Seriously, though - here's a story about MASSIVE DRUGS
A guy in my halls of residence smoked LOADS OF WEED, and like, totally knew how to roll in any situation because like he smoked all the time like can't really function properly unless he'd had a joint, like.

He was the sort of person who would (and did) respond seriously to "Your mum" jokes with "Actually my mum's dead" expecting that to trump the joke. Admittedly his mum had committed suicide ... when he was three.

He fancied himself as an artist, though was studing a degree in catering - we know this because when he'd managed to get a girl back to his room, she'd left rapidly when he'd started showing her some of his pieces, which were all apparently of the words "MY MUM" written in his own blood on various media, including his desk.

Then Dunblane happened. With more free time than cons, we all spent much of that day watching the rolling news on the telly, as it unfolded.

Towards the middle of the evening, a friend popped out to get some gear, which required her to go to the other end of the block - about 5 minutes away. and when she hadn't returned for half an hour we assumed she'd done the usual and found some, and was smoking it with whomever it belonged to.

I was just about to hunt for her, when she came in.

"What's up?" we asked.

"It was Ian ... " she said, a little disturbed.

"What about him?"

"He wouldn't let me past" she said, "He was telling me about how he had to rescue the 12 souls of Dunblane. He's written CHILDREN on his chest with marker pen and is standing in the corridor like Jesus, with his top off and wearing shorts, making everyone promise to help him. He only let me through because I promised I'd be back with a bible ..."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 13 Jan 2011, 13:11, 1 reply)

Well at least his heart was in the right place

(Wagane, Fri 14 Jan 2011, 1:47, closed)