I Deviated My Septum in Ibiza
I used to always pride myself on being possibly the only 20-something in the western world who hadn’t done cocaine. Originally, this was primarily due to stinginess rather than personal integrity, but when I learned about the human cost of the drug’s supply, I became even more resolute in my refusal — even when complimentary, lovingly-cut lines were shoved in my face.
Naturally, I felt like a martyr all the fucking time.
Given Australia’s love of overcharging its citizens for absolutely everything, coke averages at around $300/g. This means some of my friends will end up spending their weekly salaries just to get their hands on a bag or two. Some will use their cocaine confidence to go where no player has ever gone in FIFA. Others will stare possum-eyed around nightclubs, dashing to the ladies whenever Rack City Bitch comes on to “powder their noses”.
In many other countries, blow is roughly one-sixth the price of ours; unless you go to Cuba, where it’s more like one-hundredth. In the UK, it’s almost easier to obtain on a night out than a pint, though nightclubs have gross double standards depending on who you are.
A number of clubs in London have manned their bathrooms with big bouncers to stop girls indulging in their favourite drunken hobby of entering cubicles in pairs. And just in case solo lavatory-goers think they can thwart the system and snort a cheeky line off the germy cisterns, the toilet doors are see-through, and the bouncers have no qualms with voyeurism. But, if you satisfy even the loosest definition of celebrity — for example, you author a jewellery blog or you once starred in an infomercial — nightclub staff will direct you to a discreet room specifically designated to facilitate your nasal activity, only drawing the line at rolling you a £100 bill.
So in light of my extreme saintliness, even in the face of freebies, I continue to plague myself with questions as to how the following scenario came about.
It was late on a hungover Saturday in Ibiza, and my party was down to three: my friend Kelsi, my then-boyfriend Sam and me. The rest of my pals were sleeping off their comedowns from a cocaine-fuelled Friday night spent swimming in a pool of sweat in and around Calvin Harris.
Sam liked to compensate for his small stature by doing push-ups off every surface he could find, including me when we were having sex. So, naturally, he found it absolutely necessary to bring a lifetime’s supply of pre-workout powder on our three-day holiday.
When Kelsi and I lamented our extreme tiredness, Sam suggested mixing up a cocktail of NO-Xplode – the #1 extreme pre-training energy and performance igniter – and vodka. For reasons I cannot quite fathom, I instead suggested snorting it, and volunteered to go first.
One swift inhalation up a 20 Euro note later, my head erupted. Tears poured from my slitted eyes and my right nostril started streaming so badly that I had to shove a pair of pyjama pants up it to stem the flow. I was ruined.
Six months on, I still had the Niagara Falls for a nose, and was forced to accept that my otherwise-impeccable health meant I didn’t just have a head cold. I sat patiently in the doctor’s chair as he examined my nostril with an instrument I have only ever used when opening a wine bottle. He shook his head disapprovingly and gazed pointedly at the framed portrait of his children, several of whom I had once babysat.