Too much ketamine rips your bladder up. Ulceration, bleeding, incontinence; something called papillary necrosis which sounds especially delightful. “Once established, the urinary tract damage is tricky to manage. Immediate and absolute cessation of ketamine use is the obligatory starting point”.

If there is a drug of the moment, it is surely ket. Dissociative, mildly paralytic, dependency-forming, and over-use leaves you pissing razor blades. The morbid symptoms are all around us: “Prime Minister Boris Johnson”, “Home Secretary Priti Patel”, “Whatever that cunt Rees-Mogg is meant to be doing”. Best pretend it isn’t happening. Drift off into la-la land. Try to ignore the stabbing sensation in the waterworks. It’s only been a minute and a half, you can’t possibly need to go again.

You watched things everywhere go steadily to absolute shit. It took decades. At every turn there was someone screaming, don’t let this happen, this cannot possibly be allowed to happen. Dennis Potter naming the cancer that killed him after Rupert Murdoch. A million people protesting against war in Iraq. EU Supergirl. Whatever. Whatever it was, it happened, was allowed to happen. You got on the internet and never got off it. Reality collapsed: you parasited a friend’s Netflix subscription, and later on got one of your own. Things Down There weren’t working quite the way they used to, there was a disturbing smell, the word “haematuria” found its way into your Google search history, but there was season after season of Breaking Bad, and more porn than your teenage self could ever have imagined possible.

…sorry, what was that again? Prime Minister Boris Johnson? Are you sure?

Fish rot from the head, but the British polity is rotting from the crotch. Each day brings new consensual hallucinations. That stuff’s killing you, mate, seriously, you need to knock it off. Rumour has it Boris died in hospital, that ashen-faced mountebank you see on TV is a deepfake. Someone used a voice synthesis AI to make him recite the Navy Seals copypasta, it’s hilarious. Boris is a legend. They have his real head in a basement somewhere, fed with pulsing tubes, its maddened quasi-consciousness demanding ceaseless blood sacrifice.

I’ve got to go, I feel like I’ve ruptured something. No, he’s a clarinettist, he’ll show you how to hold it.

Maybe it’s the 5g masts going up everywhere, beaming agony straight into your groin. Protect yourself with tin-foil knickers. I have been writing my observations for a long while, and I have formed this conclusion which I will share with you, even though you are not ready. They want you to think this is a simulation, but it’s not. It’s all absolutely real. Mate, you need to see a doctor.