Errors of judgement

When you’re fifteen and off your head, sometimes it is better to find another place to stay the night instead of going home. I had already learned this lesson the hard way by the time I was fourteen, and after that I would go to extreme lengths to escape similar consequences. It was always a delicate balance though – personal safety versus recriminations the following morning. I sometimes didn’t get it quite right and neither did Miranda.

The other day I noticed she had updated her facebook page with the information that she was 98% gay. I wondered at the time, if our experiences had had any influence on that. I hope one day she finds happiness whoever it’s with. I know she hasn’t had very good luck so far in her personal life.

On the surface she is still very beautiful; an accomplished artist, with some amazing experiences behind her. In her past, she spent time on some very famous film sets. Her little sister, who did become a very famous actor, just like the fortune-teller had said, – red carpet, Hollywood and all, took her along, and opened doors for her that must have been fascinating.

Scratch just a tiny bit underneath though, and she also has a history of deep sadness – abusive relationships, miscarriages of much wanted children, divorce. She is still trying – she has reinvented herself a formidable amount of times. I admire her so much for never giving up.

Sometimes our errors of judgement didn’t turn out too badly. They generally all started at the Roundhouse. Occasionally they were quite amusing in a surreal kind of way. Once we met two men – perhaps in their mid-twenties. They were funny but really secretive – they made this big mystery about who they were. We never found out and we didn’t actually care that much either. It was definitely something to do with a band and they were on tour, or recording, because they were living at the Royal Garden Hotel on Kensington High Street.

I can’t remember how many times we went there. We were experimenting then, with mixing uppers and downers and alcohol – all at once – it was quite nice actually, but it wasn’t compatible with going back to either one of our houses afterwards. I only got shouted at; Miranda’s father would cuff her across the head. You can see why we took risks instead.

When you have that many different things in your bloodstream you aren’t exactly in charge of your life. You’re quite happy to let things happen and just drift along with whatever it is. With them it wasn’t anything too bad. Miranda and I both accepted casual sex as a part of our lives. It was a fairly normal attitude for that place and that time. We didn’t normally swap partners though – not in the same evening and in the same room. I know it went on for maybe a month or so. It must have cost them a fortune in drugs.

It’s hardly surprising that neither of us knew they were filming us until they actually told us they had been, and played some of it over the phone. Then I remember a bizarre exchange where they talked to us each separately, suggesting ever so casually that they might be able to make money out of it.

Miranda and I compared phone calls. Even then we just took it as part of our odd world – I mean, we definitely didn’t want our fathers to know what we’d been up to, but it never occurred to us to think of them as evil extortionists or anything – it was just another strange twist in life to get past.

It’s bizarre looking back, at how lacking in concern we were. We came to the conclusion that they thought our fathers were important enough to pay to keep us out of the newspapers. They were both well known in a small way I suppose; both had important jobs, both were ex-public school, and of course both would have been apoplectic if they’d found out, which they never did in the end.

Eventually we somehow managed to convince the mystery men it wasn’t worth their while to bother, but I am not sure how we did it in detail. Perhaps it was our lack of emotion when they told us what they planned to do. I know we both gave the impression that we really didn’t care in those days.

The worst time, I did care quite a lot, and perhaps that was because of the drugs too. Acid is not something you want to have a bad experience on. It magnifies everything – beauty, music, colour, taste, touch – all lovely life-enhancing stuff, even though it’s not very good for your brain afterwards.

Bad experiences too, unfortunately, are made worse; much worse. An unattractive person peering at you when you’re tripping turns into a hideous nightmare figure of giant proportions.

Being forced, quite violently, to have sex with someone, on acid. is just about the worst thing that can happen. You have no defences when you’re tripping – at least I didn’t. It never occurred to me at the time to leave. I am not even sure that he really understood that I didn’t want him to do that to me. I don’t think, past a murmured “no” and “please stop”, I was able to make it clear.

I don’t think I was frightened. He didn’t hit me or anything, or threaten me. He just wouldn’t stop and I really, really wanted him to. I wonder if he even knew I was crying as he forced my head down over and over. I doubt it.

For a long time afterwards I was reminded of that horrible night. He was a drummer on a children’s TV programme which went on for years and years. Even when it finished there were endless repeats. I actively avoided it, but sometimes I would be in a house, or walking past a TV shop and there he’d be, with the jolly smile that was compulsory for people who appeared on those programmes, and I would feel sick all over again, and the memory of what happened would fill my head.