[Looking through the eyes of Duggie's mate and using his mind to directly translate the experience as a piece of prose. It's a bit clumsy here and there, but that's what 'stream-of-thought' monologues are like, isn't it?]
(We - me and Duggie - are in the studio in the Torpid Emancipator with Hair Tom. It's 1982 and me and Duggie are 14 years-old again, travelling through time. Just to let you know, our role in life is to fish in the canal [“...don't remind me!” -Mr Stickleback] and tell strangers about the music we are into. At the moment we are giving you - via time travel – the full story of the great 'Hair Tom', a group at the forefront of the 'Sound Of Torpidity' prog-rock movement...So far, Matt Score - lead guitar, Hair Tom - has invited us into the studio to watch a rehearsal and Doland - rhythm, acoustic and percussion - has skinned-up a powerful looking 'funny fag'...)
First I'm passed a joint. Not really seen one in 'the flesh' before. Like a roll-up, but more kind of triangular (conical?). Sort of. It's a bit soggy, too. Doland is laughing as I put it in my mouth and suck a bit.
Sort of cool sensation of smoke and air - like sucking dry-ice through a straw. Tastes like ground up earth - an intense version of the smell of formerly bone-dry pavements, following a cloudburst.
I breathe in the smoke and try to hold it down without gagging. It's an effort. But the more I hold it, the looser I get and the release of smoke, from my lungs into the air, feels like floating down the river on a gondola made of silk.
“Take another toke, man!” I can hear Doland saying, “The first toke has laid the foundation, for exploration...”
Oh, yeah [exhales] he's right...
I hand the joint to Duggie, or somebody to my left. I'm really not too sure.
Sitting 'in' the chair now. Not on it, coveted by material that shimmers over and around me, like 'the dance of the seven veils', or something.
Bob-bob-bob-bobbing bassline...tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkly-too keyboard. I can actually see the notes coming out of the speakers, quaver by crochet by double clef and treble clef. Oh, not forgetting the bass clef too.
Some of the notes bash into each other, like when there's a distorted note, or something. Then they bow to each other and apologise before continuing. Others dance together and merge, jiggling into shape.
Words are coming out of everyone's mouth. I can see them, written up in the air, as if I was watching some film credits roll by.
The joint returns again, soggier and shorter than before and I have another bit of its cool and earthy substance, feel a little bit queasy with that one. I pass it on quick.
It's sort of dark outside now, though it's about mid-afternoon in the summer. I think. [to explain, he thinks he's looking through a window, when in fact he's staring at a blank frame that used to contain a mirror.] In fact it's totally black, no stars or nothing. Mr Moon, Mr Moon. You asleep, or something?
I've never seen it that dark before. Suddenly a white image appears, at first a little melty, then sharp as sharp. It's an owl. A kind of simple graphic design of an owl. then I recognise it. It's the picture from the label of a 'midnight mint' choc-ice [unavailable these days, by the way. They were a plain chocolate choc-ice filled with mint flavoured ice cream. A premium product]. And then the owl winks at me...
Oh, no. I've messed up my brain! I look up, and the low roof of the studio has attained cathedral dimensions, a cavernous space and I can see my thoughts echoing around.
Ok. Get up. I try. (Need to get away, bed, piss. Both) But my legs won't operate. They're as stiff and heavy as the girders they make Irn Bru out of. Girders. or Grrdrrs (as they might say in Scotland). GrrDuzz. Gurrrdezz. Grrrrrdrrrrs.
[At that point, Duggie's mate passes out. Musical notes flying from his ears like loose wax].
“Guess the kid wasn't ready for a peace pipe, man,” says Doland.