Now, I’ve justified this to myself in all sorts of ways. It wasn’t a big deal, just a minor betrayal. Or we’d outgrown each other. You know, that sort of thing. But let’s face it, I ripped them off. My so-called mates. But Begbie, I couldn’t give a s*** about him. And Sick Boy, he’d have done the same to me if he’d only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud. He never hurt anybody. So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I’m a bad person, but that’s gonna change. I’m going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. I’m cleaning up and I’m moving on. Going straight and choosing life. I’m looking forward to it already. I’m gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the f***ing big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

This was to be my final hit. But let’s be clear about this. There’s final hits and final hits. What kind was this to be?

One thousand years from now, there’ll be no guys and no girls, just wankers. Sounds great to me.

It seems, however, I really am the luckiest guy in the world. Several years of addiction right in the middle of an epidemic, surrounded by the living dead. But not me. I’m negative. It’s official. And once the pain goes away, that’s when the real battle starts. Depression, boredom… You feel so f***ing low, you want to f***ing top yourself.

People think it’s all about misery and desperation and death and all that s***e, which is not to be ignored. But what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn’t do it. After all, we’re not f***ing stupid. Well, at least, we’re not that f***ing stupid. Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you’re still nowhere near it. When you’re on junk, you have only one worry: scoring. When you’re off it, you are suddenly obliged to worry about all sorts of other s***e. Got no money: can’t get pi**ed. Got money: drinking too much. Can’t get a bird: no chance of a ride. Got a bird: too much hassle. You have to worry about bills, about food, about some football team that never f***ing wins, about human relationships and all of the things that really don’t matter when you’ve got a sincere and truthful junk habit.