Getting Addicted to Heroin so I can Hang out with Russell Brand (text)

Today is Russell Brand’s 35th Birthday, and predictably, the media is exploding with stories about him (at least, the kind of places I get my news from are – although Cracked.com hasn’t yet run a Russell Brand topics page – perhaps because the guy who was supposed to be writing it doesn’t check his emails and didn’t realise you have to confirm you’re writing the article within a week of your initial application or you will be stripped of this responsibility and unable to re-apply, and no-one else on the site is enough of a fan of Russell Brand to bother with writing a 3000 word article on him and doing a cool photoshop/graph to introduce it – and the guy really wishes he had just waited to apply to write the article because it still hasn’t been written and since he’s finished his legal dissertation and got a 2-1 in it he now has plenty of time for writing and could so easily do it if given the chance. But enough about that guy, whoever he is...). But whilst most websites will be running articles about Brand’s new film “Get Him to the Greek”, or looking back on what he has achieved in his time in show business, or even discussing whether he's a paedophile, or just a plain old Hipster (Hint: In the UK 16 is legal - because we're THAT much better than you, America!), I shall not be doing any of those myself. In fact, I don’t intend to write about Russell Brand at all – not in the strictest sense, anyway.



You see, it occurred to me recently that, as a member of Narcotics Anonymous, Russell Brand sponsors other addicts who go through treatment. I therefore decided that, in order to finally meet and become best buddies with Russell Brand, I would have to get myself addicted to Heroin, and be taken to NA. It was Bulletproof…


Just like the Cop Car in Reservoir Dogs...



May 28th

“What do you mean you don’t sell Heroin?” I yelled at Roman, outraged that a self-proclaimed ‘drug dealer’ didn’t even stock one of the most popular narcotics in the world. Roman looked at me, like I was a total spaz, and replied.

“I only sell weed, man – if you want Heroin, you’ve gonna have to get it elsewhere.”

“No shit, Sherlock” I responded, well aware that Roman’s last name is actually Castillo, and that Sherlock is, in fact, Sherlock Holmes’ first name, and therefore pointing out that Roman’s last name isn’t Sherlock was kinda pointless. “What kind of fucking dealer are you, anyway?”

“I’m a weed dealer, essay” he responded, clearly insulting me for doing a course that requires you to submit a large number of essays, as opposed to just doing exams and “labs” as his course does “I don’t sell any other drugs, comprendé?”

“I don’t speak Spanish you Cunt!” I yelled, annoyed at his trying to outsmart me by showing off how bi-lingual he is “But maybe you should Pok Gai you Atar!”

“Atar is Cantonese for Paki, retard” said Benny, who was sitting on his bed, smoking a fat blunt whilst stroking his noticeably stoned poodle (not a euphemism).

“But you use it all the time – you’re always shouting at the people next door when they’re being noisy, calling them Atars…” I replied, very confused now. I thought ‘Atar’ was Chinese for ‘Cunt’, and now Benny was telling me that it wasn’t even Chinese, but ‘Cantonese’. ‘Where the fuck is Canton?’ I wondered to myself as Benny answered.

“That’s because they’re all Paki’s next door!” he shouted, before adding “and I’m a racist.”

“You’re a rapist?” asked Roman, clearly unable to understand Benny through his thick Chinese accent. Or was it an Essex accent? Some kind of accent, anyway.

“Fuck off you Spanish cunt!” Benny shouted at him. Then I realised that it was actually me who had said that, as Benny was too busy smoking to speak. Roman rounded on me.

“Hey, why don’t you Chinga Tu Puta Madré, Cabron? Stop going Loco on me, Vato.”

“Stop speaking Cantonese!” I shouted, annoyed that they were all in on it, clearly trying to mind-fuck me. Just like that time that Greek cunt had told me I needed to ‘think before you speak’ because he was ranting on at me, and when I told him I’d had enough of the lecture, he pointed out that it wasn’t an actual lecture, and he was just talking to me.

“Learn English you Cunt! That’s a perfectly legitimate phrase!” I shouted, then realised I had just shouted at a flashback in my mind, and this would no doubt be confusing for anyone watching.

“fuck them. If they say anything I’ll slit their throats and roll them into Langstone Harbour…” I muttered, intentionally saying this aloud. Benny and Roman looked at each other, clearly worried. Good, I got to you, you Canton Bastards! I thought to myself.

“Maybe you should ask Matt if he knows any Heroin dealers?” Benny said, reminding me why I was round their house in the first place.

“Nah, me and Matt aren’t cool” I replied “He hasn’t even added me on Facebook.”

“I’m not sure he’s got a Facebook account” said Benny “I don’t think Facebook exists in France.”

“He’s FRENCH!?!” I yelled, confused. I thought Matt as from Liverpool.

“Yeah…” said Benny “I thought you knew that?”

“Jesus” I responded “What’s with all the diversity in this household? Nobody’s the same race in this place!”

“Uh… you, Matt and Roman are all white, and me and Paul are both Chinese” said Benny. “Oh, and Tulisa’s white as well” he added, reminding me that Tulisa and Paul were now living together.

“Hey, that’s a point!” I yelled, leaping out of my chair – forgetting Paul’s cat had been on my lap and flew at Benny and his poodle as I stood up, spitting and shrieking. That cat was quite noisy, too. “If anyone knows where I can get Heroin from it’s Tulisa – she’s a Grade A smack whore!”

“Ok, ask her! Just please get off me!” shouted Benny. Pussy – he weighs more than I do, why does he care if I jump on him?

I ran out the room, and down the corridor towards Paul’s room. I could hear Benny shrieking as the cat tore at his legs as I left the room, but I didn’t care. If I got a hold of this Heroin, I would finally get to be friends with Russell Brand! I burst into Paul’s room, determined to confront Tulisa and get as much Heroin off her as I could. Unfortunately, just as I burst in, Tulisa happened to be busy sucking Paul’s cock. It’s true what they say about Asian guys’ penis’s, you know? They really are uncircumcised…

“Tulisa! I need some Heroin!” I shouted, which made her jump, and bite down on Paul’s dick.

“Mwaararrrrraaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Paul shouted, presumably speaking in Chinese. I took the point.

“Come back later?” I said “no problem…”

And I walked out, swiping Tulisa’s purse on my way out. Half an hour later after some serious rummaging, I had the Heroin in my hand, and was ready to start my journey towards becoming best friends with my Hero, Russell Brand. I poured the Heroin onto a piece of tinfoil, and heated it up with my lighter. I put the end of a cut-up straw in my mouth, and inhaled the fumes deeply…

I don’t really remember what happened after that for the next week or so, but my journal entries tell an interesting story…



Me, Benny, Roman and Paul in Happier times. I say "happier", the strip club wasn't even open! We went to the Casino instead (you know what Chinamen are like...)




May 29th

Threw up in my shoes this morning. Wouldn’t have been too bad, but I was also late for the train, so had to pull my shoes on without cleaning them. Got some funny looks from people at the station, but I started playing Wu Tang Clan on my boombox, and they all moved away from me. Except one black guy, who started dancing right in front of me. We went and got chicken. I bought him a bargain bucket.

“Nigga, you is tight!” He said, as I handed him the twelve pieces of Chicken and Barbeque sauce.

“No sweat, my nigga” I responded. He punched me in the face, and walked out, looking mad as hell. I suppose it’s my fault, really; I bought him a sprite instead of Grape Drink…

I went into the KFC bathroom, and took a shot of Heroin to take the edge off the pain. The cubicle was full, so I just took it over the sinks. Unfortunately, as the Heroin started to kick in, I realised I needed to puke, and kicked in the door of the cubicle. Dappy was in there, taking a shit.

“YOU!?!?!” He shouted as he saw me. I tried to think of a good comeback, but as I opened my mouth to speak, sick went everywhere, and covered his face. He screamed his displeasure, and I staggered out of there as fast as I could; making it to a Taxi before collapsing.

“Where to, mate?” The cab driver asked.

“Just get me to a bridge” I said, and the cab pulled off. As we pulled away from the KFC, I saw Dappy run out, still covered in sick, and chase the cab for about 30 seconds before falling down an open manhole. He sure loves man hole…

About an hour later, I woke up under the Severn Bridge. Quite how this was possible, I don’t know, given the Severn Bridge is in Bristol, which is well over an hour’s drive from Portsmouth (there’s no Motorway running directly between the two). Then it occurred to me, it was now 2 o’clock the NEXT DAY. Hmm… I suppose I should be writing this on the next page in my Journal…



May 30th

After updating my journal for yesterday, I decided I should try and get my hands on some more Heroin, to make sure I was well and truly addicted – otherwise they wouldn’t let me in Narcotics Annonymous!

It also occurred to me that, being roughly 16 stone, they might not believe I was a Heroin addict if I turned up, because Heroin addicts are usually very skinny. I decided that the best way for me to burn off several stone in a couple of days was through running everywhere, just like in San Andreas. So I ran down into Bristol.

“Does anyone know where I can buy some Heroin?”

“Get out of here! This is a Church Bake sale!” someone shouted.

“Oi! Show some fucking respect! I used to be Chairman of the Young Conservatives society!” I yelled back at them, before realizing that was Frank, and I had actually started an Anarchist movement in the school which had led to him being kicked out the conservative club after I hijacked the school radio station and edited together a show so it sounded like he was calling John Cleese and boasting about how he slept with his Grandson (Conservatives hate gays).


You people voted for this!


I looked up to see all the Church Freaks staring at me.

“God doesn’t exist!” I shouted at them “at least not in any tangible form that we can readily understand!” and I ran out, pleased to have struck a powerful blow to the Church for the psuedo-atheist movement. I ran about 2 blocks, before coming across a homeless guy. I beat the shit out of him with a dustbin lid (harder than you might imagine, since they have plastic bins in Bristol…), and stole all his alcohol, which I proceeded to trade with another homeless guy for a gram of Heroin. I then beat him up, too – just so I got the Heroin AND the alcohol. I got ridiculously high, and passed out.



May 31st

Woke up on the side of the road, and rolled over to see a bunch of American Evangelist protestors nearby, boycotting a soldier’s funeral.


Fucking Westboro Baptist Church - Don't they know it's written 11/9 in this country?!?!


I went to talk to them.

“Why does God hate fags? I mean, I know hey give you cancer, but you look cool if you’ve always got a pack of Fags with you…”

“They hunt in packs?” She shrieked, and ran off. A slightly more sane looking (yeah, I KNOW!) member of the Church walked over to me.

“Are you a fag enabler?” he asked “do you love America?”

“Does anyone in this country?” I queried, wondering whether or not they were simply brought up only knowing a limited number of questions and responses, which they merely parroted, no matter what the situation.

“God said in the Bible that the fags must be crucified.” He said, very sure of himself “and the niggers, too.”

“God’s black” I replied.

“Blaspheme!” he yelled, and all the other Church members surrounded me. “God is a white man!”

“No he’s not!” I responded, and I continued “I can prove God’s black!”

“Oh what?” said one of the women “are you going to say that man originated in Africa, and because God created man in his image, God must be Black? Please, that whole ‘man comes from Africa’ thing is a bullshit conspiracy made up by the niggers, kikes and fag enablers.”

“No, Adam was white” I replied “But think about it – only a Black guy would ever take ribs off a white man…”

They chased me for four hours. In my defence, that joke’s more racist than Blasphemous. After all, it’s stereotyping black people, saying they eat ribs all the time, which we know isn’t really true…




They all eat chicken.






June 1st
Having run all the way to Camden last night before passing out, I wasn’t feeling too good. I figured smoking some crack might pick me up, but I got my pockets confused and just smoked a bunch of Heroin. Uuuuuuuurrrrrggghhhhh………………



June 2nd

I tried to check into rehab today for drug addiction, but they saw right through me. I reckon it was because of my weight, but possibly the “Be my friend, Russell Brand” T-Shirt I had specially made contributed to it. Whatever. I now weighed 14 and a half stone, but was still way too heavy to pass myself off as a Heroin addict. I decided to give up.

But then it occurred to me – Russell Brand was also a sex addict! All I needed to do was go to a sex addiction treatment centre, and get admitted! Russell Brand was surely a sponsor for sex addicts as well!

As I walked in the door, the receptionist weighed me up.

“You’re a sex addict, are you?” She asked me, inquisitively.

“That’s right.” I responded “I’m here for treatment.”

“ok” she replied “can you prove to me you’re an addict? That you would do anything for sex?”

“Well, the last girl I had sex with was from Kent.” I said, truthfully.

“MY GOD!” She shouted, rounding on her phone “Get Dr. Burnstein in here right now! We’ve got an emergency in progress!”

And with that, I was admitted.





June 3rd

Turns out Russell Brand doesn’t sponsor people seeking treatment for Sex Addiction – something to do with “reverting to a state of predatory sexuality”, or something. I tried to leave as soon as they told me, but apparently I signed aware my right to Liberty under Article 5 of the European Convention of Human Rights when I entered treatment, so am now stuck sharing a room with Gary the paedo (nickname) for the next 90 days. Still, they tell me if I’m good, I may get internet access tomorrow, so I can write about Russell Brand for his Birthday. Though, I'll have to remember not to look at any porn - otherwise I'll be in BIG trouble!


June 4th

For Fuck’s sake!






Voice

Science Corner - The Love Drug (Text)

It occurred to me today that when people refer to love as being a drug, they’re probably not altogether wrong. Obviously I don’t mean love in the context of “Man, I LOVE Rammstein!” or “I love muffins”; but in the context of being in love with someone, I suspect that love acts exactly like a drug does.



I was watching a show a while back about the link between dogs and humans, and at one point they were explaining why you get such a good feeling when you stroke your dog. Apparently, stroking your dog (as in actually stroking a pet canine – that’s not a euphemism. Although, thinking about it – this probably applies to THAT as well…) releases chemicals (endorphins?) in your brain, which cause you to feel happy. More interestingly, it also has the exact same effect on the dog. That’s why dogs seem to love being stroked – it makes them produce chemicals that make them happy. It also explains why only grumpy dogs snarl at you if you try to stroke them.

Naturally, I figured this is probably what happens with humans. When we feel connected to them, we feel happy when we’re around them – and the obvious explanation for this is that, when we acknowledge that someone is important to us, being around them releases these same chemicals into our brains, making us happy. This is what love is made of.

But then this got me thinking – does that mean that if I’m in love with someone I’m actually just addicted to the chemical feeling I get from being with them, and the identity of the person in question is irrelevant, just so long as they get me high? The obvious answer to this is, of course, “yes”.



This again made me wonder – does that mean that every loving relationship we are involved in is essentially the same as the relationship between a Heroin addict and a dealer? And I found this amusing enough to want to argue my case. So, here we go…

Obviously, those who believe in “true love” are not going to see things in this way, and nor are those who see love as being a very spiritual or religious experience. But, being a grumpy, relatively young, not particularly religious person, I think this analogy makes perfect sense, and shall use case studies to back up my theory that BEING IN LOVE IS LIKE USING HEROIN!


Which explains why Russell Brand only decided to settle down after he quit using actual Heroin...

You know how sex feels great, but when you compare it to love, it actually feels like crap (I know, it seems weird even typing it – I’m 21 for God’s sake!)? Like how when you’re in a loving relationship you can’t believe there are guys out there who only use women for sex, and don’t bother to stay with them and really get to know and love them? That’s because sex is producing a different chemical that, whilst very powerful when you are actually taking it, has almost no lasting effects, and the high ends very quickly. In my analogy, therefore, sex is Crack. Now, those who are into mixing things up a bit will tell you that Crack and Heroin are perfect partners (I’m pretty well just working from what Russell Brand says in “My Bookie Wook” here, so if your own personal experience varies – compare that to your views on love and sex, and see if your drug and love preferences match. If they don’t – tell me! I’ll look into it…), because Heroin has such an amazing high, but is depressive in nature, and pretty well knocks you out, but smoking Crack after you’ve done heroin is the perfect way to keep that high, and stay buzzing. This applies to love too, when you think about it.

Sure, Crack is great, but the high doesn’t last long. And Heroin is amazing – the best high ever – but boy, you just can’t do ANYTHING whilst you’re on heroin, unless you have some crack to pick you up. Now read that back substituting “Crack” for “sex” and “heroin” for “love”. And yes, I do realize I just told you to trade crack for sex in that last sentence.


Just an average Friday night for some...

Now, some guys prefer crack, and I’m cool with that. But I’ve always been more of a heroin man, myself. Possibly because the first time I did Crack was with a girl I later took Heroin with, and I realised that the high got so much better when I combined the Crack with Heroin that I never wanted to do Crack without Heroin again. But thinking about it – if you’ve only ever done crack, and never tried Heroin; you wouldn’t know what you were missing, so wouldn’t care that you weren’t experiencing what Heroin was like, right? I mean, I remember the night when I first did Crack, and it was amazing! One of those things you’ll never forget. And I can easily imagine myself cruising for Crack, looking to get my hit however possible, and feeling like king of the world – if I had never tried Heroin.



Unfortunately, I did try Heroin. And I got hooked.



This is great whilst you’ve got a supplier who can give you all the heroin you need, but turns into a nightmare when your supplier stops selling you Heroin, and leaves town. The exact same is true with love. If the person you love tells you that they’re not in love with you any more, and that they don’t want to see you any more, you feel like crap. You have actual withdrawal symptoms! Think about it – How many of you have had your hearts broken and found yourself just curled up in a ball in bed, or spent hours in the shower, not being able to think about anything else, or operate properly. Maybe you couldn’t get out of bed all day, or maybe you cried? Hell, you may have been physically sick. These are withdrawal symptoms, all right – but not withdrawal from the person you loved (or thought you loved, as you’re now saying), but rather from the chemical effect that you associate with that person. The thing is – most people can’t differentiate between the two. Your dealer leaves town and suddenly you feel really ill and depressed? Maybe you do miss the dealer – but you know as well as I do those effects are more to do with the fact you’ve lost your heroin supply!

And think about “The rebound”. We’ve all been there – you’re in a long-term relationship which breaks down, and straight after get into another relationship. This is exactly the same as you would expect from a heroin addict who just lost their supplier. You go out, and find a new supplier as quickly as you can – so you don’t lose the feeling that heroin gives you. For the lucky few, this new supplier will bring in an even stronger product, and you won’t even miss your old supplier. But for most of us, we have to cope with weaker strength Heroin when we switch suppliers, and at times find ourselves wondering whether there’s any Heroin in there at all, or has it been cut so much that there really isn’t any Heroin in this syringe, just baking soda?

The Crack, too, tends to decline. I mean, you still smoke Crack with your new supplier. Hell, you might even smoke more. But it’s not the same. You’re too used to smoking Crack with Heroin, and now Crack on its own just won’t do. What’s more – it’s not even as good as the Crack you remember your old dealer giving you. You wish you could just go back – if you hadn’t smoked your old dealer’s crack, you’d probably be loving this new supplier’s Crack! But it doesn’t work like that. So you’re stuck, with a poor Heroin substitute, and low strength Crack, until eventually, that supplier leaves town as well. Or maybe you leave town this time, hoping there’ll be some good quality Heroin elsewhere. But in the new town you move to, you don’t know any good suppliers, so have to ask around, starting with the weaker drugs first.




Dating is like Cannabis – compared to Heroin, it’s very easy to get your hands on, and although ideally will lead on to Crack, or even Heroin, you know there’s no certainty that a weed dealer will also be a Heroin supplier. The more Cannabis you do, there more you get used to spotting what a potential dealer looks like as well, and the better you get at this, the more chance you know you have of getting Crack, or even Heroin, off a dealer when you meet them. But for now, you figure you’ll buy weed off them for a while, then hope they ask you if you want some Crack soon enough. And who knows, you may get that Heroin after all.

Some guys can just get Crack without asking for Cannabis first, but for the most part, we like getting comfortable buying weed off our dealers before we ask if they have any Crack, just in case they’re a Narc, and because it’s a bit rude to jump straight to Crack… After all, most of us started on weed, and know that it’s a respectable drug to ask for when you first meet a dealer – it doesn’t sound as forceful and dirty as asking them if they’ve got any Crack they can give you. Though, obviously, what you ask the dealer for will vary on circumstance. If someone has a reputation as a crack dealer, you’re obviously going to be more inclined to ask for Crack without bothering with the weed, or at least ask for Crack on the same night as you buy the weed off them. But what’s interesting is the difference in the highs. Some people find Crack superior, because the high it delivers is so much stronger; whilst others prefer the weed, because it’s closer in effect to the Heroin, and you feel that smoking weed helps you get by between hits of Heroin far more easily that smoking Crack does.



But what happens when a weed dealer leaves? Some people aren’t really concerned; after all, weed dealers are a dime a dozen, and there are plenty more fish in the sea. But some of us find that line of thinking hard – especially when your old weed dealer starts selling crack, or even heroin, to some Douchebag you know is just going to wind up doing a rip and run on them, or going to the Narcs. This makes us angry – because if they’d dealt exclusively with us, we assure ourselves that we would never be tempted to rip them off, and especially wouldn’t seek out other Crack dealers whilst leeching their Heroin supply like a worthless prick. But we forget one thing – if she gave that douchefag crack so soon after giving him weed, maybe you didn’t want to wait and see if her Heroin is any good, because the kind of dealer who associates with that kind of guy isn’t the type of dealer you can buy Heroin from for the rest of your life. And even if her Heroin was good, are you really going to buy Heroin off a dealer with so little self respect they’re practically giving Crack away in the hopes someone will hook them up with a Heroin supply? I don’t think so! So I’ll stick with my weed for now, despite the fact that I haven’t had Heroin in quite some time now, and despite the fact that, although having had Crack more recently (though not THAT recently) I still crave it somewhat; because I know when the right dealer comes along, I’ll get all the Crack and Heroin I could want, and I’ll love it!


Until she leaves town as well…






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