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Julian Karswell
07-28-2009, 08:43 PM
WITHNAIL

#### this awfulness, let's go in here.

MARWOOD

Withnail, no, I beg of you. There are beds to be had at the YMCA!

WITHNAIL

#### you and the YMCA. I want to get off my face and sleep face down in a puddle in an alleyway. [Tearfully.] It's my right as an Englishman!

Barges through doorway into a strange looking retailer. Recoils in disgust at the reptilean looking vendor, spits on floor, then raps on counter.

Hey you. I want a lump of drugs and I want it now. Look sharp or I shall take my custom elsewhere.

MARWOOD

Withnail! Please, I beseech you! This isn't some cosy student party....there's man over there injecting mice into his forehead. Mice!

WITHNAIL (hissing)

Those aren't mice, they're spiders. You're hyper-ventilating, that's all. It's the poppers.

Turns to vendor.

Now, my good man, I apologise profoundly for the interruption. My friend went to a bad school. But to return to my earlier enquiry. I require a lump of drugs, ideally something mildly hallucinatory which gives way to a long dreamlike contemplation. The price is irrelevant seeing as Uncle Monty is paying........I presume you accept dodgy cheques? You do? Excellent.

Casts a desultory and judgmental glance at his companion.

And a gratis nembie for the boy, of course.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++

But on a serious note........do drugs & alcohol lubricate the creative juices, or do they hamper it?

And if they do - if we acknowledge that laudanum assisted the gothic poets, and that booze helped Dylan Thomas, F Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh to write (to say nothing of Churchill's gargantuan consumption of alcohol), and that LSD and hashish helped create some of the most culturally significant art of the sixties and seventies - what does it say about society, and more specifically, the demonisation of the reveller?

POLICE INCIDENT REPORT 1809, NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOTTS.
In response to a report of anti-social behaviour both I and Sgt Clobberham proceeded to said location with all haste in a post-chaise only to discover that a 'party' of some description was evidently in progress. One Percival Shelley was hurling debris into a lake with the criminal intention of seeing how many times his stone would skim the water, whilst elsewhere in the vicinity several ladies of low birth were displaying their ankles in a brazen display of wantonnesss. After enquirying as to the whereabouts of his Lordship we were duly informed that Mr George Byron, of dubious parentage (ref. Byron Snr Vs. Sister), to say nothing of a gammy leg, was "smoking a pipe by the fire", and gorging himself on prohibited reading stuff (to wit, dull poems, which may or may not have been dirty and subversive). We immediately served an ASBO upon Lord George after satisfying ourselves that his opiated tobacco was of the finest import quality before familiarising ourselves with his kitchen, to wit, half a pound of smoked bacon, five eggs and a flagon of ale.

Lord Byron was fined twenty guineas in aid of the local constabulary pension fund and ordered not to enjoy himself or write poems of a libertarian nature within two miles of Newstead Abbey. For the crime of hurling building materials with gay abandon into Lord B's pond, Mr Shelley was ordered to repair Lord B's arch and to take swimming lessons.