Drugs Aren’t Always Fun
I was at Bestival one year, hanging out in the campsite, taking ketamine for breakfast and generally having a hell of a time. The one problem with taking ketamine for breakfast, though, is that—by lunch—you can’t move and your brain is like a sponge that’s been slowly soaking up a vat full of Ernest Hemingway’s ancient, 100 percent proof urine. On this particular day, I was pretty lucid, could communicate absolutely fine and didn’t have nearly as much of that weird brain detachment thing you normally get on K. Only, I couldn’t move any of my limbs.
My friend sat me down on a camp chair, fed me some water and helped me smoke a cigarette by lighting it for me and placing it in my mouth every time I wanted a drag. Everything was going OK, all things considered, until I felt a rumble in my stomach and remembered the bowl of festival chili I’d eaten the night before. Call it a sixth-sense, a power for premonitions or just being a human for 22 years, but it was at that point that I knew I was going to shit myself and there was nothing I could do about it.
I whispered this to my friend in the hope that he would escort me to a cubicle or, at least, zip me up in the privacy of my tent. Instead, of course, he gathered as many of our friends as he could and lined them up around me. I could feel my sphincter release and contract but couldn’t do anything about it. So, staring at eight people dead in the eyes, I gave in and soiled myself in the midday sun.