The Gemma Situation
A couple of years ago I worked for a company in Canterbury. I'd not long started seeing a girl called Gemma when I was transferred to our Manchester office. Things between us were their early stages and I'd always wanted to visit Manchester, so when the chance came up to move there I generally saw it as a good thing (the fact I had no option BUT to move there is a whole different story and there is another blog out there that says plenty about the company that moved me). Of course I'd miss her, but it was early days and anyway, the two places weren't that far apart.
In May, about a month after I'd moved up to Manchester, I had to return to Canterbury to tie up a few loose ends with my flat so I made it a long weekend and stayed with Gemma. On the Monday I was due to head back up we were sitting outside a pub when she said she was off for the next few days (she'd told me she was a nurse and worked shifts) and it was a pity I couldn't stay longer. I jokingly suggested she come up to Manchester and stay with me. I'd be working but my flat was in the city centre and there was plenty to do during the day. Before I could utter a "just joking" and make it sound like I wasn't some kind of pigeon keeping male equivalent of the mad cat spinster, she'd agreed and we were on our way back to hers to fill a bag. At the time I thought it was a combination of cider, sunshine and her spontaneity (and maybe even something to do with the joy of my company) but I later found out she was, to use a medical term, as mad as a clown's cock.
One of the reasons we got on was a shared love of music especially live shows. We constantly talked about gigs we'd been to and bands we loved and loathed. As it was coming into summer the topic of festivals came up and we compared notes of ones we'd been to, legendary shows and dream line-ups. Given my limited repertoire of stories it was inevitable Near-Glasto Experience Mk I would come up and she dutifully looked on in horror when I got to the point in the story where I realised my battery had died. Sympathy duly gained I then asked her if she'd ever been. "Well, my uncle does A&R for one of the big labels so he usually gets me a ticket and I go along with him and some of his mates." I was impressed and another faux-jokey statement fell from my lips:
"Do you reckon he could get me one?"
"It's only a few weeks away but I can ask him. I'll phone him and see what he says."
Believing it was probably too late and with the phone story still fresh in my mind I didn't hold out much hope, but fuck it, maybe this instant legend of an uncle could pull some industry swings and I'd be snorting lines from the posh bogs with Pete Docherty before you could say "wannabe tortured artist fucktrumpet."
After work the next day I met Gemma in the pub. She greets me with the line "Buy me a pint and give me a kiss, I deserve it." I feign doubt, raise an eyebrow and ask "is that so? And why would I want to do that?" Pause. "W-e-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l. Because I've got you a Glastonbury ticket?" For a fleeting second I understand how people in Vegas end up married to someone they only met twenty-five minutes ago and whose entire relationship is founded on a love of all-you-can-eat-buffet. "Seriously? You're fucking shitting me." No, it turns out the uncle has come good, my nightmarish Glasto experience of my youth is to be expunged and history will be rewritten in a way even Stalin would be proud of. All I need to do now is a) get the time off work, and b) get my arse to Cheltenham to meet Gemma and her uncle as this is where her family lives and this is where the pilgrimage will begin. She doesn't even want money as the whole thing is free anyway. Double bubble.
Getting time off work isn't going to be easy as it's short notice and there are already a couple of people off that weekend. Long story short, couple of bollockings, a borderline firing and the job's done. I book my train ticket to Cheltenham, download some festival apps to my phone and start planning who I want to see and who I want to avoid.
I plan to head down to Cheltenham on the Thursday so we can leave first thing on Friday morning. This is what Gemma had done in previous years and it sounds like it's planned with military precision. I don't hear much from her from about the Tuesday or Wednesday but this isn't particularly strange as we're both crap at returning calls and texts. After a week of wishing the time away it's Thursday evening and I'm boarding a train in Piccadilly with a borrowed rucksack, a six-pack of Strongbow for the journey and the jealous best wishes of friends and colleagues. I get settled on the train and text Gemma to let her know what time I'm arriving. I assume she's going to be at the station to meet me and get tucked into my cider, reading yet another Glasto supplement in awe of the bands I'm going to see.
The train gets closer to Cheltenham and I've still heard nothing from her. Even now I'm not panicking - I'm not the only one of her friends heading down there so it should all be fine. I'll see her at the station and we'll laugh about my worry. "Yeah, didn't think you were going to show. Was shitting myself." We'll laugh and down another drink as we prepare the van for the real journey.
I arrive in Cheltenham and she isn't there. I’m a little more worried but still not panicking. The cider has chilled me and I'm getting in to a festival mode - time is meaningless and we will meet when we meet. An hour later as I'm grimly downing my third pint in some shithole hotel bar near the station my festival face is starting to slip and I'm pressing redial every few minutes. Nothing. The night drags on and I remember I have nowhere to stay. Explaining my predicament to the barmaid I ask if there are any rooms in the hotel. Even now I still make light of it and say I probably won't need it but I just want to be on the safe side. It's a moot point anyway - they are fully booked, mainly with people going to Glastonbury, however if I need to there is a Travelodge about fifteen minutes away. She doesn't say any more than this but she knows then that soon enough I will be knocking at the door of that Travelodge.
Last orders is called and I trudge to the Travelodge. For atmosphere it really should have been pissing rain but it's a beautiful summer night, the sky is clear and it's still fairly warm. I get to the hotel, get a room and ask if there is a bar. Apparently not but I'm told the service station next door sells booze. I buy Ginsters, Jameson Whiskey and assorted crisps. Oh, and a bottle of water because I think I might need it in the morning. This is one of the few things I correctly predict over the course of the entire weekend.
I lie on top of the bed, drinking Jameson straight from the bottle while the TV news hums away in the background. I'm not paying much attention to it as I'm using what's left of my focus to try and work my phone. Muttering curses under my breath I give up on the phone and turn to the TV. Michael Jackson has died. It must be serious news as it penetrates my fug and distracts me for a few minutes. I feel my phone vibrate and rummage frantically on the bed to find it. A text from Gemma? An explanation? An apology and a question asking where I am as she'll be there soon? No. My mother, thinking I'll be on my way to the festival: See Michael Jackson has died. Bet you'll never forget where you were the night that happened. Her motherly instincts are unbounded.
At some point I pass out. I sleep fitfully, glugging from the bottle when I do wake, swearing and going back to sleep again. I'm awake at first light, drink whisky until my 10 a.m checkout then decide to get the fuck out of Cheltenham. I still have a fair amount of whisky left and it's a straight choice between that and the water as to what goes in the rucksack. No contest really. I down as much of the water as I can without spewing and check out. I can smell breakfast as I leave but I'm not up to solids and I assure myself the cheese puffs in my bag will make a fine repast.
I swig from the bottle as I stagger back to the station. By the time I get there it's late morning and the platform is busy with people heading to Birmingham and Manchester. There are families on outings, mothers and daughters who look like they're off on shopping expeditions, and a very drunk, dishevelled Scotsman drinking whisky straight from the bottle. As I'm waiting on the train my stomach decides that an 18 hour diet of cider, beer, whisky and service station brand crisps is too much and I spew. On the platform. In front of the families on outings and the mothers and daughters off shopping. Mercifully the train arrives shortly after this and I gather my rucksack, along with what's left of my dignity and shuffle onto the train. Acidic throat and pounding headache aside, my all too public chunder does ensure that no one sits beside me. As the journey continues I eat crisps, getting as many on myself as in my mouth. The train reaches standing-room only point but I still I have two seats to myself. In a brief moment of confused logic I silently thank Gemma for this.
Somewhere between Birmingham and Manchester I decide the best way to deal with this whole farce is to stop drinking. This is probably around the same time as I run out of whisky. The booze trolley goes by but I wisely choose not to buy anything. I know drink isn't going to help me. No way. What I need is a big bag of cocaine.
I pull my phone from my pocket and mash the screen, scrolling through my contacts until I get to my colleague's flat-mate. All I know about her is her first name, the fact she is wheelchair bound, made up a story about her brother killing himself (he made a remarkable recovery) and she sells some fantastic coke at a very reasonable rate. I shamelessly text her, explain I'll be in Manchester in an hour and what I'm looking for. She gets back to me pretty quickly saying she's out of coke but has got some 'horse.' I assume she means ketamine but somewhere in the drunken mess of my mind I remember it can also be slang for heroin. I text back and check. I was right first time.
She lives near Piccadilly, as do I, so I stop off, watch a bit of Wimbledon and make small talk as she sorts out the ket for me. I offer her money but she tells me not to worry about it as it sounds like I've had a rough time. Things are looking up for me. I get back to my flat and chop out a few lines. I snort a couple and go lie on the sofa. I feel nothing for a while beyond the chemical scratch inside my nose and the acrid taste at the back of my throat. An advert for Alan Carr comes on and suddenly he is the scariest man I've ever seen. This might not necessarily be anything to do with the drugs though. I then notice the wall seems to be folding in on me. That's never happened before. I panic a little and think I might be dying but a sudden rush of euphoria leads me to shout, "If this is death it's FUCKING ACE!" and I piss myself laughing.
I lose track of things for an indeterminate period of time after that. Eventually I decide that I need to go to bed so I stand up from the sofa and remind myself where the bedroom is. It's at this point I realise I am on tracks so can only travel in straight lines or ninety degree angles. I walk from the sofa to the edge of the dining room table then turn sharply right before walking to the opposite wall and turning to my left. I probably cover about three times more ground than necessary before I reach the bedroom and promptly pass out on the floor.
A combination of the cold parquet flooring and an overwhelming need to puke wake me up. I throw up and crawl into bed. I feel like a character from a Murakami novel - existing in this universe but slightly out of phase with the natural order of it. It's not a hangover/comedown yet; it's the dregs of the booze and the chemicals farting their way out of my system. I sleep through most of Saturday and studiously avoid the BBC's wall-to-wall Glastonbury coverage. On Sunday I text a friend and ask if she wants to meet for lunch/drinks as I know it's her birthday. She's surprised as she thought I'd be at Glastonbury and tells me she's been looking out for me on telly. I don't go into detail; just tell her "there's a story." An hour or so later as I reach the part where I woke up on the floor I know this won't be the last time it's told.
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