Somebody put something in my drink……

I returned to the Costa Blanca recently, with the intention of finding out exactly what the situation was like there for a jobbing musician. I did a lot of foot work, and knocked on quite a few doors and networked with a few people that had been or were in the business. It turns out that the wage for a singer there is pretty awful: an average of 50 Euros a gig, probably somewhere like a third of what I receive here, when I am actually able to gig, which is very rare nowadays…….

Regardless, it was wonderful to go back to the beach, and enjoy the warm sun, the perfect antidote to the dreary, dark and damp English Winter, which these days lasts for six months or more.
I laid in bed one morning several days before I returned home, and realised I didn’t have a care in the world. I’d found out whether I could actually make a living in Spain, and achieved a long standing ambition to actually gig there, at a beautifully situated beach side bar. I guess I felt I’d done my utmost. Sure, it hadn’t panned out the way I wanted it to, but at least I’d had the balls to give it my best shot and find out. I had a moment where I almost felt happy, another rare occurrence for me nowadays……

When I got back to my flat, being OCD I unpacked and everything went into the washing machine, shortly followed there after by the drier. It took a couple of days for the dust to settle, as I guess it does for most people, but I still had that delicious holiday buzz: the smell of Spain was still on me, and with the flick of the appropriate switch in my brain I was back to the beach, wonderful!

But by the third day, the post holiday blues kicked in, with maximum prejudice. All the familiar feelings that I’ve been dealing with for the last few years came rapidly flooding back, as did my anger and depression.

My neighbour  resumed his 24/7 DIY’ing. I tell people the fellow has a fetish for large tools, which always raises a salacious titter, but the reality is a good deal more hideous: if this person decides he wants to use an electric planer at 2.00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, he jolly well will, and there’s nothing you can say or do to convince him otherwise. Because he owns his property, there’s not a great deal that can be done in terms of officially complaining. I’ve spoken to my landlord and the local council: my landlord says there’s nothing they can do as he’s not a tenant, and as soon as I complain to the council, he’ll invent a counter complaint, etc, etc.

Having spoken to several long suffering people in my situation, they, like I, regard the incessant noise as a type of torture, and if there was a legal way they could put a bullet in the offenders head, they would do so, immediately, without hesitation. Having suffered Mr DIY for 9 years or more, with much meditation and wherewithal, for the most part nowadays I can deal with the noise and simply ignore it. I tell myself I am the puppet master and not the puppet. But I guess the break from the racket meant that when I returned from holiday it was like a new annoyance. There are still times when I reach for my imaginary revolver……

I guess the other depressing memory/experience that came right back to me when I returned from Spain was an event that occurred on April the 1st last year ( 2016 ). It’s obviously something I haven’t completely got my head round, and I hope that writing it down will be some sort of therapy……

I look back on the event and realise the other person involved had been grooming me online for a while. Yup, you heard me right, me almost 60 and still swallowing bullshit. I guess that, and several other experiences last year, made me understand how dreadfully lonely I get sometimes, even tho’ I don’t believe in the concept. And also how gullible I can still be, when someone promises me work or money.

We’ll call the other person involved Mr T. Mr T is a moderately successful local businessman. Every time I’d post something positive and/or altruistic on my site he’d comment enthusiastically. Every time I’d do a gig he’d be positively gushing with praise on Facebook, even tho’ I never actually saw him in attendance. I guess for a couple of months he’d continually compliment my every word, and when, like me, your creative outlet is to write down your thoughts and feelings, in the hope you entertain or enlighten, any positive comments you receive are like fuel for your fire, and inspire you further. I’m sure Mr T is aware of how that works and uses it to great effect to manipulate people.

When Mr T heard that I had little work he offered to help: he said he was friendly with several social clubs in and around London, and if I wanted he’d introduce me to a couple of people that booked acts. He thought it would be a done deal that I’d get some gigs, and when he said he’s take me to a social club in London on the 1st of April and introduce me to an agent, of course I jumped at the chance……

The journey to the gig was a little weird to say the least. As soon as I’d got into his car, he started to question me about all sorts of stuff. Women, drugs, booze, all the Rock’n’Roll cliches. He kept stressing that he’d led a sheltered life, had had few partners, and never taken any stimulants, even tho’ he said he was a child of the 60’s. So far, so dull…..
It wasn’t the most stimulating conversation I’d ever had, but again he was full of compliments: telling me that I really did have an amazing voice, that I was a good looking guy, and how I really ought to be working the club circuit and earning big money. Yeah, right……all I wanted was to get to the club, have a drink, meet the agent, then get my arse home again.

When we arrived at the club, after a brief meeting with the agent, who’d said she’d talk to us once she’d settled the band, we went to the bar and got drinks: me a vino and Mr T a soda water. We sat at a table reasonably close to the small stage. Eventually a band shambled on, and proceeded to play run of the mill covers, in an unenthusiastic manner. Bored shitless I had several more drinks, maybe 3 all told, and as a result had to go to the mens room. When I stood up I felt a little dizzy, but when I came out of the loo I could barely stand up. I had no coordination, my legs felt like jelly and I almost fell to my knees. And that’s about all I remember from there on in…….

I woke up the next day at around 7.00 am. I had no recollection of anything after visiting the toilet, and I couldn’t believe I was so drunk: sure, I’d had 4 drinks at the club, and one before I’d left the flat, but not the quantity of booze that would get me blackout drunk. So after a couple of hours I messaged Mr T via Facebook, and apologised for being rather pissed, and asked him what had happened, but I got no response. So I gave it a couple more hours and messaged him again. He replied that everything was fine, that he hoped I felt better and that he’d see me soon. I felt rather puzzled: he simply didn’t want to tell me what had occurred, but he obviously hadn’t taken any offense, so for the moment I let it go. I got up proper, and went to put my boxers and jog pants on, but couldn’t find my boxers. They’d been hanging on the door handle of my airing cupboard, along with a t shirt and my joggers. I still felt kindof woozy from the night before, so again I let it go, and told myself I’d find them later……

The next day I woke up, having had little to drink the night before, and felt terribly dizzy, to the point where I felt nauseous. Then I had the dreadful realisation: somebody had put something in my drink, probably an hypnotic drug, hence I’d totally blacked out, and I was still dizzy from the side effects of whatever it was I’d been given. My mind started racing and I became seriously anxious: surely Mr T wouldn’t have done such a thing, would he? I simply had to speak to him again to find out exactly what had happened, so this time I sent him an email detailing my concern that someone had put a drug of some sort into my vino. Again, he didn’t respond…..

Because of the lack of response from Mr T I simply had to let it go. I’d survived the doping, was still in one piece, and whilst I’m not terribly familiar with being anally penetrated, I was fairly certain that that hadn’t occurred, so far so good.  The dizziness faded, so I decided to do some housework, and find those missing bloody boxers. I hunted high and low, even in the rubbish, but they were absolutely nowhere to be found. Anybody who knows me is familiar with the fact I am super OCD: I know where everything is, always, no matter how obscure, and I never lose anything. Then I had another dreadful epiphany: Mr T must have brought me upstairs and into my flat, yet he was reluctant to recount the evening of April 1st. At that point I knew he’d put the drug in my drink, and when he realised I was too big and strong to rape or fuck with, he’d left but I figured he’d taken my boxers as a trophy……

I can’t tell you the anxiety I felt at that point. I wracked my brain over and over: surely I must recall something? But there was nothing to recall. What if Mr T had taken a key? He could access my flat, my personal belongings whilst I was at a gig or whenever. He simply wouldn’t tell me what had happened, and it was like he wanted that power over me. The whole grisly jigsaw started to piece together. I guessed he was a sexual predator of some sort, a sick fuck who probably used “date rape” drugs to control and assault his victims. His questions regarding drugs and sex made a lot more sense now, it was all part of his game, and I saw his reluctance to explain what had happened as an admission of guilt.

I simply had to ask him again what exactly had happened, so I emailed him yet again, and this time incredibly he responded almost straight away, and his tone was less than complementary: he said he’d witnessed me drink at least 6 vinos ( not true: I made a mental note of the cost of the first round and I’d spent a little less than a tenner all night, but even if I had drank that much I still wouldn’t have been black out drunk ) and that things changed after he sang Route 66 with the band. I have no recollection of that whatsoever. He said he could only assume that I felt threatened by his performance, which he said was received quite warmly. He wished me well in my “senior years” and said he’d see me later……

At that point, I would gladly have popped round his house, and kicked the living shit out of him, paying special attention to the parts he obviously holds so dear. But of course I had no idea where he lived, he’d never told me, in fact he’d never given me his mobile or home number, how clever of him, and the only number I had was his work number, which went directly to voice mail when I’d called it before. My head spun round and round: this fucker was a bona fide, fully paid up member of the Saville nation.

I wish I could tell you that I’ve let go of the feelings generated by that awful night, but sadly I haven’t. I thought about going to the Police, but Mr Google told me the drug would have more than likely left my system within 48 hours, so even if they had have been interested there wouldn’t have been a great deal of point. I did mention it to my Doctor the last time I saw him: he agreed with me that I’d probably been given an hypnotic drug. I described being shitfaced on booze akin to looking at an evening as a shattered mirror: sure, you couldn’t remember the evening as a whole, just tiny fragments. But with that evening there were no fragments, just darkness and void.

I’m really lucky to have a brilliant and sometimes extremely funny relationship with my Doctor, or Quack as my Pa was wont to call them. We have an empathy between us, and he’s a very instinctual fellow. I feel I can tell him pretty much anything and he’ll come back with a well measured and articulate response. He agreed with me that I’d had a lucky escape, and there was unfortunately little I could do about it. I told him I’d felt serious anger towards Mr T, but that I was trying to let it go, because there was little else I could do. He said if I ever bumped into him again, I should, and then he clenched his right fist, and punched the palm of his left hand. I was taken aback; I said to him, “Doctor’s order’s, give him a pasting?” And he said “yeah…..but don’t mention my name!”.

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