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In a moment of wild, youthful dementia, I once dropped acid with a Womble. There, I’ve got it off my chest. It’s so long ago it can’t hurt anyone now.
He didn’t set out to be a Womble, just got lucky. When I first met him he dreamed of becoming a rock star. Didn’t everybody? Oh, it was just me then. And him.
Some years afterwards we literally bumped into each other as he wombled out of a door onto Notting Hill’s Westbourne Park Road straight into my path. Like a tatty, old winter coat emerging from hibernation, he looked a right two and eight, to employ the vernacular of the time. Desperately in need of a fix, he was dirty, dishevelled, and more than pleased to see me again, even though he couldn’t remember who I was. There are episodes of my life I would rather forget. This isn’t one of them. I dropped Acid with a Womble. I think it might be the start of a series.
Daily Writings About The End Of Illusions
To write about my memories, past and present
An exploration into understanding the complexities of the Chemical Age, the Synthetic Chemical Revolution, and the toxins that impact us all
Singer / Songwriter / Writer / Outsider / Poet / Photos / Collecting Life's Strange Things ...and a Book For Sale
Une fois. Encore.
Public interest issues, policy, equality, human rights, social science, analysis
Hold your verve
More Coyotes than Wolves