Try it. Go ahead, try it. Try for a moment the simple exercise of re-enacting what Hunter S. Thompson wrote about in The Rum Diary or Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. Try it here in Britain and I guarantee you, you will not succeed. Not because it's technically illegal, but because on this island (and large swathes of California, Nevada and New York too), because it isn't currently fashionable to the masses, you will not be allowed. You wanna take the trip, do a pile of ether, LSD, cocaine and alcohol, washed down with 40 Marlboro Reds, but everywhere you turn, there is a health official, or worse still, a member of the idiot public, not only telling you their perception of the folly of your's and Hunter's liberational ways, but actively involving the local community support officer (aka bubble-wrapped copper), preventing you from having the slightest slip of fun on the grounds that it is either a) not family friendly, b) not child friendly, c) not lung-friendly or d) in their opinion, just plain not friendly.
Why does everything in this life now have to correspond to the wishes of that wretch of a woman who takes her one incredibly spoiled brat of a daughter to her 'educational' factory of a local academy school in her 4x4 Chelsea Tractor? What has gone wrong here people and when did the balance shift from 'do as you wish as long as you don't actively harm others' to 'do as we say, because the state and the mother knows best?' To those who know me, I warned you all of these days to come, and you all laughed. You said 'Oh c'mon Daniel, they won't stop me having a ciggie with my beer at a concert.' They did it. You said 'Oh c'mon Daniel, they won't fine me half my wage for leaving my bin 1 inch open on bin-emptying days.' They did it. You can now be fined for polluting the earth by farting once too often the day after a good curry. I warned everyone sane enough to listen, but to no avail. This society is the living enactment of the tail that wags the dog. Next on the NHS/Nanny State/Nazi Mother hitlist is alcohol.
You know how you like to nip into your local town centre of a Saturday night, and have a quick 7 or 8 beers between the hours of 8pm and 4:00am? Trust me, that's coming to an end soon enough. Even if you never do any harm to anyone else except your own good self, it won't be a good enough defence for this society. This society is so hell-bent on saving NHS pennies to give to families as yet another 'tax credit' that working single bloke, who hands over a larger proportion of his income in tax than the average millionaire, is going to be fleeced still further. Congratulations, because if you think a 3 quid pint is bad, just wait till they cut your intake from it's natural 8 pints to 4. They won't settle for leaving the pint at 3 quid. They'll double it to keep the tax flowing, so from going from paying 3 quid x 8 to get pissed, you're going to be dropped to a state-enforced 4 pints at 6 quid a go. Think I'm nuts? Cool, no problem. I'll just sit and wait patiently while the silent majority of fun-loving INDIVIDUALS sleep-walk into a pathetically dull, sober existence.
Live the dream. You've read the books and seen the movie. You've gazed into the tantalising dream of living in a world where you're free to explore the corners of your mind through the imbibing of substances known to knacker the body with prolonged exposure. If you want to hold onto that tantalising possibility, than fight for your rights. Drink to excess, take the pills offered to you by 'the bad man' in the corner of the club you're going to this weekend, sleep with the girl (or boy) straight away who you'd like to jump on top of, but are too concerned about your rep to risk it, and for goodness sake, break, bend and shit all over the no-smoking regulations at every opportunity, ok? I fear it's all too late, but I have to scream out at the absence of freedom, especially when I live in a country where the local authorities use anti-terrorist legislation to follow dogs and their owners to see which patch of green Rover the Mutt has just shit on.
Listen to your Samoan lawyer - he's like the cool version of your conscience, and trust him, no matter what that sober wanker who's just taken over your pub with his ugly wife and three screaming brat-kids says. Listen to the sober wanker and you'll be dancing the goose-step, shooting the meek and weak in no time at all. And then you'll wake up sometime later, in the middle of the night, with beads of perspiration dripping down your neck, with the guilt of being an active member of the generation that destroyed personal liberty.
You know what I mean.
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