreads told us. His voice was bought and paid for, Eton or Harrow, I’m guessing.
Jase grimaced at him. ‘Yeah, that’s about right. Keep hold-a mum and dad’s cash, eh?’ He looked like he might do something then, so I wrapped my hand under the crook of his elbow, gave him a gentle tug to move on. He stood giving the boy a hard stare first, though.
We were back in work Monday as usual. The windows were mended, there was a new Mercedes on the forecourt. All the graffiti had been cleaned away. They hadn’t stopped the City, they hadn’t dented it. They hadn’t even left a mark.
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