Confessions of a closeted bourgeois boy

00:00 05:34

Cosmo has narrated this article for you to listen to.

Recently, I got very stoned. I haven’t been that stoned since I was at Woodstock. Or was it the first Glastonbury festival? Or maybe Bob Dylan at the Isle of Wight? I can’t remember, but that’s dope for you. The curious thing is, I don’t take drugs any more. I hate getting high. It’s like your brain is seasick. But there I was at a party and the hostess offered me an apple-flavoured, cannabis-infused gummie. Without thinking, I swallowed it – just as if I’d been offered a canapé.

Someone later told me I ran out of the party yelling: ‘Help! I’m going to die!’

As soon as I did so, however, I started to panic. What had I done? Why had I done it? Any minute I was going to start hallucinating and then take off all my clothes and do frenzied nude hippie dancing before falling to my knees and weeping and crying out: ‘Mother, where are you?’ (Something like this once actually happened to me.) People at the party would be frightened. They would call an ambulance or maybe the police. Then the men in white coats would come and take me away – ha-haaa! I was freaking out even before the drugs took effect.

Then the voice of my young bohemian self said: ‘For heaven’s sake, relax! Can’t you just let your hair down and have a little fun for once, you old square? You’ve become so uptight and boring. Go wild! You’re such a puritanical wuss. Do you think Keith Richards goes, “Oh dear me I’ve done a gummie! Mick, help me please!” Cosmo, what harm can one little gummie do?’

I found out about 40 minutes later when a friend who had also eaten one passed out and fell to the floor, head first.