FINDING ONE'S way home after the party was always difficult and on more than one occasion, I needed neighbours to carry my body through the door.
One particular dark episode, I was Sunday strolling home, away from my good mate Bob's party where I'd just made the best of playing his records and was singing Candi Staton to myself when I bumped into my workmate Tim. A guy who'd just literally just gambled his house away. Convinced the national wank a lottery would save him, only it didn't.
Inviting him back to my mother's house to share a whisky was a bad idea. To then invite the more excessive remnants of the party, Bob's pal Nick amongst them, an even badder one. Finally, returning home on the Monday, I had my copy of this, the single I'd bought off Tim more out of pity as I already had one and a David Holmes single bought from Vinyl Exchange. On the face, just an ordinary Monday.
All I recall after my ill-fated stroll home, though, is one guy leaving and returning with strips of what he said was his granny's medication. The particular strip I bought only finished on Tuesday at work and lead to me collapsing, needing a stomach pump. On my hospital departure, I recognized some faces congregating outside and learned that Nick had died.
My time with Nick was sketchy, to say the least. We'd been totally out of it and on every other occasion it would've been a laughing matter. We parted ways upon my angry mother's return home on the Monday afternoon like naughty schoolboys, yet before Tuesday teatime he had died. Everyone, except those closest to him, was happy to buy into this myth of me leading him astray. I'm naturally prone to guilt, but eventually forgave myself, as being blamed is my burden to carry.
I guess it's only natural to preserve the best possible version of somebody when consigning them to memory. Tim, too, has sadly died, but not before finding family joy. I just hope he and Nick have found their way home.
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