Just the Ticket (first written in December 1998)

I felt compelled to write this after what happened to me on Saturday night. You see, on Saturday night I was blessed with good fortune. That doesn't mean that a big finger came out of the sky, pointed at me and said 'It's you!' It was better than that.

On Saturday night I happened to meet up with an old friend from my hometown in Yorkshire. We were never exactly the best of friends, but it turned out to be one of the best Saturday nights of my life. And please believe me, I've had some damn good Saturday nights!

Just to keep my mate's confidence, I'll call him John. Last time I saw John he was a smackhead, and I was about to embark on a six year addiction. However, 145 days ago (at the time of writing) I turned a corner from heroin and left it behind.

Now when you've lived six years of your life as a smackhead (sorry for calling them that but heroin addict sounds so damn formal) then you become a master of deceiving people, and a deceiver is not easily deceived. So when John told me that he'd been clean for five years, I knew he was on the level. Now read that last sentence again. The key words are 'clean five years.' It's not a misprint; it shouldn't say five days or five months. Five years. If you're a smackhead then you'll understand that staying clean for five years is…well, I had to shake John by the hand. Respect, my man. You don't meet many like John; in fact through six years of knocking about with smackheads, he's the first one - and though I hate to say it, he's probably the last. Except me in 1,680 days time!

That Saturday night in December, John showed me his invisible ticket, and he made me aware of mine. A ticket that takes you on a journey. A journey that is all in the mind. You get a ticket, you go on the journey. Simple. Well, not quite. You see, it's very easy to lose your ticket. People get too confident you see. They think that they can put their ticket down for a minute while they 'just have a dabble'. So let's get one thing straight. 'Dabbling' is something you do before you get a habit. You can't do it afterwards. No sir! Maybe you think that you're the one and only oh-so special person that can, and at one time I thought I was the one and only oh-so special person that could, last time I had a ticket. But I lost it. 145 days ago I picked up another ticket. It cost me a lot to get this ticket. This time I ain't letting go.

If you don't understand what a ticket is, that's probably because you don't need one. But let me spell it out for you anyway: The destination that is printed on John's ticket is the same as is printed on mine. The destination is a place that we've both been to before. A place in our head called 'normal'. The public at large may like to think we were born like this, many of them don't understand that we were all normal people before we let smack take over our lives. And when I say 'take over our lives' that's not an exaggeration. When you're a smackhead the big issue is the next bag. In fact, it's the only issue.

So now you understand what a ticket is, I hope. If you're in the unfortunate position of needing a ticket to take you away from where you're at, then yours is right in front of you. All you've got to do is pick it up. To do that you've got to get through 24 hours without an opiate drug. That qualifies you to pick up your ticket. How long you keep it is up to you. But remember this…if you lose your ticket because you keep putting it down, and you will lose your ticket if you keep putting it down, you'll find it a lot harder to pick up again next time round. And you have to go back to the beginning of the journey. Square one. Or rather, square zero. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what life is like without a ticket. In fact it's not a life, it's just an existence.

The first part of the journey is restless and painful, but you'll get through it if you keep hold of your ticket. John did it. I did it. So you can do it. Once you've got through the first part, then it really is all in your head. But getting hold of this ticket was very difficult. Not enough people have them, they're very rare. Anybody who needs one can have one, but picking them up is not easy. Keeping hold is even harder. I can't put it into words how much it cost me to need this ticket, and how much it cost me to get it. After nearly five months, keeping hold is getting harder and harder. John says it will carry on getting harder for at least the next seven months. Then it gets a little bit easier - but only a little bit.

I can tell you something positive about having a ticket that's only five months old. When I think about my ticket, the feeling I get is like all those damn good Saturday nights rolled into one, multiplied by the biggest number you can think of, double it, treble it, stick a few noughts on the end and you're still a million miles away from knowing how good this ticket feels. When I go to bed, I keep my ticket in my hand. When I get in the bath my ticket has to get in with me, 'cos I'm not letting go of it. Not even for a big finger coming out of the sky, pointing at me and saying 'It's you!' These tickets are more precious than that. And if John can keep hold of his ticket for five years, then so can I. And so can you.

All this ticket business might sound like the product of a messed-up mind. Yep.

And John, if you're reading this, I hope we meet up again in a few years time, just to show you that I've still got my ticket. Just you make sure that you've still got yours!