Too High, Too Far, Too Soon: Tales from a Dubious Past
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Too High, Too Far, Too Soon is the humorous, tragic and searingly honest memoir of a man who survived childhood tragedy, Catholic boarding school and chronic drug addiction.
Simon Mason graphically details his experience of teenage angst in a tatty seaside town before he ran away to London and then onwards to the crack-infested streets of LA. He recounts his numerous decadent adventures at Glastonbury Festival and the notoriety that came during his stint as personal chemist to the biggest bands of the '90s, before he himself descended into a helpless period of heroin addiction.
After several incidents of petty crime stemming from his drug problem, Simon launched numerous failed attempts to become a bona fide rock 'n' roll star and even more failed attempts to get clean, finally being ‘rescued’ by Banksy from a stolen camper van, covered in blood in the Spanish countryside.
Too High, Too Far, Too Soon is a rock 'n' roll memoir with a difference, written by a man who lived the life and attained the drug habits of the most extreme rock stars, yet whose attempts to break through to the big time always eluded him.
hash and cider first. I was saving Superman for Saturday night, after which, on Sunday, The Waterboys, the band I currently adored above all others, were playing. I was ready for that for sure. For the time being, however, there was work to do. Someone had to be in charge of assembling the tents and someone needed to take care of Dr Octopus. We eagerly unpacked the bong we’d brought with us, its combined parts comprising a three-gallon bell jar, a two-foot length of copper pipe, a huge roll of
the fucking Rolling Stones, mate. You’re not getting in one of our cabs in that state, now fuck off.’ ‘You’ll regret this one day, you ignorant twat …’ I threw up again before staggering out into the rain and stumbling home, singing the beer-mat song at the top of my voice. Club Tropicana Strange as it may seem to those of you still following this tale of woe, I’d actually managed to become employed during the summer of that particular year. If you think that seems nuts and somewhat
‘important’ music-biz people and befriended a member of the TV crew who had a room to rent in his London flat. We left the site on Tuesday and I moved back up to London. Drug dealer to the ‘stars’? Only for as long as it was going to take for me to become one, of course. How hard could it be? I also now thought acid-house music was actually not too bad at all providing you were whacked out of your mind on decent Ecstasy, which in London in 1990 was not exactly a difficult state to get into. In
rock of crack with the remnants of my breakfast. ‘Yeah … nice.’ The crack is rapidly demolished – there is no other way I know to behave with it – but I manage to save some heroin for later as I leave Terry to empty the bin and do whatever else his day will involve, which in reality means waiting for someone else like me to knock on his bedroom window. Thankfully I am allowed to exit via the front door, as his mum has yet to return with the shopping. Still a little unsure on my feet, I stumble
street when Jimmy finally turned up with my cash. I gave him the keys and a vague story about going to Spain for a while to ‘build a recording studio in the mountains near Granada. Pay the rent into my account every week on a Monday morning, please, Jim. Don’t let me down, man, I’ll be needing it to survive.’ As it turned out, for once I was right. He handed me �300 and I gave him the keys. He went inside, I took the bag I’d packed five hours earlier and my guitar and trotted off to the nearest