I really should start to edit these posts before publishing them. If you look at this in another day or two it will probably read entirely different. But what the fuck. I can’t be bothered.
Off to another N.A.ZI meeting in a minute. Eating soup with heaps of pepper in it. Brilliant for the cold outside and the consistently runny nose. My mum came over to organise Dads birthday present – a print out of his daughter, my sister, whom died a few weeks ago.
She was in Wellington hospital with all sorts of opiates and things. I didn’t steal any, didn’t even think about it. Well, thought about it obviously, but did think about it. Seriously.
So, growing in up Wellington. It’s not a known punk, boot boy or drug under ground culture. Well, not much. Wellington is known as brown tweed suit government types driving boring cars and paying their way through dull lives.
That changed one day. Some how. Maybe it took longer than a day. Maybe it took the left overs from the 60’s to start returning to their urban holes. Maybe it was the event of home grown music not dominated by record companies pocket books.
New Zealand had a barrier in place in late 70’s which meant if it could be made here, you could not import it. Thus we had car companies manufacturing here. We had boot companies making boots, John BULL being primo. And we had a music industry doing sweet fuck all other than sticking bowl haircuts on some idiot and doing Beatles covers.
Thankfully, over in Thatchers Britain things were hitting the fan. That fascist wannabe had created an uprising in music. Sex Pistols are most remembered (for reasons that I can’t be bothered with… If you don’t know, you don’t know….) and about this time the good old I.V drug culture spread it’s angelic wing over Cuba Street in Wellington.
Cuba Street today is known around the world as a wierd cultural fuckup.
I had been out of Wellington for three years (one in jail, two in Queenstown) and I walked up Cuba Street, still wearing my black jeans, t-shirt and boots. Fuck Queenstowners calling me odd. I got asked for drugs five or six times over the 2km length of the street. I hadn’t been in town an hour. I’d got off the ferry and was walking to mates places in Newtown. The fifth guy to ask was a real old “scoring buddy” and within about fifteen minutes I’d got us both on. Luckily no one ever found out I had a cellphone and I made up my mind to get my ass back to Queenstown after only just remembering my own name at a social welfare appointment, but not being able to pronounce it.
Anyways, times had a-changed.
NZ has a “number eight fence wire” mentality. This translates to mean that we will invent processes, products or designs that are out of ordinary. We would send troops along behind the Americans and take parts from their “destroyed” armoured infantary and make troop carriers and the like in the field ad hoc.
We flew before the Wright Brothers. We invented all sorts of crazy things.
The Movie THE FASTEST INDIAN is average over here. Anyone who is anyone knows people with contraptions coming out their shed similar. Music started to go the same way.
Dunedin and Wellington got scenes. I was a bit young, ten or eleven. Just old enough to see a few punks and skins around the place, but definately old enough to know where to score drugs at 14 or 15. Meanwhile an old mate had started a band, Shihad, and ripped off some of my writing for lyrics (in my opinion!)… Turns out that in another fifteen years the death of Gerald Dwyer… Oh whatever. You know the territory, no matter what city or what country… Fast living, large amounts of drugs, and a large amount of “I just don’t give a fuck….” Irvine Welsh could never be a New Zealander. He’s way too much of a pussy.
At an early Shihad gig some got killed, stabbed. Another time someone jumped into crowd with boots on and crushed a head. At another gig, I power chucked over various animals and managed to avoid being beaten to death by the skin of my teeth (may have been something to do with certain members of the crew having a bit of respect for their next fix too mind you….)
Believe it or not the skin heads didn’t like I.V use, so I had to look long and hard to find a house full of hippy looking rockers. Yeahp, punks weren’t so shy.
The number eight mentality came to fore again. As did the large number of Maori and Pacific island people who get cancer. The supply of morphine sulphate tablets was long and never ending. 200MG MST (misty) tablets would be crushed, mixed with water and baking soda in a spoon. The water would be cooked out, stirring slightly in the process… You then poured a touch of a horrifying chemical named “AA” or “dub”, “double” and cooked that out slowly. If you sniffed too hard you could rip the lining of your nose clean out and get it stuck in your lungs I reckon. It is strong stuff.
And sometimes you didn’t cook it all out properly. Those shots were hot. Freakin surface of sun temperature hot.
You then sprinkled on some citric acid, some more water and stirred until the stuff lifted off the bottom. It was time to stick in a cigarette filter and draw up the mixture.
This was the most interesting part at times. You never knew how much liquid would be there, so you would start doing mental arrhythmic like 2.8mls / four of us, but then Spike only put in $60 and I put in $120. So, Spike gets…….
These discussions would go on for minutes.
Minutes are too long for me.
Due to a severe needle issue I would start dry retching and vomiting the instant the liquid hit the needle. EVERY TIME. Without fail. This went on for four years until I went to jail. It was caused by giving myself a massive dirty taste at a party. I left four sheets of ACID, two ounces of weed and some other more potentially incriminating things behind and made it home to throw up and spend twelve hours close to deaths door. You see – I was so wasted I missed my vien and pushed in the dirty taste anyway. Brilliant career choice young man. Stunner. A complete addict who cannot inject. A rare beast. A beast that lasted a decade…
I threw up on floors. I threw up in sinks. Sometimes I even got to the toilet. But worse, I threw up on skinheads whilst they were injecting me.
I didn’t care if someone got a bit more. If we had put in the same money, I would just grab the fit with the smallest in it and say “fuck it. Sorted” and we’d get our junk away.
People used to think they got away with murder. It took them ten years to figure I may have known what I was doing. I was one of the first dealers to lower the price, I was the first to let people off their tick. I was also *pleased* to give bad ass gang members tick for a while and even more pleased when they ran up a $1200 bill and ran off. Means I don’t have to see them so often. Expensive way to get rid of someone, but peaceful.
So this was now the 90’s. The 90’s had a severe young junky problem in Wellington. But this, in turn, probably lead to the amount of cafe’s, art suppliers and more recently designer clothe businesses in the Cuba St area. I remember guys dying from being stabbed (we all got taken to the cop shop and as me and girlfriend were under age we had to smoke all our shit and shoot the rest by getting a bunch of fucked up young rockers to stand around her like we were all fucking…. Fourth floor of Wellington police central never had a CCTV so good!
Newtown was like any poorer community in the world. A lot of Maori or Polynesian people with little tribal gangs, Newtown Boyz being notorious Samoans. Most of them are now government workers. Nowdays they drive large SUV’s and wear nice black suits. Their kids go to flasher schools but still the kids die in organised fights now and then.
I had a lot of fight with the darker brothers. I had a few with the white fellas too. Nowadays I live in a Housing Corporation (State Housing) block less than 500m from my high school on the route to where I scored off those hippy punk rockers.
In the flat next to mine is one of the old guys from that house. That house and me are the last ones I know of whom are not on the methadone. There are four other old drug punks in this block of 50 flats. When I moved in there were ten. I moved in after giving up a 60MG a day of cooked up misty. It took me a few months before I started using thirty mg’s of these old punk boys methadone.
Have been here three years and have withdrawn a few times.
Which is one up on those who haven’t.
Poor old punk and skin fuckers. So many intelligent bastards wasting away in single little flats all over Wellington. I hate it.
What I hate even more is feeling like this. Am meant to be going to N.A. meeting. Have not slept. It is cold. I might walk slowly there now. Headphones blaring randomly.
And you know what really makes me cry when my emotions are all over the place from opiate withdrawal?
NEWS STORIES ON TV ABOUT HOW WE, AND OUR FUCKEN GOVERNMENT, ARE LETTING BABIES WITH HEART CONDITIONS LIVE IN SMALL TRAILERS IN CHRISTCHURCH TWO AND HALF YEARS AFTER THE EARTHQUAKES in minus 5 degree Celsius winter nights!
FUCK YOU PRIME MINISTER AND YOUR LYING ASSHOLE SUPPORTING MUTHAFUCKERS.