Tristram Saunders: DAY-TRIPPER

“You eat half, I’ll eat half,” Greg yells into my ear. I hesitate. He nods encouragingly.

My vegetarian cousin, Amelia, has an exception to her no-dead-animals rule: if you’re travelling and are offered some of the local thing, don’t let your principles get in the way of good manners. I’ve always admired the notion, but my carnivorous lifestyle means it’s never really applied to me before. Until now.

I am a guest in a strange new place, and my host is urging me to try the local thing. Admittedly, the place is Dundee, and the proffered titbit is a small white pill, but the principle still holds. I was brought up to be polite, I think. I gulp it down.

Greg leads me across the dance-floor, past the flashing lights and out into the smoking area. “Ach, it’s hot in there. Couldn’t hear myself speak.” Greg, a playwright and a native Dundonian, has lured me away from St Andrews for the evening, promising a taste of the big city.

“You’ll start coming up in about an hour or so. But before you do…” Greg begins to list everything that can or will happen. I may feel lightheaded. I may begin to drool, a little. Alternatively, I may feel very dehydrated. I could lose control of my facial muscles and begin gurning horribly. My legs will shake: this is normal. Being a considerate soul, Greg waited until after I’d eaten the pill before unfurling this litany of nightmares. I smile weakly.

The hours tick by, and nothing happens. Eventually the club closes, and we stumble out into the night. Greg is a little disappointed at being ripped off, and I try to hide my relief. As we walk back through the mizzle, Greg tells me about his flat. He’s sharing with a philosophy student, who’s away for the night, and living above his landlord, Jeff.

Jeff, as I will later discover, is a tall, rangy man. A card-carrying communist, aged somewhere between forty and the grave, he sings in a popular Bee Gees tribute band. He is also, incidentally, Greg’s dealer.

“Be careful on the stairs – I don’t want to wake Jeff. He’s been feeling a bit down today; he had to drop off his snake at the vet’s.” As it happens, we don’t need to be quiet on the stairs. We never make it as far as the stairs. The door is locked.

The philosopher will not be back for four hours. We’re stuck. On cue, the rain turns into a full-blown deluge. We are still standing there, almost-but-not-quite sheltered by the doorframe, when Greg’s face brightens. “Clark’s!” he announces. I blink. “Clark’s!” he repeats, and sets off without further explanation. I jog along behind, turn a corner, and see a vast glowing sign: CLARK’S 24-HOUR BAKERY. Nirvana.

I order the largest thing on the menu. After a short wait amidst the other sodden, dead-eyed customers, we are flung back into the rain clutching little poly-something cartons. Hunched in a strangers’ doorway, as the sky begins to lighten, I open the flap. A billow of grease and steam hits my face. I feel light-headed. I am drooling a little. “What is this?” I ask.

“Polony. This one’s red pudding, and that –” he points, proudly, “– that, my dear, is Lorne.” Tearing off a piece, I place the hot grey square on my tongue and feel it slowly dissolve. A tide of universal love washes over me. My legs quiver. I am warm. I am thirsty. I am delirious with joy. Is it the pill? “Don’t be daft. It’s Clark’s.” I feel myself begin gurning like a helpless fool. I stare at him wide-eyed, and ask how long this Lorne-high will last. “A lifetime, mate. A lifetime.”