Mason - Too high, too far, too soon: tales from a dubious past

Table of Contents

Simon Mason has been clean and sober since June 2006 and lives in Stoke Newington, where he can often be found playing with his daughter in Clissold Park. He continues to perform, in a band consisting entirely of musicians in recovery, called The Should Be Deads, and has discovered his vocal qualities have improved since he stopped using booze and drugs. He still has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up.

This book is dedicated to those no longer with us, for whatever reason.

And also, with much love and gratitude, to:

My mum, who I hope doesnt read it! My sister Ruth and her family, Tamara, Sharon, Nick P. (RIP), Luke E., Matty P., Laura D., Shiv, Kiran G., Jerome R., Colin Goodwin, Michael P., Ralph H., Tony C., Darren from the Wood (YNWA), Banksy, Stoke Richard, James B., Alan McGee, Donny Chris, Joe, Alan, Josh B., Mick Bigbear Hall, Pete L., Ken W., Dean (gas-head) G., Scott W., Mick (Diamondhead) Smith, Shesk, Monkeyman, Limousine, The Who (just to get a band of mine mentioned in the same sentence!), the staff past and present at City Roads, Barleywood, Clouds House, Milton House and the multitude of others who tried to help along the way sorry it took a while my agent David Luxton and of course my anonymous friends, you know who you are!

There are many others I could name. Please forgive me if youre not included here; you are not forgotten.

Also in loving memory of my dad, John Anthony Mason, for being with me long after you moved on to wherever it is we go

Finally, in the hope she never has to write anything like this, to my beautiful daughter, Tabitha Honey Mason, who teaches me so much and one day, when shes old enough to read this, will still want us to go out to play together!

Love you, little bear.

Its often a thin line between fact and fiction. I wouldnt know, I snorted it.

The first drugs I ever bought cost me three quid from a guy I met on the beach in Weston-super-Mare. He seemed to find the popping of my narcotic cherry an amusing experience, chuckling to himself as he took the cash Id pocketed earlier during a rare winning streak in the amusement arcades. I crouched next to him as he skinned up, suddenly convinced that the entire Weston Constabulary were about to charge over the sand dunes, truncheons drawn, and attack us in some sort of hysterical, authoritarian, seal-clubbing-inspired frenzy before dragging us away to be questioned/tortured back at the nick.

Is a shit 3 deal of Lebanese hash a good cure for paranoia?

I didnt ask but neither did we end up getting battered to death by the local drug squad as I squatted alongside my dealer, keeping lookout while muttering, Yeah, man, that shit smells really good, every few seconds as he skinned up.

He took several long drags before passing a soggy joint to me, grinning.

Here, get that down ya. Have fun and enjoy the party. See you later, man.

Unaware Id been ripped off in tandem with scoring drugs for the first time in my life, I smiled back as I took the half-smoked spliff and watched him slope away along the beach.

I looked down at the smouldering joint, fleetingly wondering if I actually did want to enter the drug world. I found life confusing enough as it was but concluded that maybe if I smoked the joint Id understand things better. So I did, as rapidly as my lungs would allow.

Nothing happened for about 30 seconds, by which time my dealer had disappeared behind a sand dune. Had I been ripped off?

Just before this unpleasant and humiliating thought made itself at home in my mind, to be greeted by the paranoia already waiting there, waving a sign saying, Ha, ha, youre a fucking idiot, I started to giggle and my first drug-induced smile started to spread softly across my face.

Fuck you, paranoia, Im on drugs now. Whats the worst that could happen, eh?

I threw up.

Nobody had told me that would happen. Not the rock stars whose posters adorned my bedroom walls, nor the acne-encrusted goth hash dealer whod just had my 3. Not that Id have listened anyway. Listening wasnt a strong point of mine. I was a master of nodding my head in agreement just to fit in, but actually listening? It would be many more years before I could hear anything over the sound of the nonsense inside my head. Besides, I was on a mission now and the cannabis making its debut in my bloodstream told me I could see for miles and miles oh, yeah. So listening didnt seem that important any more.

Id begun my drug-fuelled quest for whatever the fuck it was I thought I was looking for, sitting on my own, stoned and happily confused in a cloud of hash smoke and a puddle of vomit.

I eventually managed to stagger home before the beach party Id intended to go to had even started, grinning like the proverbial village idiot and stopping en route to throw up the cider Id attempted to drown myself in earlier. I crept into the house and proceeded to make a sandwich using almost an entire loaf of bread, cold baked beans, tinned sardines and about a pound of cheese, as you do. Midway through my first ever munchie-inspired snack, I coughed up a bit of sick on said sandwich but continued to eat it anyway, as I was too stoned and paranoid to go back into the kitchen and make another one.

Sick sandwich?

Welcome to the future, Simon.

I was 15 years old, bored, uncomfortable and unsure of anything. Four years earlier Id been shipped off to a Catholic boys boarding school, which was apparently the best place to prepare me for life. My dad had been ill and he died not long after I went away to school. He had been a pilot in the Second World War, survived against all odds and found true love with my mum when he was in his 40s. He was my hero.

The two senior clergymen from the school who drove me home for the funeral were clearly under instruction not to reveal the awful truth awaiting me. They drove in silence at a priestly speed, then chose to stop at a motorway service station en route, leaving me sitting in the car outside, swallowing my tears as I worried about what had happened, while they enjoyed their lunch. In their defence, I dont suppose there was much they could have said.

The sight of my granddad walking towards me with his arms outstretched, looking frail and devastated, left me in no doubt as to what had occurred. He didnt have to say anything he was crying and grown-ups didnt do that unless something terrible had happened. He bent down to hug me, triggering the first spasm of grief that left me hysterical as he gently escorted me to my parents bedroom. There I found my mum and sister clinging to each other as they sobbed. When they saw me they both reached out as if beckoning me to join them in a human lifeboat that was being thrown about in a storm of unfathomable cruelty and despair which was, of course, the truth.

There were family friends milling about, making endless cups of tea, all no doubt grief-stricken and wishing there was something they could do, but there is nothing you can do, is there?

I remember little of the next day or so. But at some point, my unrelenting thrashing about on my dads side of the bed, clutching a photograph of him to my chest and wrapping myself in the sheets that still retained his smell, became too painful either for me to endure or for others to witness, so the family GP prescribed a sedative. Its what they did back then.