Way back when, during days of yore, when a carefree Mr.Slap was literally just that - free of care - it wasn't uncommon to happen upon our hero in a state of thorough and comprehensive intoxication courtesy of a vast range of mind-bending illegal narcotics. In fact, I feel it has, to an extent, shaped my persona of today - as in I'm a bit fucking retarded.
But alas, those halcyon days couldn't continue; mainly due to the fact that I relocated to old Siam where the merest mention of marijuana could potentially see the miscreant eking out the rest of their existence on a diet of mucus infused fish-head soup in some grotty Thai slammer.
So life continued totally chemical free, albeit with a heightened quota of alcohol, and not a second thought was given to those ghastly substances that would one minute have you kissing the sky, and the next licking dog piss from a fucking gutter - such was the intensity of the come down.
As you can imagine then, when I found myself engaged in a transaction on a Surbiton street corner last Friday, with a gaggle teenagers shod in ill-fitting attire (we're talking jeans down to the knees here, gentlemen), and after much deliberation contributing 50 pound sterling to Bolivia's GDP, I was somewhat taken a back by my actions.
Just what in the name of General Pinochet's left bollock was I up to... Involving myself in dubious dealing with a bunch of fucking 12 year olds.
I'm still smarting from the whole frightful affair now.
I must cleanse myself of this sin immediately. And flagellation will come in the form of spending winter in the UK.
Yes. That should do it...