Private Party

 

I was having a private party in my head. I was having a party in my private head, which is the only head I have. I wish I could grow another head but I can’t! I’m stuck with the one I’ve got. There were only three of us there – Adam, Tony and myself. Adam came from a small town in the West Country and Tony came from Herne Hill. I didn’t come from anywhere in particular. ‘This is a bad party and it’s your fault man.’ Adam complained. Adam was always outspoken like this, it was his personality. He was a Double Aries. ‘I said we should have gone somewhere else,’ he whined in an annoying tone of voice. We had a bottle of Thunderbird wine between us and some Gold Seal Pakki-black, which came in crinkly plastic the same colour as an orange Lucozade wrapper. The really good stuff had a stamp on it which said ‘Rolls-Royce’. The Rolls-Royce of black hash – you could roll it between your fingers into a long spindly string that looked like a shoelace and then build a spliff around it. That was a neat trick. After smoking three joints of the squidgy black and finishing off the bottle of Thunderbird wine between us we were too stoned to talk so we just sat there, listening to ‘War Pigs’ on the stereo. There was this unspoken feeling that we’d all been here before. Too many times, in fact. We never seemed to any go to any good parties… A young guy in black leather jacket and long frizzy hair came over and asked if we wanted to buy any Zippy Pinhead blotters. He said it was very pure acid, fresh out of the factory in Amsterdam. Still damp after being taken out of the acid bath. We bought three off him and dropped them straight away, but nothing happened. After half an hour of waiting Adam ran to the toilet and got sick. When he got back he blamed it on the acid. ‘It’s full of strychnine,’ declared. He always said that about acid. I didn’t really know what that meant. None of us were having a good time. It was a bad party. It was a bad party but it was only in my head. Adam and Tony were only in my head. It was a private party – there was only me in it. ‘The reason those blotters were damp is because that stupid fuck-witted hippy spilt beer on them’ declared Adam angrily, ‘that fuck-wit ripped us off…’’ ‘Fuck-wit’ was Adam’s favourite insult. Tony agreed, ‘that’s duff gear alright,’ he said with a wry grin. I said nothing.  I said nothing because I knew that all of this was only happening in my head. No one said anything for a while. Time was slowing down – either that or the cassette deck was starting to fuck up again. It had already chewed up a few tapes. ‘None of this is real,’ I said eventually, it’s all just a Third Bardo projection…’ Adam and Tony just sat there looking at me. They couldn’t tell if I was joking or not. Everything’s just a Bardo projection Nick,’ Adam said finally. ‘You know that. Recognition is the key, right?’

 

 

 

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