Dead Sailing

When you are firmly on your way to the bottom of hell even the devil brandishing a pitchfork does not perturb you.

At seventeen Edwards Number Eight was pretty much the place Dog and I went if we were heading into Birmingham City Centre. It was a rockers club which catered for a variety of tastes in the metal scene.

The night in question is a blur although I do remember being quite drunk, which probably explains the memory loss. We were short of money and Dog always one for suggestions for beer put forward Arrolls, which he told me was similar to Guinness but cheaper and on offer. So it was, Arrolls all the way.

“Full of iron this is”, said Dog taking a drink, “Make your shit black”

I could not have cared if it went bright pink a drink was a drink. At some point later, Dog was in need of a smoke. Not a particularly good idea since the bouncers in Edwards were built like king kong wore black bomber jackets and since they had their heads shaved or shaved at the bottom with a pony tail on the top, they were not too easy to spot in the crowd since they looked like rockers and blended extremely well.

Edwards was loud. So loud you often wondered how the bar staff managed to hear you and whether they were lip reading. It was the kind of place where you spent conversations in each other’s ears and conversations were relayed if another party needed to hear what was being said.

At some point, Dog got talking to a skinny guy in his thirties who was a little worse for wear and on his own in the club. It did not take Dog long to establish he had some gear on him and never one to miss an opportunity when it came to drugs, a smoke was arranged.

The guy would roll his gear in the toilet then come back out to us and it was smoke a go go after reassuring us he had never been caught or thrown out for smoking, so off he went.

“How long is he taking to roll this fucking joint”, Dog rapped in my ear after what felt like an eternity of waiting, “He better come out soon”.

Dog was getting agitated but I could not have cared if the bloke and fell down the bog hole, I was too busy trying to work out how drunk I was and figured since the place was only spinning very slightly there was plenty more in the offering, if I had the money.

The guy returned from the toilets, said something to Dog, and then lit the end of his rolled up joint before having a decent smoke and passing it onto Dog. I waited my turn for my usual social smoke.

While I took a few drags, Dog continued his conversation and done I passed the nearly finished joint back before shuffling through my change to work out if I could get a beer. Nil poi.
Again, the bloke said something to Dog and went off to the bar.
“He just kissed my ear!”, he exclaimed, “And he has told me that joint had fucking opium in it! That’s the stuff in heroin!”

I shrugged, “I thought he looked queer”

“Opium!”

I could not have cared if it was sherbet sawdust or bits of pink fluffy rabbits chopped up and dipped vinegar at the end of the day I could not un-smoke it besides which I did not feel any different. No different equals no problem – apart from there was going to be no more beer due to lack of funds.

Although concerned Dog’s eyes were hollow and expressionless, dead man’s eyes sailing powered by beer in the sails and I knew my own eyes reflected the same, I could feel the usual dull numb deadness of the alcohol.

Two sailors with no more money and a dodgy bloke to be steered clear we left and headed off back into the night to find our way home.

The next day I met up with Dog as usual for a pint.

“How about that last night smoking opium – fucking bad”, said Dog with a tone of un-admitted regret and disbelief, “Serious shit that is”.

“Yeah”, I replied indifferent.