I don’t really know how this story came to be.
There’s a back story which may shed some light.
When I lived and worked in Cardiff, a select few (blokes) were invited to a Tequila Night.
The venue for this was the upstairs VIP area in the Cuba bar, which was fairly close to our office.
Here’s what I remember happening there: we did a lot of tequila slammers.
Here’s the next thing I remember: me, and two others (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons) decided to go Evolution down at Cardiff Bay.
Evolution was a glossy, shiny club, the sort of place I would normally avoid.
Drunk and swaying from the tequila intake, we somehow managed to gain access, at which point one of my colleagues and I headed to the Gents, partly because we needed to do what one does in there, but partly because that was where we knew the deals went on.
And sure enough, we scored some pills, which we quickly scoffed and went out to try and find our third brethren member.
But our search was cut short, as my old buddy suddenly announced he needed to return to the gents.
And right here is where I place my usual disclaimer: yes, these stories involve the taking of drugs, but no: I would neither recommend nor condone anyone else doing it.
Because here’s the thing: if you’re stupid enough to buy drugs from a random stranger in the toilets of a nightclub – as I did on many occasions – you have no idea what you’re buying, or what it has been cut with. This is not a situation I would recommend to any one.
You see, as well as all of the touchy-feely, loved up euphoric feelings you get when taking ecstacy, there’s also a loosening up of your body that takes place, a relaxation of your muscles, if you will.
So when you neck a pill which has been cut with a laxative, as we did unwittingly that night, the rush to the toilets can suddenly becomes the most important rush you ever had.
And so my buddy suddenly disappeared from my side, heading for a cubicle he hoped wouldn’t resemble the one in Trainspotting.
I’ve subsequently referred to this as The Come Up Shits. My friend denies it’s a thing, because it happened to him. But I’ve been in many a club toilet where someone has run in, already unbuttoning, hand pressed outside of jeans but between cheeks, desperate in the hope that there’s a vacant cubicle for them to vacate in.
As I waited – it seemed like for hours – I found our third compadre. He was laying down on the edge of the dancefloor, having a tequila-enduced snooze. Like you do.
And as I waited, this record was played. And in my head now, whenever I hear this record, three words pop into my head: Come Up Shits.
Which should not detract from the fact that it’s a quite wonderful record:
I managed to clench, thanks for asking.
More soon. Less lavatorial, hopefully.