What happens next in this tale of misguided youth is of pivotal importance, and marks a transition from the wide eyed naivety of childhood into the wider-eyed naivety of adulthood, and it happened so quickly I failed to notice. Until about an hour after the event when I found myself being repeatedly hurled at a wall in an upstairs terrace bedroom by four hairy bikers.

I had been invited to my first eviction party on Victoria Terrace in the West end of Lincoln. The sort of event legend said had the potential to get a out of hand. The general premise of an eviction party, for those of you not familiar with such occurrences, is that the hosts have for one reason or another been asked to leave their dwelling by some tyrannical landlord demanding rent or other such outrage, and said landlord has now been deemed a worthy target for some kind of vengeful act. So, the word would go out that an eviction party was to be held at the address, and that all comers were welcome to help themselves to any of the furniture, fixtures and fittings that may take their fancy. There were also very few rules regarding the guests, and any of the other goings on that were to occur. In fact the general idea was to bring as much chaos and destruction upon the property as was reasonably possible by human hand, and it was in this capacity that members of the Freelancers Bike Club had been invited on this occasion.

Now, I had had experiences with the freelancers on a few previous occasions, as they were staunch regulars within the Badgers set, and could often be found upstairs after hours amongst the mayhem and the calamity of the early hours, very often being at the centre of both. I recall one particular event with crystal clarity, as it is etched into the synapses of my memory. I had retired to my room after a nights excess, when from the kitchen across the landing I began to hear the strangled noise of sexual activity. I sat for a moment in my bed-sit room, contemplating the sounds of some other mans success, and I became curious. The girl seemed to be shouting something in an excited manner, over and over, something I could not quite make out. I moved towards the door, but still couldn't quite make it out, so I decided to walk in on them in an accidental manner, just to see if she was alright you understand. I felt responsible for the goings on in my kitchen, I am the same to this day, I like to know where things are and so forth. I took with me a mould filled mug to give the impression that I was in search of a beverage, and I stormed in through the large oak door, and was immediately confronted by a scene of such jaw dropping obscenity, that I became paralysed with shock.

Stretched out before me on a hastily prepared pasting table, set up over an antiquated twin-tub for stability, lay a naked party guest, surrounded on all sides by a group of horny hairy Herberts, each of them wanking furiously while the aforementioned party guest screamed "I love the Freelancers! I love the Freelancers!"

I have no deep metaphorical reason for burdening you with this image, I simply use it as an example of the kind of debauched anarchy that one can expect when mixing with some of the biker gangs. I would like to tell you that the mug fell from my hand and smashed on the floor, shattering the silence. But it didn't, and there was no silence, they just carried on, with pirate-like grimaces on the thier faces.

As I arrived at Victoria terrace that evening, I was greeted by the sight of a party that was spilling into the street. There seemed to be plenty of nonsense taking place already, which is always a good thing in the circumstances. I snuck down the side passage, and round to the kitchen door. Kitchens have always been the engine room of a party, for reasons that I have never fathomed, this is where the best of things take place, and this party was no exception. Bubbling away on the stove was a gigantic saucepan of mulled wine, being dolled out to all and sundry by a strikingly tall ginger haired Goth girl, and everybody had a cup. I drafted a few of these brews and began doing the circuit of the rooms, seeing where the fun was to be had and what the lady's had to offer. Everywhere I went some sort of DIY vandalism was taking place, for which the Freelancers had come prepared. They could be seen knelt down beside any fixture or fitting with all the tools required to remove it in a usable condition. All of these retrieved items were then transported to a waiting trailer in the street outside. As I climbed the stairs they were extracting the banister rail from its housing and passing it down the line to the trailer, and they seemed to me to resemble Goblins or Trolls, scurrying about with their ill-gotten booty and grunting at each other in exited tones.

At the top of the stairs there was a room to the right that had not yet been stripped containing a double bed and nothing else, I went inside and lay down. My head was spinning with ideas, and the alcohol was making me dizzy. I began saying out loud to myself all the things that were swimming round in my head, and I would put on silly voices as I did so. I didn't feel right that was for sure. After what seemed like an age alone in this room, with it's bare light bulb and peeling wallpaper, I had worked myself up into a panicked frenzy. Convinced that I had drunk to much booze and that I would never be sober again, I had come to terms with the fact that I was in fact dying, up here in this lonely room. It came as a great relief when at the doorway there appeared the face of a friend. "Larry" I said "Come and hold my hand, I'm dying you see"

He dutifully did as asked, and as he sat cross legged at the edge of the bed, he let me talk my confused talk, just listening. Then, when I had finished, he calmly explained to me that I was having a bad mushroom trip.

It turned out, that the yuletide brew that was on offer in the kitchen had been laced with liberty caps picked that very day on the south common. If I had known I would have understood what was happening, maybe come to terms with the effects better, but I had not been expecting a magic carpet ride that night, I thought it was all real. As soon as I realised I felt invincible, I was in control again, and just then the Goblins arrived with their tool-kits in hand to strip the room. When they realised they had a shroom virgin on their hands they were ecstatic with joy. They started buzzing round me like bee's and whispering in my ears to try and get me spooked, but now I knew the truth I was safe. I have never had a difficulty in distinguishing the effect from the reality, and I simply used the intoxication to my benefit, I just zoned out and hallucinated myself to distraction.

This seemed not to bother the Trolls, and as they grew tired of teasing me they devised themselves a game. They rolled me up in the mattress from the bed, and took turns hurling me against the wall. I forget the finer points of the game, and am not sure how the points system worked, as I was having the time of my life. Inside this mattress cocoon was actually quite a safe place to be, and I have often wondered if this was something of a tradition in biker circles, and that the mattress was always employed in this capacity as a safety device. Anyhow, the practical upshot of which is that my first experience of mind altering substances was one of unrivalled absurdity. I don't remember what went though my mind exactly, but I can say without a hint of exaggeration, that I was flying that night…

Leeson