Confessions Of A Coke Dealer Part 4: Junk Sick In Thailand

I'm a coke dealing heroin addict stuck on an island in the South China sea, having just run out of coke, heroin and the willpower to go cold-turkey. How did I end up here?
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I'm a coke dealing heroin addict stuck on an island in the South China sea, having just run out of coke, heroin and the willpower to go cold-turkey. How did I end up here?

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I am sitting on a beach, feeling sick and tired; jet lag doesn’t even come into it, this is heroin sick. Sick because I do not have any smack, sick because I cannot get off this fucking island and take a bus to the Thai border, less than an hour away from the port back on the mainland, sick, sick, sick.

It’d seemed like a good idea at the time because it was, fuck it is a good idea but just not right now.

Good idea, wrong personnel.

This late monsoon storm has whipped up the sea that separates me from the Malaysian mainland and the bus that would carry my rattling bones to the opiate paradise of Thailand.

“No boats today no problem, no problem mister.”

No?

It’s a big fucking problem if, like me you’re a heroin addict stuck on an island in the south china sea, having just run out of heroin and the willpower to go cold-turkey.

How did I get here? Somebody else had paid.

I’d flown out fully intending to clean up, having robbed my  landlords/management of a couple of thousand quid which I’d convinced myself was rightfully mine due to all the business I’d put their way over the years, that and the fact they were greedy cunts of the highest order who deserved it anyway.

They’d also thrown me out of ‘my’ band, which they continued to manage and even though success for the new line-up was still proving as elusive as ever, the fact that they were using the name Limousine, clearly warranted a payment of some sort. They took the band and the name; I took the £2000 they’d had to deposit in my account in order to rent the flat from which they sold their drugs. Yes I’d agreed to sign the fucking tenancy agreement because I was homeless, but I was homeless because they’d thrown me out of the band.

“I’m stuck up this silly bastards bum-hole you stupid slanty-eyed dog-eating twats, let me out…let me out, hang the cunt hang the cunt……put him out of his misery”

My plans for revenge, such as they were, had thus far involved little more than a sharp increase in my heroin habit and putting myself on offer for a decent stint in jail when the concierge of the apartment building eventually concluded that turning a blind eye to what was taking place on the 12th floor, was not worth the occasional bottle of cheap whiskey he got from the ‘web-designers’ who occupied the flat.

He didn’t even receive his ‘Christmas bonus’, a very expensive bottle of malt, offered as a bung to offset the seasonally increased traffic coming in and out of the lifts, as I’d given it to my heroin dealer in exchange for some gear within seconds of being entrusted with it by the management team.

His comment to me one morning shortly after our new year’s party of,

“You must think I’m fucking stupid sunshine, you’re taking me for a cunt eh? Web-designer? You’ll be getting a new arsehole designed in the ‘scrubs sooner or later”

Was enough to convince me it was time to review my current living arrangements.

When one of the management team clumsily availed me the opportunity to retrieve my bank card and savings book from his possession a few days later, I had a ticket to the Far East and what remained of the deposit money in my grubby hands within a few hours.

Obviously I’d concealed some gear upon my person for the flight and ensuing period of time it would take to get to my tropical detox islands of choice, but it wasn’t until I was walking towards the customs officers at Kuala Lumpur airport, past a big fuck off sign that basically said

“We hang drug users for fun here”

That I started to realize I had, quite possibly made another, in a long line of seriously bad decisions.

The gram of smack in my ass suddenly felt like a kilo, a kilo of heroin that could actually talk and was now screaming,

“I’m stuck up this silly bastards bum-hole you stupid slanty-eyed dog-eating twats, let me out…let me out, hang the cunt hang the cunt……put him out of his misery”

The customs men at the desk looked me up and down in a looking up and down kind of way, asked me the purpose of my visit to their country to which the heroin in my ass replied

“To deal smack to your kids, get your daughters hooked and turn them into prostitutes and fuck your mothers up the ass while smoking crack and shouting Allah is a lady boy.”

My own response was slightly more considered.

“I’m here to enjoy the natural beauty of the Parinthian Islands for a few weeks; I’ve heard they are the most beautiful Islands in the Far East.”

I was offered a smile; my passport was stamped, bid a good vacation and waved through.

I turned back toward the customs desk to see a group of about five officers chattering excitedly as I tried to not shit the contents of my ass all over the floor.

“He’s a paedophile junkie devil worshipping faggot..”

Screamed the heroin in my tightly clenched ass..

“Stop him, search him…….hang him..hang him…

I was thirty feet away from the desk when.

“Excuse me sir………stop please…..could you come here for a minute……..”

“Hurrah”

Said the heroin, that’ll learn you won’t it?

I turned back toward the customs desk to see a group of about five officers chattering excitedly as I tried to not shit the contents of my ass all over the floor.

“Me?”

As I pointed at… me.

“Yes sir, please come, come.”

As I walked the ten million miles towards the desk, the customs men seemed to be laughing and joking amongst themselves, no doubt overjoyed at the prospect of capturing,

“He’s a smackhead, a dirty English smackhead scumbag”

As the contents of my ass seemed liked to call me, even louder than before.

“Hang him, hang the cunt…hang him string him up and let the flies eat him, smackhead smackhead….dirty junkie smackhead.”

“Yes officer, is everything ok?”

He’s looking right into my soul, well he’s certainly staring at my body, obviously looking for telltale signs of nerves, indicating the concealment of the talking heroin.

He smiles.

“Sir, sorry to trouble you sir, but is that Liverpool football club shirt your wearing? My friends and I think Liverpool is number one team, can we have photograph with you please sir, if no trouble.”

“He’s a Man Utd fan in disguise, a smack- dealing Man Utd fan”

But they couldn’t hear the voices due to the sound of my own laughter as I smiled and draped each arm over two Malaysian fans of the greatest football team on earth.

“Thank you sir, Liverpool …number one..number one”

Ten minutes later I was in an airport toilet doing a much needed number two, before smoking some heroin, not in the least bit bothered that it smelt vaguely of shit.

Ten hours after my photo-call, I got to my tropical paradise.

A day later I’d ‘killed’ the rest of the talking heroin, a few hours after which I started to feel like death myself.

The handful of cohabitants on this small piece of paradise lay snoozing in hammocks, or playing backgammon and smoking too many cigarettes, if that is indeed possible when there is actually fuck all else to do. The guidebook had said as much,

“Beautiful, but not much to do except watch coconuts fall out of the trees.”

Well, when you’ve seen one….

I throw up onto the white sand and watch my European junkie bile disappear as the beach swallows it up.

It became apparent to me, that the next time I needed to plot my revenge on the world, I’d do well to leave the plans to someone else as I find myself crying as I go through the withdrawals and visualize how much smack I could have brought with the 2000 quid, more than half of which, is still in the money bag that lies covered in sick by my side.

“No boats today mister, no worries, no boats until storm goes”

Fuck off you useless cheerful cunt.

Useless, like me on this fucking beautiful nightmare of an island, with nothing to do but watch fucking coconuts fall out of the trees while I shake and shiver my strange vibrations and think too much, about myself of course.

I’d also managed to procure some incredibly strong purple tablets of possibly a much higher opiate-content than much of the heroin I was ‘trying’ to escape from back home

I throw up again, whether due to the physical upheaval now firmly underway, or just at the thought of myself, I’m unsure. Either way I AM sure, that  I’m about to die as I crawl towards the beach-hut I’ve rented to demolish the three bottles of whisky I brought with me to help me sleep.

A few days, 3 bottles and 200 duty-free fags later, I re-emerge into the sunlight having convinced myself, beyond all doubt, I will NEVER use heroin again.

The monsoon doesn’t shift for another few weeks, by which time I’ve got over my ‘food-poisoning’ and am enjoying the company of my fellow island-dwellers, regaling them with tales of the Manchester City Frisbee team and my other famous chums back home. Whether or not they are enjoying my company, becomes irrelevant shortly after I manage to hire a boat back to the mainland and return with some essentials, namely a huge bag of weed, some locally produced whisky and a crate of Special Brew I’d discovered while schlepping through the back streets of Kota Bharu. I’d also managed to procure some incredibly strong purple tablets of possibly a much higher opiate-content than much of the heroin I was ‘trying’ to escape from back home.

I flew back to face the music a few days later having survived my paradise island, pure cold turkey detox and not used any heroin for six weeks, I remedied that situation within six hours of touching down at Heathrow airport, my excuse being it was currently too cold in the UK for someone like ‘me’.

The Confessions of a Coke Dealer series will be published as an as yet untitled book by Mainstream in Spring 2013

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