Just off to powder my nose 

They say the first line’s always the hardest… I usually found the ninth or tenth one hits you quite hard, but thats just my opinion.

To be honest, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. However, I spend a lot of time in my various pairs of pants doing nothing, so I haven’t had the chance.

Im Ollie, I’m twenty three and I am now, and probably always will be, a drug addict. Not in the conventional sense of the word. If you asked me today if I take drugs (apart from the occasional joint – it’s not even a drug m8 its a plant just back off yh), I’d say no. I mean in the sense that, I miss cocaine and as soon as you’ve got me on the beers (wey lads on tour) the urge for booger sugar dramatically increases.

So yes, I’m off the jet fuel and it’s all celebrations, pats on the back and “we’re proud of you Ollie”… Which I’m absolutely fine with! It’s great, keep patting my back, rub it in small circular motions if you want to! (clockwise). It’s always nice to know that people care about you.

However, the road to not shoving everything that looks vaguely like a powder up my hooter, hasn’t exactly  been all sunshine and rainbows.

Theres been friendships lost, mainly because I couldn’t sniff my friends so I became uninterested very quickly. There’s been a trip to prison (10/10, would reccommend, 5* trip advisor) and just a lot of me trying as best I can to ruin my life.

I promise I’m not a massive dickhead. I know I sound like a massive dickhead, so it can be quite misleading. But despite how morbid this has been so far, amongst all that, I’ve had a lot of fun, and I’d like to tell you all about it, if you’ll listen.

Sweg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vaporub and Dog Poo Fits

So, I was in Paris with my girlfriend, having something to eat.

By my girlfriend, I mean my mate Dan

By Paris, I mean we were in my shed.

By having something to eat, I mean we were sniffing drugs.

We’d just reached the “I FUCKING LOVE YOU MATE, NO,NO,NO LISTEN, I KNOW WE SAY IT ALL THE TIME, BUT, NO, I PROPER…NO, NO, LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTENNNN, YOU’RE NOT LISTENING MATE, I PROPER LOVE YOU MATE I REALLY DO BRUV” Stage of the evening. When our mate phoned.

My pals and I all have F.O.M.O (fear of missing out) disorder. One of our friends has caught wind that we’re together, because Dan’s posted a snapchat to his story with the caption “lads lads lads” dancing. When the reality is, it’s not lads, there’s two of us, he’s dancing to no music, and the shed’s so small, every time he danced vigorously throughout that video he was bashing me in the head. Never the less, our mate wouldn’t accept it and has decided to come.

He’s turned up looking like he’s just been told someone’s kicked his cat half a mile down the road. Turns out he’s had a really bad cold, and thought vapo rub decongestion gel for your chest, goes on your top lip, so it had blown his fucking head off.

Hahaha that still makes me laugh.

This particular mate of mine liked ketamine. Never was my thing to be honest, always believed ketamine’s for stable dwelling animals. Can’t really comment, the majority of this story took place in a shed.

After many hours of borderline gay bromance chats, pretend videos of us acting like we’re on our first lads holiday to make anyone who didn’t come round feel shit, we went for the final cigarette of the night/morning.

Dan and I are discussing how warm it is for 5:30 am, I turn to seek agreement from our other friend with us… he doesn’t look very well.

“You look silly” I said… how nice.

WALLOP.

He’s hit the floor and started having a fucking fit. Even worse for him, he’s landed on one of my dog’s shits. Perfectly in the centre of his back on his white t shirt, and began spreading a sort of shit angel.

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING.

Really puts things in to perspective when you’re trying to make sure your mate doesn’t swallow his tongue.

We phoned an ambulance, and sat waiting, shitting ourselves.

He’s dead.

HAHAHAHAA he’s not, the ambulance crew checked him over, just a weird reaction to loads of ket…just don’t do ket.

Raymond Can’t Colour in the Lines

If you haven’t noticed already, I don’t write things in chronological order.  I THINK OF SHIT, I WRITE IT DOWN, IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, FUCK OFF.

I’ll be backtracking to prison for this story, it was around my fourth month inside, so I’d started to settle in. When I say settle in, I mean accept it. You don’t fucking settle in, it’s not homely. I’d just had what they call ‘pasta surprise’ for lunch, the surprise is… it’s fucking shit. Not surprising at all really, is it? Would be ten times more surprising if it was delicious.

I was laying on my bed, concentrating on holding down today’s meal, when a very odd man approached my door. A man I later found out to go by the name, Raymond. His abundant amount of grease soaked hair stretched down to his white T-shirt in a way that, from the amount on it, I can only assume, he’d purposefully washed it in gravy.  He had also quite clearly altered his tracksuit trousers in to shorts… without the help of any scissors. His eyes were at an angle that looked like they were more interested in what his ears were up to than what’s going on in front. He proceeded to present to me some colouring he’d done. He’d paid absolutely no attention to the outline of the fish that was on the page, in fact, after looking at it for some time, I think he’d just dipped his arse in paint and sat on it.

“YOU WANNA BUY?” he proudly hollered at me, smiling eye to eye. It was clear a mile off this bloke was particularly… different. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings; I could just picture him going back to his cell devastated, crying while wiping the paint off his arse thinking “all my hard work, for what?” So I pretended to be interested and just said the first thing I could think of that wouldn’t be offensive.

“Cor it’s bloody good mate but I just haven’t got the room!”

Raymond blankly stared round my empty cell, disregarding the multiple places I could put his bum print, then walked out backwards, staring… sort of at me.

I spent the rest of the day dazed by the events that had unfolded earlier on.  I went downstairs for sociable time with a bunch of people I didn’t like.

Here he comes.

Raymond’s walking towards me, with not one, but two new masterpieces with him. He’s obviously not as stupid as he looks and after evaluating how empty my cell is, he’s decided I could easily fit two of his modern art pieces in there.

The last thing I want is these things displayed in my fucking cell for all to see. I was stabbed a month ago, I don’t need colourings, shit colourings at that, stuck on my fucking wall. People will think I’m mentally disabled and exploit me, I just fucking know it.

He opened his mouth in a way I could see “YOU WANNA BUY?” was about to come out, so I quickly tried to distract him. “You fancy a game of pool, mate?” Raymond stopped and began laughing at me. “GOOD LUCK! I’M THE BEST”

Fucksake.

We began to play and it very quickly became apparent, Raymond is in fact not the best at pool. I’m trying my hardest to let him win but people are beginning to congregate and watch, whispering. THEY THINK WE’RE FUCKING MATES, AS EQUALLY SPECIAL AS ONE ANOTHER. I’m looking around at people as they point and laugh at us two “buddies”. Raymond’s got a ball in his mouth. I’m not having this.

I decided I’m not being nice anymore and pot all the necessary balls for me to win. As I pot the final ball, Raymond’s head lifted up and looked at me like I’d just asked him if it would be okay for me to shit on his feet.  He whispered…

“Cheater.”

“Sorry Raymond?”

This man fucking errupted.

“CHEATER CHEATER CHEATER CHEATER!!”

Raymond is now coming at me, with his cue, which, although he can’t use correctly, turns out he’s not fucking bad at swinging it around his head in anger. Everyone is most certainly laughing at me now, I’ve got a full on audience. I can’t defend myself, can I? That’s going to go down well isn’t it. “Oh, Mr Holland, despite your excuse of  “he started it”, we will be giving you extra charges for punching a disabled man.” Fantastic.

“I’m sorry you’re right, I’m a cheater.”

Raymond put his cue down and thanked me for admitting that I’d actually swindled him out of winning but informed me sadly, we won’t be friends anymore.

No need for those drawings then?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stuck with a Twat in Cambridge  

I’d been home from prison for about a week. In that week, I’d consumed enough cocaine to create a mountain with a reasonably high altitude.

After the week’s antics, I was laying on the floor, in a ball, in my room because I’d eaten an entire packet of Haribo kiddies supermix and the repercussions were extreme, when my mum came in. Doing that smile mums do that let’s you know they want you to do something.

She looked at me in disgust as I sat up and a jelly baby slowly slipped off my face. “What do you want?” I grunted, willing to agree to anything at this point just so she’d leave me in my cave of misery to continue feeling sorry for myself.

While I’ve been in prison, my parents have taken up pretending to be posh and bought a boat in Cambridge and my mum’s asked me to go to meet all the “lovely friends they’ve made”. Long story short, I’ve reluctantly agreed and apparently, one of the friends they’ve made, has a son Will, who’s my age and “dying to meet me”.

First off, I’ve never met him, he doesn’t know me, why does he want to meet me so much? Fucking gimp. We’ve arrived at this boat, I’m unpacking my various items of shit I’ve brought when I’ve heard “WHAT HO PEASANTS?”

I’ve turned to see this big posh twat walking towards me.

“Assume that’s Will?” … Mum nods.

Fantastic.

As if it’s not enough this twat lives on a boat, he’s got a nautical T-shirt on and a hat with a picture of a fucking boat on it! BOATS BOATS BOATS.

I half smiled at him and he asked me if I’d like to go for a beer and a catch up. A catch up? Catch up on what? Did you know me in a previous life? Fuck off, just fuck off.

So we’re down the pub.

Will has done everything I’ve done, but better. If I’ve been to tenerife, Will has been to elevenerife. If I need a new phone, Will once met Steve jobs who installed a special chip inside him so that when you pull his ear he shits iPhones. He’s that bloke.

I’m silently judging him when he’s asked me if I’d like to go to a festival somewhere near by with him because it’s a “jolly good laugh” … Do I fuck.

So I’m at the festival.

“You get the drugs Ollie, I’ll get the burgers” Will’s big posh mouth said. Who said I want a burger?! Also, burgers are £3 Will. I’ve definitely pulled the fucking short straw here haven’t I?! Who do you know I can buy coke off for £3, Will, that makes this deal fair?

Fucking Will.

Turns out Will can’t hold his alcohol because 5 minutes after this conversation he’s asleep on the grass.

FUCKING FANTASTIC.  Not only am I completely unaware of where I am, I’m stuck with boat boy while he has a fucking nap, holding the burgers he so lovingly purchased for us. Thanks Will.

After around an hour and a few kicks, Will arose from the grass with dirt all over him and sped off unusually fast for someone who was just comatose. He’s heading to a bus stop so we can go home. All the time I’m trapsing behind him shouting TAKE YOUR BURGER, TAKE YOUR FUCKING BURGER.

He asked me for money for us to get back and mumbled our destination to the driver. Sat down with him, he’s asleep.

I hate you Will, I fucking hate you. I’m now going round and round on this bus, Will is asleep on my arm, I’m shaking him, he won’t wake up and my shoulder’s getting wet. The driver is shouting at me saying I should have gotten off by now and I need to pay more money, I’ve got two fucking burgers in my fucking lap getting soggier by the second  all over my fucking jeans.

Fucking Will.

Eventually we managed to get home… obviously. I’m not still on this never ending bus journey with the money I owe just constantly rising.

Fucking Will.

I ate both burgers.

My Nan Ate a Shit

Today’s particular story, is one of my favourites.

Bit of back story before we get in to the good stuff. My nan and I  hate each other. To combat this, I often like to think of her in various funny and awful scenarios. Here’s a few examples that bring me, and hopefully you, some joy.

  • Being strapped to a speeding banana boat on a particularly rough sea.
  • Coming last in an egg and spoon race where the forfit is tight rope walking.
  • Thinking she’s gone to an all you can eat buffet, but she’s disregarded the small print that says ‘only on Wednesdays’ and she’s gone on a Tuesday and had to pay the full price.

Stuff like that.

Clue’s in the title what happened on this fantastic day.

It was hot, fucking hot. I’d just woken up with a hangover and a blocked nose after abusing it, and went downstairs to most likely eat yoghurt, love yoghurt.

Looked out the window to be greeted by a nan tornado spinning round with a lawnmower in one hand and sheers in the other; attacking anything that was even slightly green or flowering. I’m standing there eating my yoghurt, watching this blur of glasses and a floppy hat obliterate nature, when I see she spots a large dog shit.

Nan’s routine has come to a stop and she’s gone to pick it up. Don’t really know why I’m still watching at this point. Pretty good that I was though, otherwise I wouldn’t have this story. The woman just fucking fascinates me.

She’s taken her pooper scooper off safety, got her mini shovel behind the shit for leverage and prepared. But, nan’s made a fatal error. She’s stuck her mini shovel in the grass too deep behind it and every time she tries to move it, it wont budge. Little does she know, she’s just made a catapult.

I can see in her little wrinkley angry face she’s getting all hot and flustered and I’m loving it. I want another yoghurt but I know I won’t have time.

She’s finally lost it and pulled on the wooden handle with all her might.

Bang.

In one swift motion my nan has managed to send a shit hurtling towards her at 75 mph with the destination set as her face. I can’t believe my eyes, my yoghurt covered mouth is wide open. But so was my nans… She’s gasped in fear at the approaching rocket poo.

It’s all over.

I watched this poo shoot in to my nan’s mouth at such speed it took her about 5 seconds to even register what had happened. I was immediately hit with what I can only describe as a laughter punch. I hit the ground on all fours, a snotty, blubbering, teary mess.

Nan uses a carrier bag now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prison, Nan, and 15 ft 7 Man

Fast asleep, fast abloody sleep I was. It was around 7 am, I’d been up till 4 sniffing anything and everything so I was officially passed out at this point.

I was rudely awakened from my drug coma by a loud banging downstairs and a scream from my Nan. A scream so loud, I can only assume it was meant to be a sort of signal that alerts other pentioners in a 5 mile radius that theres trouble brewing. Then they all sort of slowly form together and climb on top of each other to make one big super powered old person.

Obviously by this point, I’ve gathered it’s definitely not the milk man at the door. Within 30 seconds my bedroom door burst open for me to be greeted by 5 police men, fantastic.

I am very naked, I couldn’t be more naked. I am on top of the covers, bloated from drugs and beers, probably sweaty, surrounded by 5 men… and one of us is naked. So far this has been my closest experience to a gay orgy.

“Put some clothes on mate, will you?” one of them said to me in disgust, I don’t blame him. Also if I’m going to be arrested, I’d at least like to have pants on .

Unfortunately due to my laziness I’ve only got one pair of clean pants and of course they had to be the ones that have mexican sombreros all over, that around the waist line say ‘HOT HOT HOT’. Safe to say any chance of maintaining dignity has gone.

The lovely men basically just told me what I already knew, they know I sniff coke and they know I’ve got coke… Can’t really argue.

After about 15 minutes of me pretending I was a complete and utter vegetable who lives for flamboyant pants and has no idea what they were talking about, they found my super secret hiding place… under my bed on the floor.

They very swiftly took a disliking to me at this point and proceeded to chuck me on the floor and handcuff me. Long story short is, after a lengthy waiting period, various court appearances and shit solicitors, I went to prison and was there for 9 months.

Prison is fucking shit, it was the most boring and stressful experience of my life. Although, to be honest, I just did what I do at home, nothing.

My first friend was made while I was waiting for the phone to be free in the queue. My girlfriend at the time was in the slow process of dumping me so I was rather eager to shout abuse. Eventually, the bloke on the phone querying who is going to tend to his garden now he’s ‘on holiday’ got out the way, and I went to make my call.

I was abrubtly stopped by a man I can only describe as 15ft 7 (exaggerated for story purposes) who pushed infront of me.

I did the most British thing ever, and politely tapped him on the shoulder with a smile and said, “sorry mate!”, smiling like a twat. “Not sure if you realised, but, I was actually in the queue!” I was hoping at this point, 15ft 7 man was going to laugh, be embarrassed, refer to himself as an utter nincompoop, shake my hand and apologise profusely.

15ft 7 man didn’t do that…

15ft 7 man stabbed me multiple times.

I have obviously not anticipated how desperate 15 ft 7 man is for his phonecall

Naturally, I did what all big strong men do in that situation… I crawled in to the recovery position and awaited death.

Clearly I didn’t die, which is pretty cool. Someone alerted a guard that there was a young man covered in blood laying on the floor screaming “fairwell cruel world” with one hand draped across their forehead. So I was very quickly escorted to shitty little prison hospital. Nothing was actually life threatening APPARENTLY, I feel like any stabbing is pretty life threatening… but that’s just my opinion.

Moral of the story is, knives hurt, and don’t queue jump .

Pretending to be my mum

Oh for fucksake, I don’t even want to tell anyone this it’s that embarrassing.

Let’s just fucking get it over with so I can go back to telling you about the various… stuff I’ve shoved up my nose. I hope the one bloke who reads my blog appreciates this.

Right, I’d had my first job for nearly a month and was eagerly awaiting payday. So I could buy drugs, little nose presents.

My mates were going out constantly and I was so desperate to join them one night, I did what every just turned 18 year old boy does…. I phoned my mummy.

Mum was down the pub, even my fucking mum was down the pub, I needed to be down the pub.

“Mum can I have some money please?” I whispered. Ha, auto correct did that, was meant to say whimpered. Why would i whisper it to her, am I that ashamed to ask her I need her to barely hear me?

Mother informed me that she was too far for me to get to, and absolutely steaming. But if I logged into her PayPal on the laptop, I could transfer myself some money until I got paid.

Buzzing, I’m going to join my mates. I’m going to walk in the pub, they aren’t expecting me to come so they’ll all shout ‘WEYY’ which will make me feel great, because they all love me, and everything’s great.

But everything isn’t great…I keep trying to transfer the money and it says there’s an error. Ive tried so many times, telling myself perhaps I’ve done it wrong. But I haven’t fucking done it wrong. It just isn’t fucking working.

So I phoned PayPal, nothing’s stopping me going out, nothing. Not even Kevin from the customer service department.

“Ello Kevin yeah money not work, you fix, please mate yeah?” Probably said something along those lines.

Helpful Kevin told me, “there’s no problem with your account, it’s Mrs Holland’s, she hasn’t set up her account properly, but I’d need to speak to her for security reasons”.

Mum’s fucked at this point, mum doesn’t want to sit on hold listening to Robbie Williams’ “angels” waiting to be connected to discuss her account issues in the smokers area.  So I came up with the most sensible solution I could think of…

I phoned back and awaited connection.

“Hello you’re through to PayPal my name is Kevin how can I help you today?”

FUCKSAKE ITS KEV AGAIN, WHAT ARE THE FUCKING ODDS.

I put on my best woman voice and said “hello this is Mrs Holland, my son just phoned and asked me to call about a problem with my account?” All the while thinking what am I doing with my life, this is the definition of desperate.

Kevin basically laughed at me. I’d phoned him literally about 30 seconds ago. He knows it’s me, I know it’s me.  Plus my woman voice isn’t the best. But we both do this awkward thing where we sort of, have to go along with it?

Kevin proceeds to giggle while saying he appreciates me calling back SO quickly. I tell him “it’s not a problem” in my lady voice.

He then says, obviously trying to catch me out,  “I’m going to have to answer some security questions to get in to the account”.

Touché kev.

Kevin has completely stumped me. I sat silently for a second, then embarrassingly admitted defeat by saying, in my lady voice… still, “can I call you back Kevin?”

Kevin fucking pisses himself and we both part ways.

What a fucking mess.

Double shit shoe

First couple trips in the world of me have been a bit morbid eh? Don’t know who I’m telling really, according to my view stats only one person reads my blog a day. Not sure if I prefer the idea of one different person each day, or just the same bloke every day coming back like ‘IVE GOTTA READ THAT AGAIN, NOT ONLY IS HE INCREDIBLY WITTY, ITS ALSO A GREAT PIECE OF WRITING, AND I JUST CAN’T GET  EEEEFUCKINGNOUGH’…. I prefer that version. 

So, if that is the case, I hope you enjoy today’s story man who loves me. 

So I was walking back from the shop, what did I go for?  I’m glad you asked. Don’t really remember, probably some sort of pastry, love a good pastry. Everything’s better in pastry. Roast dinner for example, I think it’s shit. But, imagine it in a pastry. Maybe it’d be… not so shit. 

Turned up my road to find I’ve stood in a shit, a large runny shit, someone’s fucking dog isn’t very well, and I’ve got proof of it on my shoe and a bit spattered on my leg.

Not the end of the world really is it, everyone stands in a shit from time to time, more of an inconvenience than a kill yourself moment. 

Went to wipe it on the grass, not really paying much attention obviously, as I proceeded to do what’s probably never been done before. 

I wiped my shit covered shoe, in another, ANOTHER shit. Could tell it was a different dog due to the colour and consistency. After a shit combo you become a bit of a stool specialist. 

So now I’m sporting a shit cocktail, a deadly combination of solid and runny, everyone knows the runny shit is going to act as a glue for the solid shit to latch on to. 

I found myself looking around expecting the streets to be swarming with hecklers, pointing and calling me things like ‘shit boy’ and ‘double shit shoe’. Acting like I’m some sort of Frankenstein  as I come towards them screaming ‘I’m not a monster!’ As they run in fear from me. 

But there was no one around, so I went home and got it off. The end. Bye 

Linegella Snortson

A lot of drug addicts when telling their story relive the beginning. One thing most of the stories have in common, is they can all vividly remember that life changing moment of their ‘first line’ or ‘ first hit’ or ‘first…bucket of.. heroin’? I dont know.

I don’t fucking remember, no one fucking remembers. They say it just because it fits the typical sob story. If you’ve done enough lines of coke to circle the globe twice, I’m pretty sure that ‘life changing moment’ is buried under a mountain of drug abuse.

The majority of my endeavors when I first began were spent in my mate’s car, who for obvious reasons, I’ll call ‘druggy number 2’ parked infront of a large wall round the back of some flats. We ingeniously named this destination ‘the wall’ and it very much became my second home.

Isn’t it funny how cocaine used to be concidered a glamorous drug? For the likes of Marilyn Monroe, or Frank Sinatra. Now its me and druggy number 2 all sweaty in a car parked behind a wall discussing odd topics such as “if every time you died you came back to life, but you were floating through space, would you eventually evolve in to a hybrid alien?”

Eventually we outgrew ‘The wall’ or perhaps we were just tired of the same people leaving for work in the morning, seeing us once again on their way home, looking completely baffled at the concept of us sitting there for 8 hours. It’s amazing how drugs can create the illusion of a good time no matter where you are.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out continuing on that path was going to get  a little bit erm… shit. I forgot how to have a good time without it, I still struggle now to be honest. You better have something fucking fun planned for me to enjoy it or I’m going to moan. Even then it would still enter my mind how much better it would be with drugs.

So there’s a little slice of ollie pie for you, enjoy it, savour it, and enjoy the funny moments through my downward spiral 🙂