Free High society by Ben Elton

‘There’s a late sitting at the house. Angela knows not to call.’
    ‘Your wife is lovely. She’s very, very beautiful.’
    ‘Yes she is, she’ve very, very, very beautiful.’
    ‘I think that if she was feeling as we do now, she’d understand.’
    ‘Yes, I believe she would.’
    And he did believe it. Angela was lovely and she loved him and everything was all right.
    Naked, they walked from the bathroom into Samantha’s living room, a room lit only by the rich, crimson, velvety light of a two bar electric fire. They drank deep from jugs of the purest glittering tap water. The hint of citrus imparted by the lemon slices was delicious in a way that Peter Paget had not previously experienced.
    On the table Samantha’s little pill-box lay open. Inside, two tablets of E remained, the symbol of the dove embossed on their centres.
    ‘This stuff is amazing. Quite utterly wonderful. Why did I wait so long?’
    ‘No regrets, my love.’
    She took up the pill-box. Beside the ecstasy lay a collection of small blue diamond-shaped pills. She placed one on her tongue and offered another to Peter Paget. ‘It’s Viagra.’
    ‘Viagra?’
    ‘Sure, everybody’s doing it. I like to make love on E but sometimes it’s not easy, it’s too intense, too much, so we’ll just take these, eat some fruit, put on some sounds, chill a little, and in an hour you can fuck me to heaven.’

ST HILDA’S CHURCH HALL, SOHO
    L ook, I know this is a long story, but I’ve got the conch, ‘aven’t I? I have to tell this story my way or it ain’t therapy, is it? Anyway, it’s a good story, the papers would pay a mint for it and you lot are getting it just because you’re alcoholics. How good is that? So where was I? Oh yeah, at the Brits. Well, you’ll never guess what happens next, you will never guess who comes knocking on me dressing-room door just as the A and R bloke’s bird was trying to wipe kiwifruit out of her arse…
    ‘Only a fookin’ copper! Only a Commander of Her Majesty’s Constabulary! Can you believe it? Backstage at the Brits! That’s like Islamic fookin’ Jihad turning up at a Barbra Streisand concert! A copper at the Brits! Fook me, if he’d had a sniffer dog with ‘im I reckon they’d have had to close down Top of the Pops for ten years till we all got out of prison. I were shitting meself. At first I thought the bastard had turned up to do me for kicking Emily out of the limo. I thought her dad, his Lordship, must have got me sentenced to be beheaded or whatever, but it turns out he had an appointment! My tosser of a tour manager comes in and tells me that I’d agreed to meet some cop and a poxy MP who wanted to talk about drug abuse. Well, fook me! There I am, coked and E’d up to me eyeballs, I’ve got a fruit-covered, half-naked bird who’s on one too, a bagful of the charlie on the table, and my tour manager wants me to talk to a copper and an MP.’

THE BRIT AWARDS, DOCKLANDS ARENA
    P eter Paget MP beamed proprietorially at Tommy. He felt that artists and singers were his type of people. He was an important person himself, after all, the politician of the hour, the man everybody was talking about. He had a right to be in Tommy Hanson’s dressing room. The only shame had been that he had been unable to persuade Hanson’s management to issue Samantha with a backstage pass. Still, he’d got her a seat for the ceremony, which had thrilled her no end. She was only twenty-three, after all. It was her culture that was being celebrated.
    ‘I am so grateful that you’ve agreed to see me, Mr Hanson — or perhaps I might call you Tommy? I’m Pete.’
    ‘Urn…OK. Yeah. Whatever.’
    ‘I feel certain that you and I share the same agenda on drugs, Tommy.’
    ‘Yeah, def, big time.’
    ‘Which is to protect children and young people from the consequences of drug use.’
    With enforced casualness Tommy Hanson perched himself on the edge of the table, positioning himself between his two visitors and