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We have a long conversation. Grayson was the only one I trusted as a child. A truly beautiful man of sensitivity and charm, surrounded by ignorant brutes. Even as a child I could tell that the rest of them were rancid. Bernard Manning. Steve Wright. Jimmy Savile. Doc Cox. Simon Bates. Mike Reid. Keith Chegwin. Jim Davidson. Chris Tarrant. Sid James. Michael Barrymore. Esther Rantzen. Jonathan King. Benny Hill. Spike Milligan. Jack Smethurst. Noel Edmonds. Stan Boardman. Dave Lee Travis. The Krankies. Robin Asquith. Those cunts off 'Allo āAllo! Iām not saying all of them were paedophiles or misogynists or racists, but they were all fucking horrible to a T; none who youād shed a tear over.
āTheyāre all down there, arenāt they?ā I ask Grayson, who simply nods, eyes brimming with plastic tears.
āIs he down there as well? The teacher with the carnation, the powder blue crushed velveteen suit and the stupid fucking haircut?ā I ask him. He had an odd way of punishing boys, that one.
āTake a look for yourself,ā says Grayson and my head starts sinking under the surface again.
Back in Hell, I drift high above the plains, looking down on the lost but somethingās wrong with my balance, Iām pitching and yawing. Tipping forwards. Threatening to come tumbling to the floor of this horrible, blood-red world. I donāt want to go down to Hell⦠Iām not readyā¦
I wake up, just as I come rolling forward out of my Mumās electric riser/recliner chair. Iām on my hands and knees with my chin on the carpet and my son is stood next to me, hitting me delightedly with a toy train. Mum is leaning against a wall laughing in hysterics. Iām at an absolute loss as to what is going on.
āLarry?ā I ask weakly.
After a few moments I realise that itās the 29th of December and Iām round at my parentsā house in Merseyside. We drove up from London yesterday for the annual Christmas visit. She tells me that she was watching me for some time before I fell out of the chair. I would nod off, my head would loll slowly backwards until a combination snore/shout ā caused by a blocked nose and sleep apnoea ā would make me jolt upright awake before I would start slowly lolling backwards asleep again. But then Little John joined in the torment. Growing bored and wanting someone to play with, he used the electronic controller on the side of the chair to tip it forward sending me crashing on to the floor. This function of the chair would normally be used by a pensioner to help them get up into standing position.
āSo Iām not in Hell?ā I ask gingerly and my Mum shakes her head.
āHeās worked out how to tip me out of a chair on to the floor?ā I ask incredulously.
āYes. Heās very clever, isnāt he?ā says Mum, laughing.
āVery,ā I say.
āChoo! Choo!ā says Little John and hits me on the nose with a train again. Heās managed to tip me out of the chair so Iāve landed well within reach of his Thomas The Tank Engine Blue Mountain Play Set. I start pushing tiny engines round its maze of plastic tracks from where Iām lying.
āHow are you feeling?ā says my Mum.
āHorrible. I think Iāve got what Dadās got,ā I say.
My old man is laid up in bed with some virus. When I was a kid he sometimes used to spend all Christmas in bed, lying there motionless with the curtains shut, staring balefully at the blank wall in front of him with his mouth hanging open, not speaking for days on end but that was with depression. We didnāt know it was an illness then.
There were lots of things that we didnāt know were illnesses then.
I do feel terrible but if Iām truthful with myself, Iām pretty sure Iām not suffering with what heās got. I realised recently that Iād started lying to myself about my use of narcotics and there was a period of several weeks last year where things slipped slightly. There was some discombobulation. I crossed several Rubicons that I said Iād never even approach. Iāve stopped everything now. No damage done. Well, none that I know about yet. My trouble is I can no longer just do a little bit of drugs once or twice a year, like some trendy dad with a Primal Scream T-shirt and some Basement Jaxx CDs who likes going to Fabric on his birthday. Itās not in my nature. As a result I reached a point where I had to choose between getting high and being a dad ā as the two things are, for me, incompatible. And this was no choice at all when it came down to it.
Itās only been a few days but I feel like Iām dying. I feel like Satan has kicked me in the fucking heart with an iron shod, cloven hooved roundhouse ā straight to the motherfucking sternum. I feel like heās taken a three-day postponed rave shit in my liver and pissed all over my over-heated pancreas with a sizzling micturition that sounds like a hot dog vendorās frying onions. My heart is bruised and is radiating a painful network of burst veins and arteries, like a roadmap of poor life choices.
And the depression? Jesus Christ, Iām lugubrious. I feel like a Tindersticks B-side played at 33rpm. I feel like the typeface on the lyric sheet of an unloved, late 90s Morrissey album. Iām so depressed itās almost quite funny. Almost, but not quite. I feel like wearing an armband even though Iām not a footballer or a Victorian undertaker.
Or maybe I have just got the flu⦠who knows? After all, flu is pretty hanging.
I think somethingās afoot, though. Spiders and Satanic matters are two things that plague my dreams when Iām trying to kick a habit and I do understand why that is. Satan is a powerful metaphor for the exertion of self-will. He symbolises the rejection of societyās norms and the bold statement of belief in man as a self-sufficient entity in charge of his own destiny. Someone who identifies with Satan probably believes in free will and opposes governance by the church, the state, the judiciary, teachers, police, social workers, librarians, bus drivers, park wardens, people in call centres⦠He helps man oppose The Man!
The trouble is, I donāt really believe in free will any more. Iāve spent my entire life banging my head against a brick wall and all Iāve got to show for it is a totally fucked face and a cracked skull. And Iām still sat next to a completely unchanged brick wall. About 95 percent of my life was already mapped out for me by genetics and environment and the only choice I was making was between white and brown bread. I donāt really believe Iām in charge of my own destiny to any remarkable degree and there isnāt any striking evidence to suggest that I should do.And as for the other 5 percent of my life that actually does present me with genuine chances to completely change my fortunes? Well, Iāll probably be in a better position to recognise these all too rare opportunities when they happen and maybe even make the right decisions they present if I havenāt just boshed three grams of MDMA, a fat line of ketamine, a nose-up of crystal meth and am not whooping blind with poppers. Drugs may be a symbol of free will but in concrete terms, for me, they represent yet another form of control. Especially if youāre a 41-year-old wondering where he can get speed from on a Wednesday lunch time.
This isnāt the first time Iāve been knocked on my arse, drug sick at my mum and dadās house, but Iām going to make sure itās the last time. Iām going to start at NA as soon as I get back to London.
Thereās a verse that you usually end up saying when you go to AA called the Serenity Prayer. They probably say it at NA as well.
āGod grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.ā
They figure that even though the 12-step programme is really just church, a lot of the people who end up in the rooms are probably atheist or agnostic so they ask you to picture god in any way that youāre comfortable with.
So as I lie on the floor being hit with a train, I think to myself: āDear plastic Larry Grayson future Christ. Please help me fight Satan. I am utterly powerless against this big, shiny red prick, with his cunning ways and his stupid fucking Noel Edmonds beard. Fuck him and fuck his stupid red horns and fuck his stupid fucking trident. Please help us Larry Grayson, youāre our only hope. Amen.ā
But it doesnāt make me feel any better. It doesnāt even put a dent in it. I really feel fucking ill and upset. Itās ludicrous. You want to get up and walk away from it but you canāt. You just have to sit and wait for it to pass. It squats on your shoulders like a great brass badger while your sanity comes apart like a daddy long legs in a fucking car wash.
āDo you want a cup of tea?ā says my mum.
āYes please. And a slice of Dundee cake, an Eccles cake and a mince pie,ā I reply.
āItās only half eight in the morning,ā she says.
āYeah, donāt worry about that,ā I say. āItās Christmas and a little bit of what you like never hurt anyone.āPhoto by Mike Sansbury.Previously: Menk, by John Doran - Going UndergroundYou can read all the previous editions of John's Menk column here.