Dante Pascal - MEOKO Dance Agent - Episode Five
- Published on Wednesday, 29 January 2014 12:26
It tasted of salt. It was salt. I'd snorted salt. Salt was now trickling down the back of my throat like smashed-up crystallised sperm. Salt. It began to make its way into my blood stream, swimming through my veins, making its way towards my hollow heart as I stared at the damp in the corner of the kitchen. Salt. Salt. Fucking salt. Salt.
Pure salt sucked up through my left nostril, leaving remnants of salt on my sweaty upper lip. Tiny crumbs of salt clinging to the end of my nose like little bits of shit on a wet bear's arse after he's shat. Salt. Everywhere salt. Salt on my face, salt on my favourite mirror. Salt. Everywhere salt. Who's salt was it? Mine. Dante Pascal's salt. I'd snorted Dante Pascal's salt because I am Dante Pascal: dance agent: addict: penniless, salt-snorting twat.
I'd snorted salt by accident but it was the wake-up call I needed. A short, sharp sniff of salt and I was curled up on the floor, like a pre-born baby who’d just snorted some salt. The night-time Mediterranean wedding to Lisa was a world away now. I hardly knew her. I hardly knew the kids. Little Cody and John just thought I was a pissed-up old man who turned up at their house to demand access every few months, which is exactly what I was. I hardly knew myself. Lisa, Cody and John had abandoned me after I had mentally abandoned them, and I don’t fucking blame them. I was a rotter. I still am in a way, but not as bad as I was then, which was very bad. And very rotten. I was so, so basement. So, so down amongst the hair and dust. So, so salty. So, so so-so and yesterday. Who snorts salt with a clear head? Are they now and handy? Nope.
Snorting salt was my body and soul’s way of telling me that I’d fallen far enough. Far enough away from the album launches on top of the Empire State Building. Far enough away from the pally, shoulder-rubbing niceness of the Top of the Pops studios. Far enough away from the cocaine that had me at “hello”. Far enough away from the champagne success of my mid-period adulthood. Being a millionaire had exhausted me. Being a millionaire fulfilled me, used me and fulfilled me again before using me up and spitting me out after it’d had a good chew on my morals, scruples and marbles. “Who’s the king?” I used to scream at my staff after arriving on Monday mornings, Tuesday mornings, Wednesday mornings, Thursday mornings and Friday mornings.
“Who’s the fucking king?!”
“You are, boss!” They all shout.
You hear nothing like that when you’re on the floor with salt all over your chops. I can still taste the salt. Salt tastes like the opposite of vinegar, which is why you eat them together. The condiments complement one another. Etymologically speaking, the word condiment originates from a king’s attempt to curl his tongue around the word complement. As a toddler, Henry VIII tasted salt and vinegar for the first time and spluttered the word complement. However, toddlers don’t speak in full sentences like what we do; they talk in short, staccato bursts of language and don’t always get the pronunciation right. Little Henry VIII was only attempting the word, complement, when he said it. What Henry delivered was thinly pronounced as condiment. His courtiers, jesters and priests were all, even then, too scared to correct him so the word condiment was immediately written into the Oxford Dictionary for English words by order of the King. Henry VIII as a child is also responsible for the words, absquatulate, donnybrook, snool, gobbledygook and foul to be included in dictionaries the world over.
I’m no longer sniffing salt. I only sniffed it that once, and that was an accident. I was blind drunk, scrambling around the empty old house on the hunt. I can’t remember what I was hunting for but, in my haste, I knocked a big bag of salt over, spilling ice-white, crystal-powder salt all over the kitchen table. The lager in me altered my whole way of thinking and I did not see salt. Out popped the wallet in a moment of deluded weakness, shaky. Five pound note roll pipe out. With a nearby mirror I use the money and a Blockbuster card to arrange a small squad of lines in a row. One little private marched straight up my left nostril and bayonetted me to the ground in an act of war. SONIC BOOM. Salt. It was fucking salt. My face exploded in a cloud of salt as I sneezed quite a lot of the salt out of my nose. My eyes were streaming with tears as I began to cry. Where had it all gone wrong for Dante Pascal?
I said last week that my head was too big for a lifetime of living the way I did, and I think that judging by what you’ve read this week, I don’t need to spell any of it out to you.
After success came my way, I became consumed by excess. Try to replace excess with success after you initially achieve success because too much excess can cause distress. My success was/is obvious. My excess was the women, the drugs, the fast living and loose morals, the sackings, my divorce, multiple arrests, the hospitalisations of direct professional rivals, the pig baiting and the smoking. My distress was also the divorce, some of the multiple arrests and the salt.
That fucking salt.
Don’t get fucked on beer and then try to get fucked on salt. Salt is not cocaine. It’s not even MDMA. It’s salt.
I’m contractually obliged to write six of these articles so I’ll be back next Wednesday with the final Dante Pascal: Dance Agent. Hallelujah…
With great delight,