Get High! (Without Drugs...)

(Article for Pugwash Mag - Euphoria Issue) 


Who said you can get high without taking drugs or drinking alcohol? Here are the Top 5 ways to reach that ultimate level of euphoria...

5. Eating high energy foods.

Having a healthy and balanced diet can be a good way to feel a sense of greatness within yourself. It doesn’t require too much effort, plus, it can be fun. Rather than microwaving all your meals, or sticking a pizza in the oven, cook a meal from scratch. The British Dietetic Association says that Breakfast is the ideal opportunity to get some energy for the day, so don’t skip it.


4. Get creative.

Starting a creative project, and succeeding in whatever you’ve aimed for, can give you a nice high. Maybe you could take up Art again, since you haven’t had a go at it since high school. Or start a photography project. Seeing something you’ve achieved that you’ve set yourself that’s also pretty to look at is a great feeling.


3. Dancing and exercise.

Have you tried Zumba? Or Jazz-ercise? They can give you quite the adrenaline boost. You can go to a class with your friends, or if you’re the insecure type, buy a DVD and do it at home.
Exercise is, and always has been, another good way to gain a high. Go out jogging by Southsea Common, or join the gym. You’ll feel a sense of self-accomplishment that drugs and alcohol can’t give you.

2. See your favourite band live.

Don’t you find it annoying when a friend has seen a band live, that you know you like a lot more than they do? Go and see that band. The feeling that crawls over you, while your favourite musician is blending some sweet tunes with their instruments, is a textbook definition of euphoria.

1. Extreme sports.

The ultimate adrenaline rush for some, extreme sports are by far the best way to feel euphoric. Most sports include being in a part of the world you’d never see without trying them. Skydiving, for example, whilst pumping adrenaline through you, gives you some great views. There’s nice scenery in mountain biking, or kayaking. Find one that you think you’d enjoy, and absorb the experience completely. That’s euphoria.

Chill Out, Man.

It’s the last thing you want to hear when you’re angry. Ever had an argument in public? Your relatively calm friend places a condescending hand on your shoulder, becomes the hero of the scene, and says it. ‘Chill out, man.’ And now all you can think about is that you’re being watched by everyone. You’ve made a scene. What are you going to do? You should probably chill out, man.

There’s no straight answer as to where the phrase ‘Chill out, man’ comes from. If you search it in urbandictionary.com, it’ll tell you to ‘shut up, relax, calm down’, which is brutal, yet honest, and most appropriate for people of our age.
The Cambridge Dictionary says it is ‘to relax completely, or not allow things to upset you’, whereas the Oxford Dictionary says ‘intended to induce or enhance a relaxed mood’, referring to slow, rhythmic music. As far as we can tell, there is no definite meaning to the phrase.

Although ‘Chill out, man’ is used to warn people who may be angry, frustrated, or unhappy, the phrase also has a positive meaning . ‘Chilling out’, in this context, never involves leaving the house, spending money, or putting much effort into something. You can wear those ugly, but always really comfortable tracksuit bottoms, and if you’re female, make-up is out of the question. Chilling out will normally include a mediocre activity such as watching an old film with a couple of drinks, or playing on your games console. You’re there to chill out, man.

'I toad you a little chilling would be good for you.'

Specifically for us at University, ‘Chill out, man’ normally involves panic. Panic that you’re going to be late on handing in that really important piece of work, or panic that you won’t get a good grade for it. You’re walking to the library with a friend, and start listing all the things you need to write, complaining about money, moaning that jobs are impossible, and the rest. Your friend will tell you to ‘Chill out, man’, and you probably should. Relax, and instead of panicking, sort your life out, and tick those things off one by one.

'I'll do it tomorrow.'

It’s a good piece of advice though. Have you ever been told to chill out, and disobeyed the request? It never ends well. It’s a diffusive term, one that can stop that emotional friend of yours throwing the contents of his room around the house, or your competitive friend from throwing an Xbox controller at the television. Are you feeling hot under the collar? Then maybe you should chill out, man.

"Love"

Diamonds are for those who are greedy.

Just one could feed the needy,

instead, a false symbol of love,

from a man who’s seedy,

or a woman who’s eyes are beady.

She wants a dress and he’ll digress

but she’ll press him for more on

her day of success. He’ll confess

he’s not that bothered, yet to no end,

he’ll impress her family and friends.

He’s told her a million times

yet the sound of wedding bells

chimes, and the singing of religious

rhymes makes her want even more

to be in her prime.

So they’ll party through the night

to his new bride’s delight,

and on paper it tells her

that she is exclusively his

so off on a glorious honeymoon they whizz.

And now it’s his turn to demand,

so he waves his hand like a wand.

Off comes the garter, seductively

he courts her, and she gets in the bed.

And afterwards, he’ll kiss her head.

They follow life’s calling

their sexy fun brawling, ends up in

crawling small legs around the

house. Something so small, like a

mouse, makes noise with all its toys.

Then they grow tired, and old,

he thinks his moves were way too bold,

she’s wired on caffeine to care for the child.

The coal is no longer fired, and he regrets to

find out he’s here ‘til retired.

Skinny Jeans and The Wurzels

Recently I bought some new jeans. Not because I wanted to, but because I ripped my fav's out clubbing until 7am. Typical me. I don't mean the clubbing part of that statement. They split at 1am as well. So I had a 6-hour-long ability to accidentally flash my legs at everyone. How avant-garde. I wasn't bothered though. A temporary cover-up with my favourite shirt was installed. As mashed up as I was I just gurgled "Go hard or go home, weeyyy!" and kicked my legs about. I worry me.

What I thought I looked like

What I probably looked like.

But that's just stereotypical of me. I'm the King of Inconvenience. Got a banger of a deal on jeans though. Nice plain ones.

Which brings me on to my next topic. My body figure. Yeah, I am large, rotund or globular. Buying jeans is a horrific task. I liked skinny jeans for a while but then I realised I looked like a grape on two toothpicks. So I bought some baggier jeans, and now I look less Thalidomide and more like a person you'd see 3/4's of the way up when choosing your size on an avatar creation scene.

And talking of fashion, I do love my shit-old-shorts. I wear them when I'm gardening. But I've just become a typical Wurzel, lately.

Kinda like this.

I've been doing work in several different gardens for cash, ya see. I'm an every-day Alan Titchmarsh, for the working man. But I'm less of a show-man about it and I haven't yet got crows-feet. Touch wood. I do enjoy a bit of gardening, actually (read that back in a Yorkshire accent), it's got an addictive pace to it. And it's a good work out. Especially when you're deforesting allotments and ponds.

And what about the weather, eh..? 

The Rat with Ears.

I love Nonsense Poetry. I'm in a silly mood now.

The Rat with Ears

A farmer once craved

to be the scientist of days

months, years, laughed

at by his peers.

“So a rat with ears

could spy on their jeers.”

He worked in his lab

on his tiny rat friend

in attempt at revenge.

So he went by the graves

and dug up in the nave,

to find himself a body.

He lopped off a man’s ears

with some gardening

shears, and sewed them

onto the rat.

With some

electrical shocks,

he opened the box,

and the rat came

listening out.

And once it was done

his mouth shone

like the sun and he

sent the rat out to spy.

It would crawl out

by day, and come

back by night,

and he’d wait, with

a twinkle in his eye.

The Hill.

Picture this,

an English countryside, stretching far and wide,

while a man and his soon-to-be-bride watch the flow of the tide.

The seagulls call, ants and bugs crawl,

and in the air some dragonflies brawl.

He gives her a shawl, throws the dog his ball,

and watches it all, as day begins to fall.

The candle is lit, the scene is fit,

his mouth is slowly filling with spit,

he’s nervous about it,

but he knows that the relationship’s close-knit.

And if she’ll permit

then to her, he’ll commit.

Yet still, she’s ill,

and he gives her a pill,

that she’ll swill around her mouth,

and spit down the hill.

His tear ducts fill, spill and roll down his face

against his will, her condition will kill.

So he picks up the basket.

Time’s running out so he’d better ask it.

He bends down to one knee,

and now he can’t quit.

He charmed her with wit, her eyes lit,

she found him a hit. He was fit, clever,

The way they met was like a comedy skit.

He reaches in

with a nervous, cheesy grin,

picks out a small box and says “Lynn,

you’ve grown thin, got worse,

I’m scared about what’s going on, within.

Your skin is pale, and you’re not going to win.


But I love you,

I feel like our romance is still new.

If only we knew, that it wasn’t the flu,

things wouldn’t have changed

after that day at the zoo.

They said they’d found a breakthrough

yet you won’t come to, and inside you it will stew,

fall through, and kill you.

And that’s the way it’s going to be.

You’ve heard my plea,

but it was the first of three.

Now we’re here by the sea,

and to my heart you’re the key.

My second question, my Lynn,

will you marry me?”

Lunch.

This is still a work in progress, but read it anyway


Beautiful word, lunch.
It’s where you get that feeling
that it’s passed breakfast and brunch.

You should tweet what you eat
whether it’s meat wrapped in wheat
or simply some slightly salted crisps.

The attacks of plastics and snacks;
the issues cleaned with tissues, such
as the calm from licking cheesy dust off your palm.

No harm from the chills of an icy cold cola
that thrills down your throat like Gaviscon pills.


There’s those who chose to shop at Waitrose
whose luxury rolls and pasta bowls make them
feel whole,
or those who go to Tesco who follow like sheep
because it’s cheap for heaps of food.

And then the homemade parade of Hovis
and marmalade, packed up in clingfilm and
tupperware.


Beautiful thing; lunch.

Greasy Spoon.

Belinda walks past me half-heartedly, a slouch in her step and a coffee jug loosely balanced in her hand. She stoops over the table of another young man’s, who is wearing the attire that belongs to a decorator. His trousers are speckled with a decade of creams, greens and terracottas. Belinda chews her gum and mumbles.

“More coffee love”, she says monotonously, more of a statement than a question.

The man turns his head from his open newspaper and nods. Yeah, bang some in, he nonchalantly replies. She pours it from an uncomfortably high distance; although doubt runs through my mind briefly as to whether he would mind if a new shade of brown hit his attire. Belinda looks absent-mindedly at the coffee. Enough thought to fill it enough, but not enough to care much. Without a word, she finishes her task, and slouches back past me. No looks, no cares. I rotate my cup with my thumb and forefinger, and look inside. Empty. The absence of that murky brown life-giver does not seem to bother me as much as it should, as with Belinda.

Belinda now sits at the till with her feet, clad in flip-flops, propped up by the muffins. She is reading OK! magazine with a lifeless glare and a limp jaw, nestling and rolling chewing gum between her teeth. Apparently Brad and Angelina have split.

A bell rings, and my attention is distracted to the door. The bell bounces merrily, perhaps too merrily for this dim, dreary cafe. Who appears to be Belinda’s identical twin walks by me, the same way as Belinda. She has the same hair, but is blonde, opposed to Belinda’s greasy brunette locks.

“Mornin’ Tracey”, says Belinda. She doesn’t lift her eyes, yet twirls some hair with her finger, still chewing on that now flavourless gum.

“’Allo love”, she replies, also not keeping eye contact. The daily routine has dissolved this by now. “We’re out’a coffee, Tracey. I think I’ve measure out my life in coffee spoons.”  Belinda leaves without another word, her handbag at the ready by the till.  Tracey gives a half-hearted goodbye and replaces her position behind the OK! magazine. My empty coffee cup gives me no more reason to stay here, so I stand up, pushing my chair casually behind me. It slides over the greasy tiled floor with a loud rumble and I lift it up slightly so I can put it back in with less noise. The bell rings merrily to wish me a happy day as I open the door, which is somewhat stiff, years of grease hugging the hinges. A refreshing gush of fresh seaside air brushes over my face, a natural cleanser of the oily atmosphere in which I have just been in.

Sonnets.

'Room'

I gaze out of the apartment window, and look down.

That German atmosphere fills the street with remarkable sound -

happiness travels through my veins as my childish excitement

observes those roads constructed of a dark grey cement.

I turn around, and a beastly, familiar stench starts to fill the room:

The old lady who lives at the bottom has started cooking her brothy doom.

It fills me with memories of all the times I have been here; I love it.

To anyone new here it would cause tears. I don’t move a bit.

We’re all ready to go shopping, so we leave the flat

I glance behind me, closing my eyes and embracing this fact.

I already wish to return, but with all the Lego and art supplies I buy

I’ll spend the rest of the day with new toys, on a natural high.

I’ll only be here a weekend but I love it here, when I go I’ll be sad.

But that’s the only disadvantage when you’re reunited with your Dad.

'Sex'

Night falls and two sensual lovers clash,

warmth of hands caresses a heartbeat.

Lingerie is now visible, tightly holding feminine figure;

love is in the air as these bodies meet.

Man in the window, watching their innocence:

hot air invades his head as he watches pure passion.

Bed in vision, heart on sleeve, envy spreads through his mind -

Good riddance, he spares a last thought.

Pillow meets hair inside the house, the man whimpers.

Yeah, he thinks, get ready, do it.

Male and female are interrupted in their slumber –

Experience this, you cruel bitch, he yells;

flesh hits the wall as the gun is fired, passion falls to dust.

Different atmosphere turns to dark from lust.

Arriving at Portsmouth, Pt. 2

So the buses are becoming real drags on my attitude to University life. It still bugs me how I have to travel miles along with other poor sods whilst those lucky people in the city centre leave their rooms five minutes before lectures.

But anyway. I'm still really enjoying the course. The amount of writing I'm doing is copious and I'm enjoying writing every single piece. I have two Assessments due very soon but I'm keeping on top of it and therefore giving myself more time to plan for further Assessments. I have a test soon, gulp.

I'm also cooking good meals now. Being in part catered halls means I have the rare opportunity to cook aside from weekends. So I savour the moment and go all out in effort; i.e. buying the ingredients and enjoying cooking each meal. I've also taken a massive liking to my favourite meat, Gammon. One of the big perks of cooking for yourself - you can eat what you like! Which does honestly mean I've eaten some Pot Noodles on occasions, but not too many.

I've yet to make ANY of the cocktails I've got up on my wall. I bought a humongous poster during the Fresher's Fayre which has pictures of cocktails of all different varieties. I do eventually plan on making one. I'll tell you when I do. It'll probably excite me more than anyone else..

Clubbing is amazing in Portsmouth, especially when you have spontaneous housemates. Before Uni I would never have agreed to go out a day before or rarely even an hour before, but I love it. And Portsmouth has everything. Bars, pubs, clubs and pub-clubs (you know, those pubs that play club music and have a dance floor, and are then there for you the next day holding a bacon sandwich to cure your hangover).

Arriving at Portsmouth, Pt. 1

Living in student accommodation is a strange and exciting experience. You’re living away from home, mostly, and everything is up to you. Suddenly there’s no Mum or Dad or family pet to do your ironing, washing and cooking – it’s all up to you. Personally I’m lucky enough to have parents who built me up as a man who can fend for himself. I don’t crawl across the floor in ragged clothes scraping the floor for traces of pot noodle, whilst crying because I don’t know how to hold an iron. So luckily enough I had the self-confidence and the resulting excitement inside me for when I arrived at my accommodation. I’d already had a set-back, I was placed in the student village, a few miles away from the actual university. This is alright – there’s a free bus service that takes you to the university. But, there are those who live literally 30 metres away from the university buildings – those who were lucky enough to be picked by whatever system the university has to allocate students to their new homes. That’s what annoyed me the most; but oh well – suck it up and move on. Life won’t be happy if all you do is moan – the glass is half full.

Arriving at my new house (or home – but I like to think that a house and a home are different things. A home being representative of family life and somewhere you’ve been for ages, a house being a building you simply live in) was very odd. After driving a couple of hours from my home in Surrey and having unpacked my case, the departure of my parents was quite sudden, and a big shock. When you first think of university life you conjure up imagery of parties, independent life and things like that. But personally I never realised the comfort I would miss when they left. But since then and in a short while I’ve learnt a lot about myself and how to live successfully on my own. I’ve even started eating salad. 

Chrysalis.

Photo by Owen Brice

Sweet Dreams.

Wrapper on the floor,

Picked it up and unravelled

its tempting secrets.

I bet it tasted of caramel

oozing over the tongue

pushing sugary goodness

through the pores of

their tongue.

I run my finger over the

mountainous terrain,

where the sweet had once

been nestled in a smooth

appealing translucent cover.

It takes me back through time

to that place near where I live

that sold unimaginable amounts

of calories, fat, childlike heaven.

Pick up the paper bag

and carefully fill it with

1p, 2p, 5p, 1p.

With coppery fingers you hand

over the bag which is then

reopened and viciously strewn

across the newsagent’s surface.

Hand over your pocket money,

licking your lips.  

There’s that aforementioned

appeal of the smooth shiny wrapper

and the visible sweet,

tempting you again.

You seemingly unwrap it carefully

but when done with it, screw it

into a ball and throw it on the floor.

That’s what happened to this.

The hope of a life in which a small

child sees you, opens you, takes out

your insides. Throws away the carcass.

Oh to be there again.

in that sweater and polo

uniform, the anticipation of a walk

to school and going to the shops first.

The excitement of that low-down

shelf filled with new things,

jelly beans, chocolate buttons.

I hold that bag over and over again

filling it, filling it, filling it.

Swinging it around a pinched

opening, making a seal of approval.

Only to open it seconds later.

Enjoy that wrapper, peel it delicately. It holds something new, or something old – something you like or haven’t yet tried.

Too soft, too sweet, too crunchy-

you’ve learnt your lesson, it won’t be bought again. 

Shoes.

As a child I never paid much attention to shoes, especially as a boy. Maybe to girls they bare more significance, but for me, they claimed none. I do remember getting my first pair of converses when I was 11, though. It was exciting – they were expensive and popular and came in all these different designs and colours. I for one wanted the black ones with the flames on the heel. They were awesome. But I decided to go with Hi-top Blue ones. They had that new rubbery smell and were really tight to fit into at first. My feet are especially wide so it takes a while for new shoes to mould to the shape of my oddness. I remember wearing them for the first time out after my Mum had said “Don’t get marks on them!” and worrying over-precautiously about scuffing them on the pavement. I did. I rubbed frantically at the mark and it disappeared, thankfully. I took great pride in them, cleaning them with Kitchen cleaner on the rubber soles. I even went a step further on my first trip to Camden by buying some checkered shoelaces. I wanted to put the laces on straight away so I walked down to the loch with my mates and put them on then and there, ditching my old worn out white ones. I still have them and they still sort of fit, but I have cooler shoes nowadays.

Mornin' Dew.

Photo by Owen Brice

http://www.flickr.com/photos/-obi-/