The sky darkens n the last light melts away behind the glass fortress ae the arena. Ma breaths grow deeper n more pleasure-filled. The last draws ae a fag go doon smooth, smoother than usual, that right smooth way n yi know it’s happnin. A’m comin up, pure sound-inspired orgasm, tunes soundin great n ma thoughts disconnect. The music, the trance, just takes yi away. These mad feelins ir the beginnin n the only way is up, blast-aff time. A’m lookin at the burds n feelin the tingles in ma chest n arms n the top ae ma heed, startin tae heat up, elevated pulse n those pleasure rushes ae chemical euphoria in ma veins. A glance at ma phone before A’m sucked intae the mouth ae the beast. Eight bells. Still eight hours tae go, a full shifty oot yir scone in the rave cave.

The two ae us ir flyin. Connected by the YTP, brotherhood, history and ecstasy. Another deep breath, more tingles and ripples. A’m away, adrift in the river, the estuary ahead. The mouth ae the beast. We walk in through a wee passageway ae tubes n wires, the innards ae the building, foam-covered pipes n insulation. Thirty seconds ae darkness n intae the light ae the main arena. The sight ae the lasers n a sea ae nine thousand Scottish ravers dancin wild, tribal n free in pure chemical n trance energy.

‘FANTAAAZIA! GLASGOW! HERE WE FUCKING GO!’

Anthems for Doomed Youth

There’s a sledgehammer knockin oot a metronome’s beat inside ma skull. Muttered and discarded warnings aboot drugs haunt me n make me paranoid. A think ma brain is actually too big fur its casing. It may at any minute burst through. A know ma broken, beaten n bruised body is desperate fur water n salt, vitamins n rest. A wid go n tan a pint ae water n eat a poke ae crisps if A could raise ma body fae this bed, ma first grave.

Ma lips ir cracked, the first sign ae vitamin deficiency. Ten eckies n the litres ae drink, sixty fags n mare joints on tap n six meals missed. A’ve been oot in ma shirt back in the cold, up aw night exertin energy. Ma throat is hoarse fae shoutin. Ma skin stinks ae drink n everythin that went doon the hatch is noo workin its way back oot through ma pores. There’s a chemical smell tae it, not the usual foul bacterial note ae missin a shower or two – it smells like pure narcotics. Ma chest hurts wae backed-up phlegm fae smokin like fuck n it feels like a grippin pain, usually on the left side, then A’ll cough up a lump ae it. A feel like A’m takin a heart attack every time it happens. It brings on a wave ae dread aboot death n the damage A’ve done tae maself . Thankfully A’m still breathin, but touch n go, critical, 50/50 every time noo. There’s nae bounce back. No anymore.