I'm presently debating whether or not to post this. If you're reading it, then either I have, or you've gone and utilised one of those Trojan horse things like Orlando Bloom and got into my computer. If so, the porn is to your left, and please don't tell anyone about the government documents that explain how President Lincoln was actually a goose dressed up with some nice hats. Thanks for that.

Anyway, this is only a chunk of the first part of this, and eventually there's a moral, so if y'all like it and would like the rest, leave a comment, otherwise feel free to ignore all this waffling.

It's just that's its kinda serious, the whole addiction shebang, and it is truly possible to escape and all that kind of heart-warming uplifting stuff.

Here, then, is Part One.

Some Fucked Up Bullshit

Every now and again a decent, properly depraved addiction movie arrives, something seedy and filth-laden and positively bulging with the pus of desperation. Something like Nicholas Cage Drinks With Hookers, or Boogie Nights, something that replicates the thrill of waking up in someone else's vomit, that period of bleak procrastination between opening ones drink or drug or miscellaneous sodden eyes and realising what in God's name one got up to a few hours previous.

There's also the one with the woman from The Exorcist. Women From The Exorcist Doesn't Eat, it may have been called. It was alright. It certainly was green enough.
Cause green means sick, don't you know. And yet vegetation is healthy. But in any non-vegetation situation, green is the colour of the sick.

And nobody's sicker than the fool destined to indulge his foolishness, and pay for each fool-filled flight of fancy with his or her sanity or similar.

So anyway, those films. Those paeans to self-abuse and degradation. Stuff you take your partner along to, so as you can say, "Well, what would you prefer? That I lie on my arse all day or that I end up like that? You want that? You want me to be all Nick Cage and get hand-jobs in motels as I shiver the flesh from my bones in some stinking piss-filled bed? I thought as much. Damn grateful, is what you should be."

Unless of course you are doing all that. With or without the hand-jobs.

Then it doesn't work quite so well. Then the significant other is likely to glance with suspicion at every sip of amber-liquid you consume. Destined to cringe every time the tins open with a tell-tale pssst.

And next thing you know you're standing beside a hedge watching the piss roll down your trouser leg.

Except you don't get an Oscar for it.

Or a hand-job.

My first drink was taken from a skip. My first proper one anyway. There were the parties and the family gatherings when you ask half-heartedly if you can taste this stuff that everyone else loves so much they punch each other in the jaw over. When you're laying on your stomach watching TV with your feet high in the air behind you, and someone sets down a tin of Harp or some-such right beside you.