Last Train to Woking

I just came across this story on an old blog of ours, written by BP Magazine’s co-founder Chris Drouet. Its hysterical, and a nod back to the old days of Diconal which were so popular in the UK during the 1980’s. Chris of course, overdosed in 2009, a huge loss -but it has made me start thinking about logging all the material from the back issues on this site, as there is some really classic stuff there. Anyway, over to Chris…


Train Trip...

I had just picked up my script of Ritalin and physeptone amps and from somewhere I’d got five Diconal so I was looking forward to having a nice hit. I was standing on the platform on Waterloo Station looking up at the departure board for the next train to Woking in order to go and sign on for bail at the Police Station. There’s a train leaving in 15 minutes. Perfect! I can get on it and have a hit in the toilet before it leaves because I don’t really like trying to do it on a moving train. I go into the toilet and get my usual fix together, 5 Rit and 5 Diconal.

Just as the buzz is coming on me I hear a woman’s voice outside say, 

‘ Here, John, there’s someone in there having a fix. Get the guard’.

Then I hear someone, obviously John say, ‘Fuck the guard . I’ll get the police’.

Oh no. The police is the last thing I need, I was already on three lots of bail and another nicking I can do without.

A couple of minutes later the train starts moving out of the station. Relief sweeps over me. Plod couldn’t have had time to get on yet. Just then there’s a banging on the door and a voice saying,

‘Come on out Chris. We know it’s you in there and when you do come out, you’re nicked’.

Like fuck I am’. I reply, ‘I’m not coming out. If you wanna nick me you’re gonna have to come in here and do it. All you cunts can fuck off’.

A wave of panic engulfs me. I’ve got two 5ml works to get rid of plus the Rit blister packs. Then I hear plod say, ‘Can you turn the water off in there’?

They must be talking to the guard, I think. ‘Yes’, another voice retorts. I try the taps-nothing. There’s no water in the toilet bowl and there aren’t any windows to throw anything out of. What the fuck am I gonna do now? I really don’t wanna get nicked again. Not for something as trivial as this, anyway.

One of the cops says, ‘Can you undo the lock or get it off from out here’?

‘Yes.’ came the reply.

I look at the bolt and sure enough, it’s slowly being worked back so I jump to the door and slam the bolt back home. What am I gonna do? It’s only a matter of time till they come in. Suddenly, like a light being switched on, an idea comes to me. I pull the plungers out of both the syringes, pull off the little rubber things and swallow them and crush all the rest under the heel of my shoe. Thank God I wasn’t wearing trainers. I crush them till the plastic bits are reduced to tiny slivers.

Then I have to push the bolt home again and when I do I hear from outside,

‘You bastard, we’ll get you.’

‘No you fucking won’t, you cunts. Have it up a tree all of you, you fuckers.’

I lay down on the floor on my stomach in the piss and dirt and filth with my feet jammed against the door so they can’t get in and I poked all the little bits of plastic through the ventilation grill one by one as the holes were so small. Every so often I had to jump up and push the bolt back home again. each time I did the police outside gave me a volley of abuse which I answered in spades

‘Why don’t you cunts fuck off and leave me alone. Haven’t you got anything better to do. Why don’t you go and nick a few nonces instead of hassling me, you fucking wankers?’ Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off!!!

Screaming and shouting I was getting really worked up.

Eventually I managed to push everything, syringes, spikes and even the little bits of silver foil from the Ritalin through the ventilation grill so there was nothing in my possession to be nicked for and I began to relax a little.

I can still hear the police outside the door talking. I can’t hear what they’re saying as they’re now keeping their voices down. I try and clean myself up as best I can in the circumstances. I’ve still got to sign on for bail and I’ve got all these dirty pissy marks down the front of my shirt as a result of lying on the toilet floor and I look a mess. I stand with my back to the window facing the door waiting for the police to come in and arrest me.


The train starts slowing down as it’s pulling into Woking station. It stops and I don’t have any choice’ I’ve got to get off the train to go and sign on. I gather myself together the best I can knowing that they’re out there just waiting for me to get off the train. They know who I am and, I guess, where I’m going.

I open the door and walk out into the corridor and there was no-one there. Fuck! I’d imagined the bloody whole episode.
By C.D sadly missed.

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1 Comment

  1. Still scripted dex, still getting the pinks… they just say “Sovereign Medical Dipipanone & Cyclizine 10mg/30mg” on the strips now. 20 on my Methadone Alliance profile from last autumn.

    This story really reflects the way I feel some days minus the severity of the hallucinations. Feel depressed and bored, opiates & speed in system, better for me but terrible for anyone who crosses me… and it doesn’t take much for the whole day to be a cataclysm of my being off the handle.

    But as TS Eliot said, and so they called this Friday good.

    RIP to the pink and peach casualties. I believe in the resurrection, one day I might see you without any missing limbs, in a place with no nonces and no corruptive deputy head teachers, not a section 47 file in sight, and no reason to need pinkies, surmontil fifties and shots of straight Sazerac to reconcile oneself to the open-air Monster Mansion, after all Wakefield has 700 evil men inside. There must be at least 200,000 on the out. And 1 million plus women and children abused by them.


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