Coke Bores

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A long time ago, it seemed an elite and rebellious thing to do was to sneak into the men's or women's cubicles to snort lines of coke and leave the toilet with a high above and far better then anyone else's in the room

- well perhaps that was down to youth and naiveté. Fast forward to present, and the sight of a man or woman leaving a WC with glazed eyes and moving jaws, coupled with loud sniffs followed by meaningless words seems as empty to me as the whole culture of snorting coke is.

A little while back, I was off to see a band at the O2 Arena - not my favourite venue, but that is neither here or there. It was around the festive season, and I was sitting on the tube heading towards North Greenwich. The tube was packed with party-goers. I was sitting dowm, and standing in front of me, were three young men in their early twenties. They were talking loud, fidgeting and looking around - straight away I knew they'd had a line, and were clearly gagging for more. Moreover, I proved myself right as one of the young men pulled out a wrap. The other pulled out a credit card, which he used to scoop up a little bit of white powder into the top of his friend's semi-clenched hands, with the start of the thumb's back acting as the mirror.

They buried their heads, and each one of them made a loud sniffing noise - they certainly would score a zero in being discreet. As they raised their heads, and the coke kicked in, so did their arrogance, with their puffed-out pigeon chests and Grange Hill menacing stares. One of them made eye contact with me: now I do not profess to be a 'hard man', but there was no way in hell I would allow myself to be intimated by some corporate bod, thinking he is Tony Montana from Scarface on an office beano in a nice crisp shirt ironed by his mother. I gazed straight at him, and bingo, I hit his paranoia rush, as his eyes hit the floor of the tube and I was able to carry on my journey to O2, stress- and-twat-free - the way it should be.



Then this summer, during the minor heat wave just before the rain came, a friend and I were having a quiet drink on a Monday, where we were talking football, old times, ex girlfriends or whatever, when we both noticed a group of fellows making regular visits to the toilets. We both knew they didn't have a weak bladder, as they left each time with that 'cock sure' attitude. Not paying much attention to them, we went outside to have a cigarette, and then one of the gang came outside and politely asked for a cigarette, which we obliged. What a mistake, as he saw this as an opportunity to tell us about his high- maintenance Sicilian girlfriend, the holidays of youth, how the decorating of his bathroom is coming along, his working day, and how he preferred Aldi to Asda. All I could think of was, "About some useless information, Supposed to fire my imagination". We had to ask him to leave, as we were discussing some private business. With his tail between his legs, he left, much to our relief.

This is what coke is; probably always was: total and utter bullshit. I feel a frequent coke user lives in a world where they feel they are pushing all the boundaries and being rock 'n' roll , and where they no doubt dismiss the people whose hobbies are collecting stamps or butterflies. But I tell you something: the collectors have a passion that makes them happy, and not one is laced with bloodshed that supports crime. Yeah, sniff the coke, and kid yourself what fun you are having, but when the powder runs out, wipe all the grains from the mirror, gaze at yourself and you will see what we all see: a coke bore
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Read 2728 times Last modified on Sunday, 28 June 2015 14:38
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