"All in all I could not have endured my youth without Wagnerian music. If one
wants to get free from an unendurable pressure one needs hashish. Very well, I needed
- Friedrich Nietzsche, 'Why I Am So Clever', 1888
I am by nature curious. In particular, I am interested in that type of perceptual
modification known as "oceanic experience", in which the individual 'self'
undergoes a feeling of mystical oneness with the rest of nature. Nirvana, ecstasy,
beatitude, whatever you want to call it - what Freud dismissed as a wishful return to our
state in the womb. Freud's explanation of oceanic experience may well be true
psychologically, but the fancy prefix doesn't make the word 'logically' any the less
mean-minded. At least not in my opinion.
So why seek this experience? Well, it sounds attractive. "Over my spirit flash and
float in divine radiancy the bright and glorious visions of the world to which I go,"
moaned St Teresa. It also sounds mysterioso. "Where I awoke I did not stay; where I
stayed I cannot tell you. The sun I did not see, nor saw I land or people: but of what I
saw I cannot tell you. I was where I had been for all time and where for all time I shall
go, in the vast realm of universal night. But one knowledge there is ours - divine,
eternal, total oblivion!" Thus wrote Wagner in his 'Tristan und Isolde'. Forgive me
for rambling on about der Meister, but he does happen to be a very good case in point. As
one commentator has written: [Wagner] "aimed at reducing the audience to an
unthinking, highly suggestible mass in which the individual was transported out of himself
and made to drift with the tides of the universe ..."
Drift with the tides of the universe ... Who would NOT want to undergo such a
transformation? Great truths might be revealed.
* * * *
Well, I was too impatient to try yoga or meditation. I wasn't about to rush out and
acquire 75-odd micrograms of dextro-lysergic acid diethylamide tartrate 25, since it would
be hard to guarantee the safe purity of an horrendously illegal drug. 'Ecstasy' was out
because, being a type of amphetamine rather than a true psychedelic
(methylene-dioxymethamphetamine to be precise), it is a gibberingly dangerous substance.
Likewise hard narcotics, which, pace Judge Pickles and the loony-libertarian Right, should
probably not be legalised, even if a 'freer' century did produce a 'Kubla Khan'.
* * * *
"We think you are a good lad, and feel sorry for you. You cannot be too
careful by day. Remember that the dreams of a night are largely, if not completely,
influenced by waking thoughts. If you are strong enough to bear it, we should advise the
cold tub of a morning. Live well but not excitingly, do not smoke, take no stimulant of
any sort. Keep the bowels regular. An occasional Brandreth's or Cockle's pill would do
this, but trust more to diet and exercise. Don't imagine you are ill, but put your
confidence in a higher power ..."
- Boy's Own Paper, correspondence column
So it was that I pondered a holiday in "friendly old Amsterdam", as Terrance
Dicks put it, where preparations of the cannabis sativa plant are as legal as sherbet
Cannabis - marijuana, hashish, pot, weed, grass, ganja, bhang, kif, &c. Mild,
largely innocuous hallucinogen - but which, taken in large quantities, can produce visions
and sensations which at least hint at what an LSD trip must be like. One may not
"touch the hand of God" but one might possibly see traces of His footsteps ...
I had, in fact, already tried the stuff before I went to Holland, at a friend's house
in Nottingham. He was in the habit of cutting up balls of resinous hash, but he knew
nothing really about it: the amounts were so ridiculously small that the only effect was
the rush of the hot smoke in the throat, a sensation which he thought was the action of
the drug itself ...
Well, I sensed there was more to it than that and so, after having read up on the
subject, I took a trip to the land of the civilised and tolerant Dutch. Overnight on the
ferry and the tour coach dropped us at about 3pm the next day at Dam Square, in the very
centre of the city. Our guide/driver warned us about the young people clustered on the
circular steps around the obelisk :
"Most of them are drug pushers. Avoid them, OK?"
Sure enough, almost as soon as I had stepped off the coach a young Dutchman approached
me and began talking in the vernacular. I smiled mechanically and brushed past - I had no
business with him. My destination was Damstraat, a longish, narrow street off the Square
A milling, thronging timewarp: I had anticipated the groups of 45+ year-old Americans
with greying beards and ponytails, but I had no idea there would be quite so many
modern-day freaks as well, shambling around proudly displaying their beads and bandannas
... Strange long rolled cigarettes were everywhere. Exotic "Headshops" offered
windows full of paraphernalia and accessories: hookahs, pipes, king-size papers
("Reefer Rollers"), badges, pendants, packets of seeds, thick books on how to
grow your own, Jim Morrison postcards, Purple Haze T-shirts, Present From Amsterdam
T-shirts, T-shirts based around a well-known sports logo ("Adidhash Gives You
Speed!"), cartoon T-shirts ("Gee, how friendly everyone is here!" murmurs a
bemused US tourist surrounded by a crowd of giggling, blissed-out heads), knives for
cutting up hash, Rastafarian colours, stickers, earrings, Double Your Potency Powder
Packets, yin-yang symbols, Eye of Horus brooches, rings, mandalas, buddhas, masks,
joss-sticks, ceramic skulls, Red Indian peace pipes, paisley, CND plus doves in dayglo
colours, hubble bubble pipes, skeletons, enamelled equivalents of snuff-boxes, laser
hologram effect crystal mobiles, crystal balls, and everywhere - over all - the
distinctive green seven-leafed serrated plant symbol of "pot".
"If you are additcted to any bad habits which you have not told us about, give
them up as you value your life and reason. Then go in for a course of morning tubbing with
two or three handfuls of sea-salt mixed in the water overnight ..."
Here, I felt, I could have my "oceanic experience". I felt at home here, even
if my boater, black velvet jacket, green corduroy trousers and green silk waistcoat did
seem a bit staid. Clutching my dog-eared copy of "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid
Test", I ventured in search of coffee-shops. The Mellow Yellow, the Goa, the Exstase
... the Paradiso! That looked friendly. In the window an English sign proudly read :
"The Best!" (Every coffee shop in Amsterdam has "The Best!" in the
Inside was a brown, smoky darkness, Rasta colours, and a few heads lolling around in a
haze. A coloured moutstachiod guy glanced up at me from the counter and drawled something
ME - (nervous) You speak English?
GUY - Yes. Can I help you?
ME - Yes - er - do you - er - that is - er - could I have a - er - coffee?
GUY - Sure. (Yawns) Want some hash as well?
ME - Oh, wow ... er - why not?
Moments later I was presented with a delicious cup of black coffee with a little jug of
milk and two sugar-cubes. Also a small cardboard 'menu' offering 'Afghan', 'Dutch',
'Lebanese', 'Moroccan', 'Columbian', etc. Four grammes for 25 guilders each.
Off the slightly nervous and embarrassed cuff I chose and ordered Columbian, since I
understood that country had been in the news recently. I got more or less what I had
expected - a little sealable polythene bag stuffed with dark green/brown stiff but bendy
vegetation. I clumsily rolled a joint there and then in the Paradiso with my coffee, but
it had little effect ...
* * * *
That night in my hotel room ("Do Not Disturb") I smoked the rest of my
purchase, four decent-sized tokes one after the other. And no effect. Shit! What a ripoff!
What a freaking ripoff - okay, I knew it was as harmless as alcohol, more so even, but all
the same ... I had blown the equivalent of nearly a tenner and had nothing to show for it
except a very sore throat, burned by that blasted hot smoke.
I collapsed on the bed, feeling pretty browned off at the whole business. What the hell
was I doing here, puffing away at some disgusting hot shit which was having absolutely no
On the wall, opposite my bed, illuminated in the darkness by the bedside lamp, was a
painting, a reproduction of a Van Gogh. A clump of writhing, swirling olive-coloured trees
in a sunlit garden somewhere. Later I learned that this painting was called simply 'Three
Trees', painted in 1890, but at the time I hadn't seen it before, just knew it was a Van
Writhing, swirling olive-coloured trees ...
Oh my God, they were writhing, were swirling, were actually moving! And the painted
ground of that earthy sunlit garden was - three-dimensional! Absolutely three-dimensional.
I could see into it!! And it was shifting, moving, before my eyes; yet not in any blurred
or swimmy sense but maddenlingly, frustratingly solid!
And then - I saw the pictures in the picture. You know how it is, you look at
something, a cloud in the sky say, and suddenly it seems to form - a face; or a cat; or
whatever, simple optical imagination, half deliberate.
Well it was like that now, but unbelievably fast, almost instantaneous, and real and
moving. Wherever I looked at that painting I immediately saw faces emerging from the
near-abstract patterns. The illusion was so strong that I felt that I knew Van Gogh had
deliberately painted them in like that. He must have done!
One of the thick, swirling clumps of tree had become a jolly green giant, like a stumpy
living tree-trunk, topped with a grinning, merry, laughing face, batting out with a
snaking arm at a winged angel that was flying out of the sky towards its head. And both,
giant and angel, were moving, swatting and hovering respectively ...
Both were so good-natured. I couldn't help it, I began to laugh. That arboreal giant:
he was laughing, eyes creasing up, mouth spreading, spreading as I watched into the
broadest, blackest, sharpest, crescentest smile you ever saw!
I was laughing in sympathy on the bed, shaking in helpless, silent giggles. I had never
- never - seen anything so unutterably funny in my life: how ridiculous, yet how - how
Oh boy! Wonderful! I began to subside in long happy breaths. And then I looked again at
the Van Gogh. I could still (just) make out the smiling trunk-giant, but what I really saw
was a spindly demon with a huge head, a head that split open like a sick melon in a
yawning hole fringed with curving fangs.
Not too bad - but then I saw demon after demon, monster after monster, all smaller,
marching across the painting towards me, fanged, slant-eyed, every twirl was a cackling
gibbering demon reaching out - God, my imagination was simply flying -
Real panic. Silent, but real. I looked at my hand clenched on the blanket (it took an
effort to tear my gaze away from the painting). I was trembling and sweating, breathing
hard, my breath whistling harshly in my ears.
I looked again after I had clamed down. (Shit! I was thinking. This is an actual
The painting - well, I could see everything, but fascination had replaced fear now. Now
the trees, the whole clump, was a dog, with a shining, black triangular nose, and very
white teeth, strange but not ... that unfriendly.
The green ground swelled. I turned my eyes away, and each time I looked back it was ...
bigger, swelling, more solid and 3-D. I saw a green seagull, the bottom half missing,
hollow. (The green ground.) I tilted my head and looked again: a green, hollow seagull,
but in a different way!
My eyes were acting weird, but by this time my brain had gotten used to the shock and
was functioning pretty calmly and clearly. (Though I had very little conception of time, a
wholly theoretical concept.)
Jesus, I must have looked at that damn picture until well into the early morning, never
bored for an instant, utterly enraptured. I recreated the giant, the angel, the imps &
demons, the dog, the gull, over and over. No panic, just fascination, somehow both
absorbed and detached, at what my perceptions were doing.
Gradually, very gradually, I became aware that things were fading. An infinitely slow
process, but eventually the painting was just a painting again - good old Van Gogh.
Before long I was in a deep sleep.
* * * *
An extraordinary experience. Thinking about it the next day, it was the sheer speed of
the eye/brain/imagination link that struck me most forcibly. As I say, when you look at a
painting or whatever, it's not too difficult to make your imagination "see
faces" or the like. But this - wherever I looked, I could see something
instantaneously, seemingly with no pause for thought. And the illusions were genuinely
uncanny. They seemed so ... so obvious, and so real.
It wasnt't a "pleasant" experience, no way. But I wasn't too intimidated. I
reasoned that a lot of the panic I had experienced was due to plain surprise: I had simply
not expected anything so dramatic and unusual to happen when I took marijuana, even though
I had deliberately taken a large amount in one go. Also, there was the fact that I had
been looking at a painting by a deeply disturbed and unhappy man. Might not something of
his mental darkness and despair have, through his painting, affected me, however slightly?
I remember thinking precisely as I looked at that reproduction while stoned: "Van
Gogh was mad - he saw hell when he looked at Nature - and he painted it in - he really did
paint devils and demons - maybe unconsciously, but real pictures within the larger picture
Well obviously I think now that that's a bit too literal, but a disturbing quality was
in that picture even viewed when not high, and I think it's quite possible that my
experience was determined accordingly. I remember the previous day when I had visited the
Vincent Van Gogh Museum, feeling an edge of depression in the air, and unhappiness mingled
with the visitors' awe and admiration. Because the paintings ... well, they were
ravishingly beautiful, were Beauty, no doubt about it ... but ... they were sick as well,
that Irises with long narrow leaves shooting up out of the pot like frozen lightning,
green claws ... and I think the crowds picked that up, which mixed their amazement with
something profoundly upsetting.
Next night I would look at something more simply pretty.
"We are sorry for you. Give up such habits or order your coffin. That is plain
speaking. But you need it."
A glorious sunny day. The Cafe Exstase supplied me with 4g of Afghan hash resin, a
brown black bendy rectangle (like all hash containing a higher concentration of the active
principle tetrahydrocannabinol, THC, than mere grass) which necessitated the purchase of a
suitable pipe from one of the Headshops. The Old Man turned out to me the best of them,
with the friendliest paper carrier bags, not unlike those Forbidden Planet used to stock
before that shop richified itself.
Some of the pipes on display behind glass cabinets were wooden, some painted, some
blue-enamelled. Some had water-chambers to cool the smoke. Most were not particularly
large, although some were full-blown hookahs or complex arrangements of glass tubes tinted
My choice was long, golden, bulbous (an air chamber) with a small wooden bowl and
grills to hold the chopped-up pieces of resin.
(It might be worth adding at this point that one does not have to smoke this stuff if
the idea of smoking anything seems dangerous and distasteful. Cannabis can be swallowed or
drunk as an herbal infusion ("tea") if so desired.)
* * * *
That still warm evening I demolished the remains of yesterday's Columbian weed and all
of the sweeter Afghan.
My bedside lamp was trained on a single postcard held in my hand. Jan van Huysam's
'Flowers and Fruit', a very mystic painting. A riotous floral still-life, a huge spraying
crammed mass of flowers, all different sorts, bursting exuberantly out of an orange glazed
pot. Leaves, tendrils, shoots, buts, spilling down onto a brown-marble table top.
Over-ripe clusters of fruit, on the point of going rotten.
The effect was instantaneous.
The sense of movement was gone, the impression of 3-D less. In its place - intensified
colour, each individual flower glowing like a stained-glass, bunches of red grapes
transformed into shining hunks of amethyst brain-cluster lying among the scattered fruit,
bobbly and crimson. Beautiful.
The imagination whirred fast: a clump, a spray of blue forget-me-nots were a countless
crowd of giggling littler bearded faces.
Vague leafy shapes came together to form a Cavalier's head, scowling beneath his brown
When I turned the postcard on its side the edge of the brown marbled table-top became a
tree in a black, damp, misty forest - and straight away I could feel part of my brain
igniting in an involunatary attempt to make up stories, things to happen in that dark wood
I resisted this and experimented instead with closing my eyes -
Vague fizzy green ovaloids moving slowly and silently out from a central point against
a black background (imagine the opening of Pertwee II and you'll know what I mean).
"Let's have something different," I thought dizzily and straight away -
A kind of range-finder's submarine-periscope grid was etched out against the darkness
in pale rainbow-coloured fire (imaging the opening of S&S and you'll know what I
* * * *
I opened my eyes again. I could focus. It was as if my eyes had increased their power
of magnification a hundredfold. The tiniest, the most minute detail on the postcard was
crystal-clear and razor-sharp. A greenish-white fibrous tendril of painted plant: it
wasn't that it looked bigger, as under a magnifying glass - rather it was as if my eye
could see down to it it clearer, perceive every micro-millimetre of its shape and
curvature, like a ribbon.
My sight went wild, bouncing back and forth across the picture like a ping-pong ball,
the cumulative effect was like being able to perceive every detail close-up in a flash: I
thought of a section and almost before my thought had been completed there it was in front
of me. Exhilaration began to creep in at what my sight could do. Trembling I followed a
bunch of lettuce leaves past creamy, blobby peaches, down below the table, green crinkly
whiplines that blew and flapped wetly in a shivering windy darkness ...
I put on my Walkman and played some music, and felt I could detect rythms in the lower
string parts that I hadn't noticed or heard before. A curious thought came into my head, a
sense of gratitude that it was so lo-fi. The distortion acted as a kind of lifeline back
to the real world; I had the feeling that a perfect recording (on CD say) would have been
too much like pure sound and would have swept me away into panic, without the sense that
it was coming from a machine ...
In the middle of the flowers were three pink-and-white roses, melting and flaring. And
somehow the supernova of the roses stretched until it touched and blended into the yellow
oblong of my bedside lamp. 'Parsifal' soared and floaters, dead cells, floated across my
wet eyeball - only they were coming streaming down just one beam of glowing yellow light,
and forming strange symbols like transparent Chinese writing. By an effort of will that
seemed both unthinking and tremendous at the same time I made the symbols flip out into
straight lines, lots of little translucent verticals spaced at regular intervals moving
down that light-beam. I saw one of them forma a tiny English word "love" - with
incredible directness, a tiny tiny little word moulded out of clear jelly but
unmistakeable - through no conscious thought or effort of mine. Then all I remember is
following this light-beam until it disappeared in the glaring centre of the lamp.
* * * *
I was aware that the music had finished, and I breathed in, the first time I had
consciously taken a breath, it seemed, for about ten minutes (a moment of fright, there).
I was back in room, giddy but otherwise in one piece, sober, down. I fell asleep and
didn't dream. Next day I had a headache and felt a bit nauseous, but it was kittens
compared to a bad alcohol hangover.
"For the thrown stone there is no more evil in falling than there is good in
- Marcus Aurelius, 'Meditations' Book IX.
"How barbarous, to deny men the privilege of pursuing what they imagine to be
their proper concerns and interests!"
- Book VI.
I tried again the next evening but with little effect - probably because I kept
glancing at a number of different postcards repeatedly instead of concentrating on just
one. Nevertheless -
- I stared at the collarbone of a skull-and-shoulders painting by Van Gogh and it ...
detached itself from the skeleton, hung for a split-second with shining intensity on its
own in a blackness ...
- The dress of Vermeer's milk-pouring maid-servant shone a brilliant blue, and I could
see every last minute fleck and dint of detail on the wall, her starched white wimple and
her beige, plasticine forehead ...
- But all only for a brief moment, nothing more. I had high hopes of Odilon Redon's
madonna with a halo: and, yes, I saw a still pond of deep water, hidden by a circle of
black cliffs. The water is a fiery, electric blue, in which golden sparks dance slowly.
The sky is the same deep blue shade as the pond, repeatedly overlapped by a silent
shimmering of raspberry-silver storm-clouds. Up against a flickering lime-green, white,
and pale powder-turquoise halo, a pale and instense flickering backdrop to the dark hooded
The sky somehow flips into negative, rich blue puffy clouds now, against a pale
metallic-red sky. The glory now pouring, raining down upon the cowled figure is sidden an
glaring and brittle - a lucent red tide, frosted with silber ice-patterns, like on a
- As I say, I saw all this, but felt totally unimpressed, the reason being, I think,
that Redon's painting is from the beginning too contrived in precisely that direction. By
setting out to be overly weird and otherworldly the final effect seemed dull, stodgy,
lacking the startling spontenaity of the Van Goghs or the Van Huysam. (& of course one
feels the same normally; it's just that marijuana heightens the impressions and the
differences as described ...)
* * * *
Strangely enough, in each and every case, what I saw was less important than the fact
that I was seeing it. In other words, I experienced no true hallucination because I was
always more than half-aware that what I was seeing was unreal, an optical or mental
illusion, albeit one of an unprecedented vividness and power. In this sense it was all
rather uninvolving. By contrast, a true hallucinogen like lysergic acid, psilocybin or
mescalin appears to alter one's whole conception of 'reality' itself - to the extent, at
times, of inducing the Beatific Vision.
Certainly, despite words forming out of floaters, I never remotely felt on the brink of
any revelation or ultimate answer la Huxley soaring on mescalin. Indeed I probably
came closer to that listening to Wagner at home with a bottle of wine as my only stimulant
But if marijuana is not a drug that touches on the spiritual in the way that LSD
apparently can do, this is no ground for beliuttlement. What remains is an experience so
unusual and so interesting that it does one good. I really do feel improved after taking
it! Without question my aesthetic appreciation of both art and nature feels renewed and
refreshed. Walking down a country lane is no longer the same. And, perhaps partly as a
result of this, I have the feeling myself of being less high-strung, less likely to feel
needless anxiety over trivial matters. Dare I say it puts things in their proper
After all, when one now perceives the movement of air and light, the relationship
between form and colour and function in a wholly new way, how can one be concerned about
such hugely irrelevant, such mastodonically unimportant matters as The Spirit of Wealth
Creation, Cost Effectiveness, and Marketing Strategies - about Whther You Get There Before
Your Competitors Do, like that snotty brat in those dreadful ads who shoots bolts of blue
light from his fingertips:
"Aye, we're doing good, but we're no' doing good ENOUGH!!! What this company needs
is a bit of WHOOOSH!!!"
Wow! Whoosh! Instead of hiring all those snotty whizzkids, why don't they all just
troop off to jolly old Amsterdam and get all the whoosh in the world, complete with bolts
of blue light if they're lucky ...?
Psychomimetics clear away the cobwebs, refortifying the mind against the assaults of
cant and blather, the eternal arsenal of the cheap thugs, pimps and grotesques who dare to
tell us what to do and how to live; shitsuckers, lice, grubs and bugs, materialist
blackbeetles in positions of power who foul the spirit of Art with their masturbations
before the idol of the Golden Calf, and who must be stamped on hard if humankind is to
attain the ultimate goal of all yearning:- the surging, roaring ocean of love, the Flux,
the Eternal Present in which all those of the Herren-Moral must joyfully plunge to be
swallowed up - in the Prelude to the great reformation.
* * * *
Did you know that David Dimbelby was one of those who signed the notorious 1967 'Times'
advertisement calling for the legalisation of cannabis in the UK? There - if a sensible
blow-wave BBC chap like David is for it, it can't be bad, can it?
Or are all the BBC chaps nowadays supposed to be pinkos? I can't remember.
* * * *
"You just go on, lad, trusting to Heaven and praying. What you complain of is
to some extent natural. But study, as you are doing, to be pure in mind. Remember this -
one's dreams are too often but the reflection of our waking thoughts!"
- Boy's Own Paper, correspondence column
A Manly Word to Young Men
by Rev. Dr Guyler, Boys' Own Paper, 1891
"I want to say a few kind words to young men who are going into the battle of life.
You cannot swing through life in a hammock or escape fighting, if you try, and you cannot
hire a substitute. Success or failure - one or the other - is inevitable. Every one of you
has to contend with certain weaknesses and besetting sins. You cannot avoid that old and
never ending contention which Paul so vividly describes, 'between the law of God and the
law of sin in your members'.
"As if these internal foes were not enough, you are surrounded with forces that
are hostile to both happiness and holiness. Evil fashions and customs must be encountered,
and many a pathway is mined underneath with explosives that are deadly as dynamite. In
these times there is no little malaria of Scepticism in the air. A certain glorious old
field-marshal of the Lord condensed it into one line when he wrote to a young man, 'Fight
the good fight of faith!' ... To stand the sneers of scoffers ... to conquer fleshly
appetites, to hold an unruly temper under control, to keep base passions subdued, and to
direct all your plans and purpose straight towards the highest mark, requires a power
above your own. Christ's mastery of you will give you self-mastery - yes, and mastery over
the powers of darkness and of hell. Faith will fire the last shot, and when the battle of
life ends, you will stand among the crowned conquerors in glory."
Some Good Advice to Growing Lads
by Dr Gordon Stables, Boys' Own Paper, 1891
"... And now for my advice about NERVOUSNESS ... The class of boys who consult the
Editor on this trouble is unfortunately a very large one, and I am sorry to say they as
often as not have themselves to blame for a state of misery and wretchedness which is
painful even to think of. Now no cure can be attempted until purity of mind, thoughts and
habits is secured. Then, by the blessing of a Supreme and Forgiving Power, the following
plan may be adopted. Have the cold bath and big sponge all ready the night before, then
before getting out of bed go in for massage ... Keep good company. Abstain from all
thoughts of evil. If you guard your thoughts, half the battle is won."
I've found you out! You were prevaricating in 107 - I've
discovered the REAL reason why your so-called "fanzine" is called 'Five Hundred
Eyes' - I quote from my trusty copy of Doctor Who Monthly :
"Polo tells Barbara of the Cave of Five Hundred Eyes ...
Polo : On the Walls are carved the faces of two hundred and fifty evil men who lived
there. They were called the Hashashins.
Susan : Hashashins?
Polo : They were so named because they used a drug called Hashish."
The effects of this drug are also described in luxuriously attractive detail :
"Promising paradise, he gave his followers
A potent draught and whilst they slept
Transported them to a vale where streams
Of milk and honey flowed
Here were gardens and flowers of every hue
And essence. Here too
Golden pavilions outshone the sun
And even the start of heaven envied
The bejewelled interiors strewn
With incomparable silks, tapestries
And treasures. Hand-maidens, dulcet voices
Soft of face, attended them, and thus bemused
Did they dwell in this man-made paradise ..."
No wonder Ian Levy writes for you! I point my finger at you, David so-called 'Gibbs'
and scream "J'accuse"! Your evil fanzine is named Five Hundred Eyes to promote
the use of illegal drugs! You are trying to drag innocent young Doctor Who fans down into
a squalid, sordid world of debauchery and crime!
I'll have the law on you, pal!
Yours with strawberry jam,
Issue five contents
Five Hundred Eyes index