Sweets: er, sweet
| | Sugar High | A really, really odd thing happened to me recently. I was completely, totally happy. This isn't so odd; I'm a pretty happy person anyway. What I mean was, NOTHING was annoying me. Nothing possibly could annoy me. I loved everything and everyone. That's the odd thing. I had nothing to rant about. If I'd met Westlife at that point, I would've shaken hands all round and bought each of them a beer. My work colleagues were stunned. What could've possibly brought about this miraculous change? You want to know, don't you? OK then. It was all down tofizzy fish. Marks & Spencer 'Fantastically' Fizzy Fish to be precise. About 1.49 a bag.
I was never one of those kids who got sugar highs. My parents were quite proud of the fact that I could guzzle endless E-numbers and still behave when called upon. Conversations normally ran like this:
"Er, Karen. Are you sure that Booger should have a litre of Tizer after three bags of Dolly Mixtures?"
"Yes, he's fine. Booger, come here and recite Shakespeare."
The (supposedly gifted) little me went and did as asked, while my hyper little lightweight buddies climbed the walls.
Even as I grew up, excesses never got to me. I'll be the first person to admit I've got an addictive personality, and if I want something, I want lots of it. Steak? 20oz T-bone please, and don't you dare cut any of the fat off either. Vodka? Double every time, all night. Cigarettes on a Saturday night? 40 or 50, and if my tonsils try to escape I'll worry about it in the morning. Excess has never fazed me before. Why should downing a little bag of fizzy fish be the first thing to flummox me? But flummoxed I was. And, indeed, sugar high I was as well.
I came back from my break at about 5pm and sat at my desk. I passed round the bag of fish to my colleagues who were on the late shift with me. Lates are only until 8pm, and there's only a few of us work them. Except for one or two, most said no to a fish. The bag came back to me and I scoffed the lot in about 5 minutes. Don't ask me why. In fact, don't even ask what made me buy the damn things in the first place. I'm not a sweetie person. I went into M&S for a sandwich. The fish just, well, they just called out to me. And I ate them all.
The effects were pretty much instantaneous.
Twitching came first. Random, Tourettes-like spasms in my arms and if I tried to drink tea my hand shook. My job involves a lot of talking on the phone, and I kept mis-dialling. I just couldn't hit the right buttons. I got through to a fair few wrong numbers, and it was about this time that I got the giggles.
Actually, 'giggles' is the wrong word. The sound I was making was halfway between a hiccup and a giggle, like Beavis and Butthead on helium. Sort of "He-hic". But I was doing it while talking to all the wrong numbers I was phoning:
ME: Hello, can I speak to Mr Trotter - he-hic - please?
PISSED OFF PERSON: You've got the wrong number. Again!
ME: Sorry. He-hic.
This went on for about ten minutes before one of my work mates finally noticed. And how did he decide to help me as I twitched and gibbered? He got me a coffee. Cheers man! The caffeine soon bought on the next stage of my trip (well I have to call it something). This was the mischievous or 'Gremlin' stage. I was seized by an irrational urge to mess about as much as possible. When someone went to the toilet I replaced her mouse roller with a Malteser. (Please note, while I'm not a sweetie person, most of the people in my office are. If you can't find chocolate at any given time, call the UN because something is very wrong.) I hid pens, handbags, books, even an asthma inhaler. I unplugged two keyboards. In short, I was a total wanker. God knows what would've happened if I'd eaten after midnight. The whole time I was terrorizing the office, I was still uttering those high, strange he-hics. As far as I was concerned, what I was doing was the funniest thing since Morecambe and Wise got stuck in a life with Cannon and Ball. I was having the time of my life. My colleagues, confronted by this sniggering scamp, were rapidly getting the arse-ache. The most mature (also a mother of two) actually told me off and made me sit down and behave. "What on earth is wrong with you?" she asked. "You're only mildly irritating normally, now you're acting like my 12-year-old." I replied that I had no idea - he-hic- what was wrong, but I had eaten a whole bag of fizzy fish. She told me that perhaps I should take five minutes and read the paper or something.
Without doubt, this was the worst mistake of the night. I buy The Sun on the way to work. I'm not ashamed. It has tits in it everyday, good sport coverage, and you can read it cover to cover in a ten-minute coffee break. Normally, reading the paper would get me apoplectic with rage. I'd rant and rave about the parade of useless celebs this country has to offer. Then I'd read the football news and look at page 3 to calm down. Tonight was different. The bastard fizzy fish (now reduced to sugar plankton in my bloodstream) played their nastiest card so far: they made me love everything. Comments that came out of my mouth that evening included:
Perusing the gossip page- "Jodie Marsh looks alright in that get-up," and "I quite admire Callum Best."
Reading the autumn TV schedule- "Oh cool, Channel 4 are bringing back 'The Salon'."
During a discussion of Robbie Williams at Knebworth- "Yeah, I suppose he does put on a good show."
And by far the worst- "Oh they should just leave Gareth Gates alone and let him get pissed once in a while. So long as it doesn't affect his career."
My colleagues were aghast. I had just argued in favour of stuff I'd normally tear apart. Last time someone got me started on G-G-Gareth I had to put my Walkman on and listen to The Clash; that was how much I wanted to kill. If I'd heard his name once more I would've lost it. But here I was, buzzing away, defending him. DEFENDING HIS CAREER FOR FUCKS SAKE!! It was at this point that I realised fizzy fish are more dangerous than crack and heroine combined. Imagine what a horrible world it would be if all the angry young men suddenly started buying Gareth Gates records. The gammy little bugger would be around forever.
The love-in stage was the last part of high. It was all down hill from there, baby. Lethargy and irritability came first. My concentration went to pot and I had to re-type every third word. Worst of all, I wanted more fish. I didn't dare tell my mates, they thought the last two hours had been hysterical and would doubtless have gone out and found me more. But I really didn't want anymore, so I kept schtum when they asked how I was feeling. I bumbled through the last hour of work and staggered off home. I normally find it hard to get to sleep, but that night I didn't get any kip until 2am. Had to be the fish.
My fear and loathing of the fizzy fuckers lasted about a week. By my next late shift I was ready to try 'fizzing' again. Wary of the horror show last time, I moderated the dose and only took half a bag. The fizz (actually, that's a much better description than 'trip' so we'll stick with that) was a lot more enjoyable. I was wonderful to everyone around me, but still managed to go off on one about bursting Jordan's implants with six-inch nails. I went to get the teas in several times, and only once did I throw an empty cup to someone and shout: "CATCH!" While my laugh was a little more ragged than normal, I didn't he-hiccup once. In short, I found out that fizzing is actually an enjoyable experience so long as you get the dosage right. Now all I have to do is spread the word. Like the hippies in the 60s had acid, and clubbers since the 80s have had E, I feel that the kids of the Noughties need their fish. I reckon that a nation all fizzing together, as one, would be a wonderful sight to behold. No fights or senseless muggings. No drunken brawls or shootouts. Just lots and lots of harmless pranks. Actually, what the fuck am I saying? We'd be a nation of Jeremy Beadles. Tell you what, just you people reading this, why don't you go out and buy a bag of fish, split them with your best mate and see what happens. Half each remember, no more or you'll start to like Gareth Gates and fancy Jodie Marsh.
AUTHORS NOTE: Since fizzing for a third time, I took the liberty of actually reading the list of ingredients for M&S Fantastically Fizzy Fish. It contains no E numbers at all. It does, however, contain 'elderberry' and 'nettle'. Fizzy fish are not a wonderful new drug, the Head Sweetie Maker (that's her proper title, I checked) for Marks and Sparks is simply a witch.
Submitted by Booger
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