Someone recently told me that Procrastination station was their perfect commute length companion. The idea of me doing nothing, alongside you doing nothing, is almost as intoxicating as if we were both doing something, in the same room, looking into each other's eyes.
I was hungover yesterday, which, these days, is unusual. I cannot remember the last time I drank until I was sick, which I believe is one of the great pleasures of youth. To drink until there is so much drink in you, that it has to be forcefully ejected. Even more enjoyable if you've been drinking luminous cocktails, which give the vomit a kind of luminous colour. A disneyland glow that can take the edge of the chemical burn.
If I think back to when I did used to have a social life and - about 5 years ago - then I find myself romanticising the past like some kind of 70 year old war criminal. Wondering why all the grassy glens of the valley had been turned to flats, or all the jews now live up on the hill.
The war criminal is still with me to this day; trapped behind a desk, in the ass end of a London suburb, wondering why that small action of his past has lead to all of this. 'I was just doing my job' he reasons, as I wonder what it is he refers to. Perhaps, when I was sacked from my job as a paperboy for not being able to cycle 400 Sunday, supplements up to a golf club?
If only the Hague could process Newsagents. It would make Nuremberg look like the que at a particularly out of the way Subway.
But never the less, the benign war criminal lives within us all (We are all cogs in the war machine after all) and I began to think about drink, youth and energy.
I am 16, and It is a time for dreamers. A time of myspace; a space of one's own, before we all got thrown into the same room on twitter, or Facebook.
I am at sixth form college, and dealing with the usual cocktail of being rejected, being in love, and being allowed to wear your own clothes. Behind us, a war is happening somewhere, and Iceland's banks are melting. Interestingly, Iceland the frozen food shop, is yet to takes it's current position as ringleader of the highstreet ice boyz. Back then, in leafy 2009, it was still endorsed by Kerry Katona, and so could only appeal to a limited audience of proles.
My college foolishly organised these parties which ended up, understandably, becoming a very local form of carnage. A large circular ball room - ran by tax evaders - was opened to hordes of teenagers who could not yet properly process alcohol, sex or life. I had just turned 16 and had been wasted many times before at festivals - but alas these are controlled, end to end encryption weekends of prescribed revelry, and do not posses the potency of existing within an actual reality. This is why festival's are such narcissistic, strange affairs - due to their total removal of truth, reality and time.
But these parties in the ballroom represented something else, something altogether more interesting.
The youth of a small seaside town would, for one night, ignite the trending Binge culture. The level of alcohol abuse was collosal - I can still smell it, webbed against my nostril hairs. Saccharine perfume mixed with the spirit breath, a breath that would more often than not be exorcised, and thus realised, by the end of the night.
The lengths we went to. Hours of sitting on cliff tops drinking bottles of Mickey finn's, thinking that our whole lives might be spend drinking bright green coloured sours that nobody liked, and that scorched away the lining of your throat. I still believe that my Mickey finn's drinking is the reason why I do not have perfect pitch, and am not able to stay in tune with any note, song or ensemble chant. That night, I recall, I had even prepared a concealed bottle of whisky coke that rode against both my thighs, saddled by the damp gusset of my teenage underpants.
I remember looking out over the dance floor, across the sea of fervent sexual experimentation. I thought it looked like a war zone. So violent, and seemingly without any pleasure attatched. For one thing, back then, everyone was obsessed with Kissing; with getting off, or making out - if your stateside. It was the aim of the evening to 'Get off' with as many girls as you possibly could, and likewise for the girls, who could collect men like the Argos charms on their sweet sixteen bracelets. If adulthood is male led, then youth is certainly female lead. Female energy ran the roost of our collective adolescence, which is perhaps why we all look back at it with such bitter-sweet pain. Why we all keep looking back to that small time in our lives with yearning, and lust. Somewhere in the middle a shift happened that nobody ever asked for.
I see a girl dressed as a cat, by which I mean black clothes and some eye liner whiskers painted on her cheeks. It's fancy dress, though nobody chooses to dress like anyone who isn't sexy. The men are all dressed as Russell Brand, who I still believe is one of the most significant cultural icons of our generation. (Essay on this to follow)
I don't remember the details, but I remember thinking she was beautiful, and for whatever reason she was interested in me too. We stood before a painful bush and we kissed. I found synthetic wine crusting in the grooves of her lips, and an open cave of other notes, that are now lost to me. There had been kisses before, but not like this. The party, the night, the drink. All of it amounted to a confidence, a confidence held up by the gathering adulthood on the horizon beside us.
In that moment, I thought that virginity was to finally be gone. A hand vanished into my garments, and down into the cove between my legs, but then stopped before it could reach my puppy dog penis. And she stopped. And we both stopped. And she tugged a bit, which unstuck some plastic and ripped my inner thigh. She tugged some more until her hand found the night again. It re-emerged holding a plastic bottle. The moment had been lost, but either way we drank the disgusting mix of whisky and flat coke until our heads felt out of joint. The next time I looked up, the cat was gone, like they always are, and I remained, lying on a patch of grass beside a throbbing room, and a pulsing beach.
The War Criminal loomed over me, and said 'I was just doing my job'
And though I did not know what it was that he meant, who he was, nor why he was with me so early in my timeline, I knew then that I would never deliver papers for Nazi's again.