A very unholy trinity

I am scared readers, it's not just a drug-induced paranoid psychosis either. Dippy has revealed the final three drugs of Christmas. She's gone just a touch mental I think. They are seriously hardcore.

We had magic mushroom tea last night and, well, things didn't quite go to plan I don't think. In short, nothing really happened. Dippy got a bunch of candles out and put on some Gregorian chant and we stared into the flames. We were naked readers, I don't mind telling you that, there's nothing wrong with the naked body, but having the two Larsons grinning over at me was quite off-putting. And, well, Dippy is off-setting her Carbon footprint, so the heating wasn't on and so it was quite cold, that's all I'm saying.

We sat around in a circle for about an hour, no one said anything, and nothing happened. The flames of the candles kept flickering and the Gregorian chant kept chanting. Dippy's nipples went like battleship rivets, and she was covered in goose bumps. But nothing really happened, no out of body or mind experiences, no doors opening into a whole new perception reality. Just the occasional fart befunking the atmosphere.

Eventually we were faced with the very uncomfortable truth that, like it says in the song, the drugs didn't work. (I know it says in the song "don't work" but some of them do, but not this one.)

Anyone who's anyone that's dabbled in Dr Uggs will know the feeling that you've been had by a dealer. It comes with the territory. Who among us hasn't bought a bag of potpourri from a traveller's urchin when the fair comes to town?

But Dippy went absolutely balistic, totally going off on one about how the dealer had 'fucked up Christmas', 'ruined everything'. I tried to calm her down by pointing out the inherent irony that the arts project, which was set up to demonstrate that religion is a drug which mankind can break, was broken by a false narcotic itself. That she had put her faith in a Camden-based shaman who had peddled nothing but hollow promises. "Fuck off, Barry," she said, "sometimes I get the impression you're only here to look at me tits."

'Fair cop, ' I thought as I looked at her tits. Mesmerized for a second I was, but the spell was broken when one of the Larsons got up and announced he'd get on the phone to his dealer and get in some supplies.

Well, Dippy jumped into life at this point and announced that the final three drugs of Christmas would have to be pretty fucking mental.

I'm totally crapping it readers, all the drugs so far have been fairly manageable, but over the next three days I get the feeling we're in for quite the ride.

Very shortly, Dippy will be doing what MLS warned against just the other day, she'll be opening up the advent calendar and finding a deeply suspicious looking crack behind the door. Jesus, like millions of you out there, I saw Whitney Houston on the X-Factor. If crack can do that to Houston, I don't stand a chance.

Then tomorrow Dippy has lined crystal meth. FUCK. I've got no idea what it does, but in the words of Super Hands out of Peep Show, it's quite moorish apparently.

Then on Christmas Eve itself, when supposedly the Arch Angel Gabriel Batistuta came down from Heaven and told the shepherds about the baby Jesus, we'll be doing our own version of the nativity with PCP - that's Angel Dust to you and me.

I thought that we had Angel Dust at school, it was a kind of super sweet candy that crackled on your tongue, but I've been put right, I think I was possibly mixing it with Angel Delight and Star Dust. Maybe that's what PCP is?? I dunno, but apparently Angel Dust makes you feel invincible, much like having about 12 cans of Cobra, the only difference is, it doesn't knock you out. Far from it.

I don't think that I'll be any kind of fit state to post over the next three days. But if you see a story on the news about a middle-aged, yet youthful looking, Citizen Journalist jumping off the Millennium Eye - it'll probably be me.

But know this readers, I did it out of love, and not just because Dippy's tits are to die for.

Yours in love

Barrington E Newsdesk
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Super Eight

I am literally over the moon readers. Isn’t life amazing? Just when was at my lowest ebb, Citizen Journalism pays me back in rewards that money simply cannot buy. As Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones figured when she listened to Jamie O’Neil doing the classic Eric Carmen, number, I thought I was “all by myself”. But no.

I’ve got another follower. It’s been six days since my last new additions (Mark, Karen and Vince). Six whole days! If legends are to be believed, that’s how long it took God to create the world. That’s nearly a week!!

Incidentally, I was AMAZED when I find out that Renee Zellweger is American. Her English accent is absolutely spot on. Just goes to show you readers, you should never judge a book by its covers. When I told Gill that Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones reminded me of her, she got offended. Can you believe it? Women.

Speaking of women, my new follower, Molly, is also a woman. I’ve been Mollycuddled (virtually ;-)). And like my other follower Mark, she is from Ireland. I’d love to go to Ireland one day, I hear it’s lovely. Mind, I cannot stand Guinness and so the locals might be offended. Maybe if I get enough followers from Ireland I’ll be able to go and visit them one day?

From her picture you might think that Molly looks a little young for blogging, but she's actually 34. On her profile page Molly lists her occupation as “girlfriend”. Jeesh readers, I wonder how it pays?

Only kidding ;-) Judging from her fabulous blog, The Molly Blog, I doubt that Molly really is a prostitute. Although, if she were, there would be nothing wrong with that. It’s the oldest profession in the world. I think Gordon Brown should probably legalise brothels. Maybe I should write a piece about it and send it to the Metro?

On Molly’s blog she claims to have been “chasing rainbows since 1974”. Perhaps she hopes to find a leprechaun with a pot of gold?

She’s got ten followers. Nice work.

Gaining followers makes me really happy. It is better than sex and way better than money. It’s like crack, or craic as Molly and Mark might say. I’ve been thinking of various strategies for gaining new followers readers. Unlike crack (or sex), you can’t just nip off to Coldharbour Lane and buy followers from bloke in a hoody. I’ve been watching Fuck You, Penguin to see if I can pick up some tips, he’s nearly broken through the 4000 followers mark. It’s mental, all he does is pick a picture of a cute looking animal and then say nasty things about it.

I wonder what PETA would have to say about it? Maybe I’ll drop them a line.

KK readers, gotta go. I hear the Shreddies calling and I quite fancy a few games of Pro Evo before Gill gets here. She wants to “talk”.

Women.