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Last updated on July 16th, 2017 at 09:54 am
Malcolm Farr on Eric Clapton’s epic heroin-induced constipation:
Eric wasn’t God, as the graffiti painted on the London Underground insisted. He was clogged.
I spent several years working the ER during the 70’s. What a treat. Heroin. LSD. The great unknowns and lethal combinations.
Those who lived to tell about it were lucky. Those who died were unlucky. Those who ended up with a slowly killing disease were unlucky. Those who ended up vegetables, and there were very, very many, were oblivious to their luck, but their families, left burdened with a life-time of care for a soulless mass that soon didn’t even look like the person they knew, were the unluckiest of all.
I still see the haunted looks on their faces as the realization came to them of the nature of the rest of their lives, and they knew that it was all because their child didn’t learn the lesson of not putting strange things into their mouth. At least those who lost their child could bury them and try to live. There was an physical end, if not a spiritual one.
Clapton was lucky that constipation was the biggest complaint he remembers. At least he still remembers something.