From: Jermaine The Drifter
Category: Amis
Date: 7/28/99
Time: 1:08:43 PM
Remote Name: 195.50.84.99
This is me and how I work. Basically, I can sort drugs for you.
Now if you want skunk I can sort you skunk, but i'll probably just claim to be able to sort skunk but turn up with solids.
If you want chang I will claim to be able to sort for 45's but eventually sell you a canny wrap of speed for 10's after two weeks of fucking you about.
If I arrange to meet you at seven thirty I will be 15 minutes late. Not because I am a cunt but because that is the way I operate. Don't even try to regulate my style.
My lifestyle breaks down like this: I play playstation, I smoke Herbs. It's simple but fufilling. I live with my old dear who knows I toke herbs but pretends I don't even though I tell her everyday and skin up in front of her and wear a T-Shirt saying 'I smoke herbs.' She just keeps telling me my cigarettes smell and that I should get off the Malboro lites. She's a very traditional West Indian, she doesn't like to think of her son as drug abuser. I use. I don't abuse. In her head she still thinks i'm 15 and winning football medals and getting lee-way with the headmaster. I have tried to bring her up to date but she won't come.
I used to have a bird called Elaine. She was fit and we were very much in love but she got a job up in the city and dumped me for some knob called 'Graham'. I know she preferred fucking me but her argument was that sex doesn't build houses. It's not nice when she speaks like that. She gets this robot look in here eye. Thatchers baby.
Now I fuck older Women mostly. I meet them in commercial nightclubs, I go back to their place and give it them. I hang around for a bit sunday morning. Their houses are normally quite nice, nicer than mine. But then the feeling comes, I feel like a bitch, I feel like I was fucked and not the one doing the fucking. So I get my things, give her my old mobile number, and I leave.
Did I say I used to play football? Yeah, I was quite good. I was on Arsenal's books for seven years before they bombed me for hallucinating during training. I thought I was going to get caught with some puff on me at the trainging ground so I eat it, not thinking there was that much. I didn't think it was having an effect then the feeling came on very strong. I thought my manager was my mum and ran over and hugged him and shouted 'I love you mum.' I don't remember it. Apparently everyone thought I was just acting the joker until I tried to touch Ian Wrights dick in the showers and called George Graham a 'Nonce.' It wasn't me, it didn't feel real and I don't even remember it.
But one thing I do know is that it fucked my whole life up.
I work sometimes at this building sight in Oxted. All the Brickies call me 'Rasta man' because of my short dread-locks and I feel like boxing them but I just smile and go about my business. There isn't one man there who I couldn't put in hospital but collectively they could do me some real damage. I sort out herbs for some of them as well but they are mugs and I got sacked again last week when Sid the Sparky shouted 'Jermaine, can you sort out some of that Ganja for the weekend?' at the top of his voice while one of the company directors was about. Fool.
So now it's 2pm thursday. Wheel of fortune. A sunny day. I've got twelve quid in my pocket and I don't want to go down the park and be one of those tossers though. Sitting near the kids, making a can of special brew last a whole day.
So I sit in doors and eat my beans on toast, and I skin up a fat J, to smooth the doubts and smoke the day away.