Does anyone actually like MDMA?

From watching your mates shove grimy keys of off-white powder up their nose to hearing people buzz off how many bombs they’ve made for a big night, the world of Britain’s favourite party drug is truly grim.

Just like a shell suit bought from that slightly edgy Oxfam in town, bombs and keys have become the latest accessory of the conformist sheeple.

Clutching bottles of water, bum bags affixed, these sheltered little darlings from the home counties now find themselves sneaking off to the powder room in a desperate attempt to fit in with their cooler mates from North London and Leeds.

“big night”

They may wax lyrical about their latest mad one, but watching them try and rub their clammy, sweaty body on anyone around them is as cringe as it is repulsive.

They’ll talk about how mandy is a spiritual, life-changing experience that makes you feel at ease with the world, but they’ll fail to mention the time they spent 12 hours crying on the sofa during their first comedown.

People that love MD rarely look like they’re having a good time. With their engorged eyes rolled back in their skulls and their jaws working overtime, it’s ironic that something called the love drug makes people look that fucking ugly.

MDMA is the drug of those desperately trying to prove to themselves and everyone around them that they’re capable of being a bit mental, they drop because above all else, they’re scared of being called boring.

But MD is boring.

No longer the preserve of techheads in Bristol or Leeds, MDMA has penetrated uni life so deeply that even freshers at disgustingly mainstream unis like Loughborough are looking to get their mandy on.

Bit aside from its mundanity, the stuff you’re shnozzing is probably no higher than 50 per cent actual drugs. Anything from Daz to sea salt can be chucked in a baggy and you’d be none the wiser.

Who knows what the fuck is in this?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been tempted to dabble with a key or two, but before I did I realised that unlike most of my peers, I’m more intelligent than to chuck what is presumably 90 per cent rat poison into my face and spend the next day crying for no reason at all.

Far be it from me to tell you what you do with your gums and nasal cavities, but when it all goes tits up and you start hysterically weeping the morning after a big night, you won’t get any sympathy here.