Repatriated after two months sur le continong, I walked down the sunny high street marvelling at English cheerfulness. A poster in the window of Lloyds bank showed two young chaps hugging joyfully below the words ‘He said yes!’ And a man loitering beneath these newly betrothed I recognised as my great friend Tom. When I think of Tom, I always think of a sentence of Max Beerbohm: ‘None, it is said, of all who revelled with the Regent, was half so wicked as Lord George Hell.’
Tom spotted me from 20 yards away and his expression changed from blandness to incredulity to that look of apology he always gives me as he remembers what happened the last time we broke bread, and the time before that. It could also be an apology offered in advance of the catastrophe that now lies ahead of us. We embraced every bit as passionately as the chaps in the Lloyds bank poster above us. Tom is a short guy with a body as hard as a dog’s head.
I haven’t seen Tom sober or straight for ten years. He was one of our first explorers, about ten years ago, of the brave new world of legal highs, enjoying above all else the out-of-body experience offered by the cheaper products. After years of living at one remove from reality, a savage blow to the head with a non-stick frying pan, inflicted during a dispute with a friend about ownership of a small amount of illegal highs, had seemed to put him permanently beyond reach.
But I’ve always refused to condemn Tom’s suicidal lifestyle because he is a hard-working builder, he is untroubled by melancholy, and he has a big and loving heart. Moreover, he has a huge dick, which he calls Scarface.