SUNDAY 12.05am: My cupboards, my couch and my bathroom are no longer my own. Dylan has been back for exactly seven hours and he's already proving a handful. Not content with throwing up on the Tube back from Heathrow (and falling arse-over-tit in it as he got off - nice work), now he's insisting he's fine, and can we go clubbing tonight? Dylan definitely isn't the full shilling - but then he never was. "I met this guy on the beach, man," gesticulates Dylan, jet-lag energy oscillating like a power surge from the National Grid, "He told me about a club in Brixton where they play, like, serious trance and acid. We should go there and get some weed on the way." Dylan's more obsessed with ganja now than before he went away. Surprising, since the only reason he's back is through extreme over indulgence. Goa got to him. He reckons it was no big deal - just "an epic whitey after eating an unholy amount of bhang at a party on the beach." Apparently he became "super 'noidy and had to split." Dylan swears he didn't leave Emma in the lurch, but I'm sure it'll all come out in the wash. Dylan certainly chooses his moments - Anna's with some "hot- stuff" on a weekend fuck-fest and Tinky-Winky's gone on a girls night out. Here I am anticipating my first quiet weekend for months, just hanging out, doing nothing, and now I'm stitched up like a routine appendectomy. To put the cherry on the top, Dylan's usual medicine man claims there's a drought on because of the run-up to Glasto.
12.45am: "I'm sure it's around here somewhere," says Dylan with a distinct lack of conviction. The meter's running riot and this part of Coldharbour Lane is no place to be buying groceries on a sunny afternoon, never mind seeking to score at the wrong side of midnight. "Just let us out here, mate," Dylvan indicates with a wave of his arm. "Pay the man, Vikram."
12.57am: Eventually we find the place - a Hades-like mini cab office - and trot down the stairs to the illicit cellar. There's a domino school in progress and we've interrupted the game. The guys around the table make a meal out of it and suck their teeth loudly to show their displeasure. It's like being in a room full of dentured grannies and just as scary. Suddenly feel like a small child about to get in some serious trouble. "Does, man, wicked," says Dylan ingratiating himself to an old man with gold teeth and an outsized felt hat, wildly overcompensating for our unease. "Weh you waan', star?" Asks a surly chap from behind the rims of his shades. "Er, like, a ten draw please," Dylan dithers, ushering me and my money forward.
12.58am: Back under the street lights we inspect our pitiful deal. "This wouldn't have happened in Goa, man," Dylan rants with a sudden burst of bravado. It swiftly registers that apart from a shitty deal and an exporbitant cab ride, we're stuck in deepest darkest South London and I'm pounds 30 down on the deal. "If you were still there, you dippy f***," I explode, "this wouldn't have happened at all."
12.59am: Wait in silence for the night bus home.