The drugs work too well

Friday night at Glastonbury. As the Kings of Leon swaggered on stage, I was feeling really rather tranquil. Mind you, that was probably because I'd finished work and escaped the actual festival at about eightish and was now happily ensconced in a charming cottage four miles up the road, watching the whole thing on telly. The night was shaping up perfectly - until the drugs kicked in. I've no idea what inspired me to take the rotten things in the first place. Actually, I do. It was the same thing that has inspired all the bad decisions I've made in my life: pathetic, adolescent-level peer-pressure. Just as I'd been leaving the festival, an old acquaintance had stumbled up and pushed them into my hand. "This will show him how cool I am!" I thought to myself as I shoved them down my throat. Why did I care what he thought of me? He was so bent out of shape he probably thought I was Jay-Z.

Back at the cottage, my foolish decision came back to haunt me. Halfway through the Kings of Leon set, I started to sweat. I became convinced there was a farmer hiding in the airing cupboard ready to rape me with a pitch fork. There was a tip-tap at the back door. I grabbed a kitchen knife and peered out of the window. It was the esteemed 75-year-old writer my employers had sent to share the cottage with me. "Hallo! I'm not on drugs you know!" I said as I let him in with relief. He eyed me suspiciously while I tried to conceal the knife in the pocket of my jim-jams. Rock'n'roll is hell. ·