a wanky saturday

By Justin Ditler.

July 1989.


I was listening to Joy Division and staring out the window at the dirty grey cloud over the roofs of Camden, but I got bored so I phoned up Stacy, who is a bit of a hippy, to score a teenth.

Her light green scratchy sofa bulged with cheapness. She was wearing some kind of horrible waistcoat I swear made of the same material over her unclean yellow T-Shirt. I swear she was listening to fucking Donovan. She just plays her mum's records; they all have this bubble writing in shitty blue or green or faded yellow. All the instruments are organic I shit you not.

Stacy was taking a whole concept album about some hippy farm in Bulgaria (I shit you not) to roll a spliff. She has noticeable eczema. She was packing the resin in with a biro and talking some shit about how much she loved the first joint of the day. She had on one of those 100% artificial smiles that no hippy would eat, ironically. Like she was chewing a coathanger, exposing her gums like she had no shame. The laugh came about two seconds behind the smile, just a little fart of a laugh, like she repeated some mungy bean growing in her sad hippy stomach.

Anyway she finally got the fucking thing lit, and she was smiling like a space cadet and waving the spliff around, looking like Robert Plant's ugly lovechild, going on and on about this fucking ashram she grew up (was molested) in. Eventually she passes the j to me, and now she's gurgling about how draw makes her horny. Well, we get about three quarters of the way through when she makes some spastic playpunch move that ends in her stroking my arm like she's seeing kittens in it.

So she blurts about how much she loves blowjobs and giving blowjobs, and then I have this fucking hippy sucking me off on this nursery school sofa in her mum's general nightmare living room that might have been designed by Donovan himself in collaboration with a French teacher and the gang from Rainbow. Yellow is not fucking mellow, mister, and purple and green rags thrown over shit don't help in the fucking slightest.

We used to have a little dog called Terence. It would jump into your lap when it was wet, all stinking and shaking its curls madly like a flid at a rave. One day I threw it off too hard and it broke on the wall. I had to take it outside and lay it in the road and wait for a car to run it over.

“Shall we have another spliff, now?” she smiled at me all goggle-eyed. What a wanky saturday. I need to find a new dealer. I think I might be gay (now).