Sunday 12.01am: Am not going out, am not going out, am not going out. V ill. Stomach upset, chest and throat infections, lots of antibiotics. Dr Jones is v worried, prescribing cocktail of legal drugs. Nearly said: "Listen mate, I put so much other shit in my body I don't think a few antibiotics are going to hurt." Sick of Richard and Judy, but Countdown score improving. Throat too sore to smoke anything but Silk Cut Ultra (have to smoke 60 a day to get any nicotine). Still, feeling better now. So much better, almost tempted to go out. Good job have got such strong will power.

12.05am: Flick through TV. Two crap films or repeat of yesterday's Top of the Pops. Am not in any way tempted to go out.

12.06am: Anna rings from club. Drum 'n' bass pounding. "It's brilliant," she shouts. "Get over." "I'm ill," I say, pathetically. "Can't possibly come out. See you tomorrow."

12.15am: Cab. Just head up to club, say hello to a few people. Don't have to take drugs, do I? Have a coke and listen to music in chill-out room. Just what the doctor ordered.

12.16am: Feel a bit poorly. Mind over matter, Emma.

12.45am: Music is brilliant. Anna is walking Health Promotion campaign: Ecstasy Really Screws You Up. Vikram's taken a pill. He never takes pills. He's all cheery and smiley and he rugs.

1.00am: Music actually a bit fast. Everyone else really into it. Thousands of people writhing and leaping, hands raised to heaven - look like cult members at weird ceremony. What the fuck is going on? Suddenly feel like when I was 12 and sitting in Mass, as usual, and suddenly realised: There Is No God. Realise, ecstasy is to Britain what soma was to Brave New World. Is all a plot by the Tories.

1.50am: Order pint and try to chill. Roll a spliff, for Dylan. Can't find him, so smoke it for him. Skinny bloke called Jarvis asks if I'm "sorted for Es and whizz". I pause. "Yes, thank you," I say in tiny voice.

2.15am: Group of Crusties want to know what meaning of life is. Tell them to write to Guardian "Notes and Queries" like other sad fuckers. Spot Tinky Winky sloping off with blonde boy. Sure he is about 14. Dylan on dance floor in silly floppy hat, raving like man possessed. Feel worried about D for first time. And Anna, who has almost chewed her lip off. What if the speed's been cut with Persil Automatic? What if Vikram's allergic and dies and parents have to dedicate rest of lives to fight against Class As in the manner of Mr and Mrs Betts and evil clubbers name pills after him? "Ere you go mate, 'ave a Vikram." Will enrol to become drugs counsellor tomorrow. Roll another spliff absent- mindedly.

3.00am: Feel feverish. Want to go home, but hate being stoned on night buses, which are freaky enough anyway.

4.00am: Anna says we're going to leave any minute. Throw up. One of the Crusties looking more and more like Dr Jones. "Sorry, doctor," I am saying in my head, "but, I have learned my lesson - I am becoming a drugs counsellor."

4.30am: Tinky Winky says we're definitely leaving because blonde boy's got school orchestra practice at 10am.

5.30am: Anna re-directs cab to all-night club/bar. Too tired to protest.

5.31am: "You look knackered," says Anna. "Have some speed." Sorry Dr Jones.