Always Read the Label Chapter 1 Aerial Sharon

“My legs won’t go down”
“What?”
“My legs wont go down”
Laughing now, “Why?”
“Cos there’s no air in them”
I don’t even have time to take this in as I’m to busy spitting out laughter. We all are. The only problem is not everyone gets the joke. We’re sat on a bus (or is that buzz?) with a load of old women staring at us.
Or is that just me.
First rule of drug use, no public transport. Ever.
The arc of the streetlights has started to blend together making them look like a very tall fluorescent fence. I’m pondering this when I start to feel a tapping on my shoulder.
“We’d better get off here, I’m fucked.”
This seems to make complete sense to everyone but our legs, which seem to be happy sitting down.
“Ring the bell then.”
He does and slowly but unsurely, the bus comes to a stop. Everyone turns to look at the five of us as we stumble like giggling schoolgirls onto the pavement. As the bus pulls away, in slow motion, the old women tut in unison. Should be an Olympic sport, synchronised tutting.

“I’m soaking wet.”
Fearing the worst I ask “Why?”
“The rain.”
Phew. I thought he’d wet himself, never mind it's not actually raining.
Where on earth can we go in this state?
The pub. Obvious really. Asking everyone if we should is to hard, so I just set off in the general direction shouting “come on”.
We start shuffling along, but it’s not quite sunk in that we’re moving. One thinks he’s a steamroller and is worried about crushing apples (don’t ask), another thinks he’s got a pet rabbit in his arms (no, I don’t know if it’s called Harvey), and two are having a conversation.
“Where’s warm?”
“Somewhere near Italy”
Everyone seems to pick up on this snippet and rabbits are dropped, apples are crushed as we all roll about laughing.

So, into the pub. It all seems normal, the pool rooms full of underage drinkers, the main rooms full of heavies. Heavy rockers that is. You know the sort- long hair, denim jackets with patches, tight jeans and non-violent boots. They don’t bother us, we just laugh at them behind their (patch covered) backs. Not to their faces as they’re a good source of dope. But tonight they look fucking ludicrous. Like some fucking medieval jesters with striped pants and bouffant hairdos. That’s just the blokes. Or maybe it's both. You just can’t tell these days, or at least tonight. There’s a sort of collective giggling fit going on that’s lasted long enough for people to work out who we’re laughing at. I swear I can feel its going to turn nasty and know our only escape is the pool room. First though, drinks have to be got.

“Five pints of snakebite please”. The landlord eyes me up for a very long time, looking like he’s serving a tramp. This makes me very paranoid and while he’s grudgingly pouring the pints, I try to sneak a look in the mirror to the side of the bar. I’ve been beaten to it. One of our little gang is
right next to the mirror muttering to himself that he’s disappeared. This is not helping, as the landlord can hear every worrying word he’s saying. I quickly try to guide him to the sanctuary of the pool room, but I’m not helped by the fact that I can’t see my reflection either. We get to the pool room and sit on the benches that run round the table.
“I’m not here.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are, and you’re a steamroller.”

This seems to stop or at least delay him worrying and lets me remember that I haven’t got the drinks, so I head back to the bar. The landlord looks like he could kill me. It's his busiest night and he’s having to wait for someone to remember to pay. HE KNOWS. I try to smile as if to say sorry, but just end up laughing. HE REALLY KNOWS. I grab a pint and take it back to the pool room. I do this five times as this seems to make sense. I get the change and a now confirmed I KNOW look.
“What about all those apples?”
Oh no - he’s remembered he was a steamroller.
“You turned them into cider. Now drink them.”

This is Emlyn. He worries. And yes, he is named after the footballer. The others are spread about around the room, two of them ultra obsessed with the pool game and one still holding his rabbit. That’s Goody. The two pool hustler’s are Paul Newman and Tom Cruise. Not really, they’re Wig and Tommo.

There’s about ten other people in the room. We know about five of them, so we’re safe. From other people anyway. I get up and put down a marker for a game. Only I put it on the felt. The two guys playing move it to the side of the table and carry on as if nothing happened. This convinces me that nothing has happened, so I put another marker down. In the same place. They tell me to stop fucking about. Wig comes over and apologises on my behalf. I play the diplomat and blow a raspberry. My middle name is Kissinger.

We sit down and wait for our turn. Tommo comes over and sits down. “Peel me, I’m a banana.”
“You’re a prick”, adds the other diplomat in our group, Emlyn.
We can’t even argue properly we’re that out of it. The pool table frees itself from the rockers evil clutches and Wig sets the balls up. We start playing but can’t get into the conventional game so invent our own. It’s called chipping the ball off the table to make the people sat around it jump. It’s very popular but not with the spectators. Oh well, at least we’re not playing darts. Wig chips a ball that just misses Emlyn, and immediately he’s a prick too. I agree with Emlyn and Wig starts sulking, abandons and indeed forfeits the match and sneaks off to chat up some rock chicks. He’s a closet rocker is Wig. He’s got Deep Purple records under his bed and secretly learns the words to impress the rock chicks - his full name’s Wiggy Word Learner. We talk about him when he’s gone and decide he’s got Stairway To Heaven ears. If you were ever unfortunate to see him, you’d agree.

A very straight Vlad comes into the room and laughs at us. For a long time. In fact way way too long.
Eventually it speaks. “There’s a party tonight.”
“Whose?”
“Fat Shaz”
“Are we invited?”
“No”
“Well we’d better go then.”

Fat Shaz. It’s music to my ears. Before you can say ‘you’re not welcome in this pub anymore’ we’re off. Vlad pops into the offie and comes back with Merrydown and Royal Dutch lager. Only the cheapest will do. Everybody seems to be in their own little world and the mushrooms are the prime suspect. I’m glad they weren’t this intense in the pub or God knows what would have happened. The sound of the cars is getting louder and louder and we appear to be in a time gap photo.
“Are you alright?”
It’s Vlad talking to me. I can’t decide if it’s coming from Heaven or Hell. Or somewhere inbetween.
When I eventually focus on what turns out to be his waving hand in front of my face, the effort makes me throw up all over the pavement.
“Eugh, pizza” shouts Tommo, caught between gagging and laughing.
I feel like I’m flying.
“No it’s curry. My mum made it”.
Everyone starts laughing at this, but I don’t get the joke. Vlad has to explain it to me, as if I’m a five year old.
I feel a lot better for that. It was definitely curry though.
The party is only ten minutes walk away and by the time we arrive I’m much better, but the others are worse.

Vlad walks up to the door and knocks. This sends Tommo, Goody and Emlyn scarpering round the side of the garage. Brilliant. The only ones Fat Shaz even vaguely likes have decided to hide. The three left on the doorstep Me, Wig and Vlad are her sworn enemies. A figure appears from behind the curtains shaking its head, obviously expecting us. In no mood to argue we do the obvious thing. We plead form outside. It gets us nowhere. Fast. Wig is obviously still flying diplomat class and starts to shout:
“Let us in you moose or we’ll smash your windows.”

The head withdraws from the window. We walk round the side of the house to find the others, but they’ve disappeared .Wig is the first to see them inside the darkened kitchen, stood in the light of the fridge as if it’s a spacecraft. All that hassle and the back door was open. We go in and see over their shoulder that they are looking at a comedy classic waiting to happen. A birthday cake. ‘To Sharon’ writ large. It suits her. Emlyn has already dragged his finger through the icing and is licking it off obscenely. Many Happy Returns. The kitchen light flicks on and its like being blinded. Fat Shaz in all her war-painted glory.
“Get out!”
“Alright Sharon”, it’s Emlyn followed by a feeble “Happy birthday. Nice to see you.”
Fucking hell he’s turned into Bruce Forsyth. We all try to look invisible.
“My brother’s here and he’ll kick you all out”
We know Sharon’s brother and he couldn’t. He wouldn’t even dare try. But it’s his home ground so anything’s possible.
“Oh Sharon we’ve come to say Happy Birthday and we’ve brought you a present.”
Emlyn finishes slurring his sentence and hands her a bottle of Merrydown.
This amazingly does the trick. We’re in.
What a slack door policy .
It soon becomes obvious why.
There’s only another fifteen people in the front room. Still there should be more when the pubs shut in a few hours.
The room looks even emptier because there’s hardly any furniture. It’s all been stored in another room, to make room for the crush of guests. Or make enough room for Fat Shaz. There’s a lot of her to go round. Even if you were driving.
Everybody’s talking politely trying not to show open contempt at our unacknowledged presence. I can see wig out of the corner of my eye mooching round the stereo. He turns it up and starts to dance . Not to the tune that’s playing though. Probably to one of his secret Deep Purple records. I keep going up to him and saying “Hush, there’s Smoke On The Water”, but he ignores me .I head back to the kitchen, and find Vlad and Emlyn drinking someone else’s beer. I help them destroy the evidence. Then, for some reason, I piss in an empty Merrydown bottle and put it in the fridge.

We decide to find goody and Tommo. Goody is easy, he’s sat in the front room letting anyone who dares stroke his pet rabbit. The one that’s not really there. The front door bell goes and I run to answer it.
It’s more of Shaz’s friends, as pleased to see me as I am them. The feelings mutual distrust. Shaz appears for some kissy kissy and bundles them in to the front room making me so happy that we came in the back door. Right behind her guests are some definitely uninvited ones.

It’s Worzel. And his mates. Shaz would definitely not want them at her party. So l let them in. It’s the final piece of the jigsaw. They’re bound to have some dope, and that’ll upset her more. We head back to the office, or the kitchen as its usually known, and wait for the Worzel bomb to go off. It doesn’t take long. Somebody used to have a bottle of Bacardi. Not anymore. They’ve now got 3/4”s of a bottle. Sorry 1/2 a bottle. Worzel and his two mates now have the other half inside them. They shouldn’t be to ill though cos they’re gonna wash it down with the bottle of Merrydown they’ve now found. “No, don’t drink that”, I shout. They look at me as if to say “try stopping us”.
“It’s a special drink for later, have these instead”, and generously hand them three cans of someone elses lager. They take them and proceed to hide them as fast as they hid the Bacardi. Worzel starts to skin up, as if he’s in a rush to be adjusted He finishes building and takes his coat off, showing some of the tackiest tattoos I’ve ever seen. I’ve nothing to really talk to him about, but want some of his spliff, so make a big show of admiring them. He notices and points to his favourite . “That’s saying something isn’t it?
It’s a cannabis leaf with a scroll saying,’if you have to ask you’ll never know’ below it. Yeah it’s saying arrest me for possession. Wow, like cosmic man.
“It’s smart.” I lie.
“Why’ve you got an ivy leaf on you’re arm?” Oh dear. This is Emlyn. Making friends again.
“It’s not an ivy, it’s pot, man.”
“What, ceramic?” goads Emlyn.
Worzel’s obviously heading the same way as other potheads, to the great gig in the sky, and mistakes the genuine pisstake for genuine interest.
“Mary Jane, man.”
“Wow, yeah man I know her.” said with a real sneer. I don’t know how Emlyn gets away with it, but he does.

We’re passed the joint and take a couple of much to big tokes on it each. I start to tingle and start laughing at Emlyn who’s choking.
Worzel laughs at us and asks, “first time lads?”
It isn’t but the way we go on denying this you’d think we were born smoking spliffs. It’s time to find Tommo and we half walk, half float through the other rooms in our quest.
No sign, but as a consolation prize we find Wig, rifling through the record collection. We kneel down and help him look through. There’s not a lot to look at, but Wig is engrossed in a Roxy Music cover. The wanker, or potential wanker at least, by the look of the cover.
We decide to look upstairs for Tommo and find nothing in the first two rooms.
Then bingo - we can hear him grunting in a darkened room, his trademark sign. Or sigh.
We slip in and when our eyes become adjusted to the gloom can see why we consider him such a romantic. He’s on the floor, in a sleeping bag with a girl he’s known, to my knowledge, for an hour max.
We sit quietly on the bed trying not to laugh. He’s below us and we can see his arse going up and down and hear him slobbering. I’m surprised she hasn’t drowned. We both lie back and enjoy this 3D amateur porn. Emlyn pulls out a fag but I stop him lighting it. Not till Tommo's finished at least.

Then the light flicks on and Tommo and his prey are caught in the sleeping bag like some deformed insect.
It’s Worzel. He storms in. “Don’t mind me.”
Tommo looks at him as if he’s going to cry. Unfinished business. Then he sees Emlyn and me sat on the bed and realises we’ve not just arrived. Well he’s always said he wants to try group sex.
“I breed whippets. Do you like whippets?” Worzel (Who else?) demands to know.
“Please leave us.” Begs Tommo.
“You see the secret is you’ve got to keep them lean.” Then he’s off on one, the ins and outs off whippet breeding. I guess Tommo’s’ still got some other ins and outs on his mind.
“Please, just ten seconds please.” There’s almost tears in his voice, and his eyes. The girls trying to hide her face.
“Please, just go.” It’s the girl this time. We’d better leave.
“Come on lets leave them to it.” We get up to go and Worzel kneels down to the happy couple to whisper one last whippet snippet.
“Just leave us.” Tears are not far off
We turn out the light and head out of the door. After five seconds we burst back in, turn on the light and shout ‘ You Can’t Hurry Love’, before running out laughing like kids.

There’s someone shouting in the front room, so we head there to investigate. Quite a few people are already staring worriedly at the escalating row. I can’t decide whether to l laugh or cry at the sight of a red faced Wig screaming ‘how the fuck do you know what people want to listen to?’
He really is a fungi to be with this evening.
I knew he’d get in trouble over his l heavy rock secret sooner or later. Fat Shaz is giving as good as she gets though. They deserve each other. “Why don’t you just sit down and stop interfering, it’s my party, so I’ll decide what we listen to.”
This isn’t going to wash with Wig, so I ask Sharon if she wants a drink. She says ‘yeah’ and weI head for the kitchen where I pull out the bottle of Merrydown and hand it to Sharon.
“Thanks for letting us come to your party Shaz and Happy Birthday.”
“Oh you’re welcome, it’s your mate who’s a dick.” A rather quick change of heart. I can't disagree with her though.

She unscrews the bottle and tips it back to take a hefty swig. l open the fridge, partly to hide my laughs and partly to put the next part of the plan into operation.
There’s a spray as Fat Shaz tastes the home brew I prepared earlier. All my own work and indeed one step up from home brew. Self brew.
“Eurgh, that tastes of piss.”
Then it dawns on her, IT IS PISS.
Before she can retaliate I give her something else to think about.
SPLAT
I hit her with her own Birthday cake, scoring a total bullseye and for my money improving her features ten fold. In the two seconds it takes her to react, I catch sight of Emlyn trying to decide if it’s really happened. He decides it has, and runs off into the front room shouting for Wig.
She stands, arms by her side screaming:
“Get out. Get out now.” and I inch my way towards the back door.
Emlyn comes bursting back in dragging Wig by the arm and he starts to laugh like the maniac he undoubtedly is, at the sight of a girl who has a cake for a face and is only just managing to scrape two eyeholes through the sponge.
“All of you get out, NOW.”
This time it attracts the attention of the rest of the party. Faces emerge round the kitchen door and recoil in roughly equal measures of horror and hidden amusement.
Those who feel obliged start to push Wig and Emlyn towards the door. I’ve already opened it so we just walk out and shout ‘Happy Birthday’ again.

Now all we need to do is find the other three.
We wait at the top of the street. It doesn’t take long before the door jumps open and two uncoordinated figures tumble on to the lawn. Goody and Tommo come running up the road. The only one still missing in action is Vlad.
We look towards the house and as if by explanation all the lights go out and a shadow runs towards us giggling loudly.
It’s Vlad and he carries on past us shouting ‘ come on come on’. We follow him in a sort of snake formation trying not to laugh until we get off the road near the shopping precinct. We gather round Vlad and ask him what the rush is. He holds up a small piece of plastic and says, simply,
‘fuses.’ So that’s why they call him the Prince of Darkness.

It’s time for goodnights and the cold walk home. We split up and head our separate ways, me and Emlyn taking the same route, walking in silence for a while, drained and hitting the ground after a llong flight. l
“What did you think of the party then?” I ask Emlyn.
“Fat Shaz took the piss and then tried to have her cake and eat it.“ he replies.
We both laugh at this and walk a little faster towards home.