I'm sure many of us have a number of stories we could tell of wild times in our youth when the most outlandish of actions seemed perfectly reasonable or at the very least possessed of a certain kudos that in today's parlance would be known as cool. The following is an account of a trip made to London in 1982.Two friends of mine called Julian Phillips and Alan Powell accompanied me on a weekend visit to some friends " up the smoke " or London as it's more commonly known. They lived near The World's End pub in Chelsea. The visit was to last two nights wherein we would party as only people in their early twenties could.So on one bright Friday summer morning we left Treorchy station for the great metropolis. We would make a train connection at Cardiff which would take us to Paddington and from there to Sloan Square and the Kings Road in Chelsea. The distance from Sloan Square to the Worlds End pub is about a mile.Everything seemed straightforward until it became apparent that one of my companions had taken it upon himself to go on a magic mushroom hunt. He produced a bag of the hallucinogenic inducing fungus and handed it around as if it were something we could confidently build our futures upon. Being already fortified by several large whiskeys I went against my better judgement and swallowed a handful and washed the lot down with a generous slurp of Scotland's finest.I had no idea what the combination of the two intoxicating substances would produce but it wasn't long before I found out. Slowly but surely I became aware of a change in the atmosphere in the Pullman compartment in which we were traveling. There was a cosiness about the place that I hadn't noticed before. The rattle of the tracks seemed to be actually singing to me and most startling of all was the pattern on the seating in the compartment. They were little stripes of colour that were actually beginning to dance in front of my eyes. This was swiftly followed by a sensation that made my bottom lip feel like kneaded rubber and I was convinced that my arms and legs were at least nine foot long apiece. I remember thinking that I've had enough now. But this was just the start. Powell and Phillips suddenly took it upon themselves to become survey takers and they disappeared into the train to ask other passengers what seemed to them pertinent questions about rail travel. At this point I had an almost overwhelming need to laugh and I just knew that if I looked at either of them in the eye I'd be reduced to hysterical jollity. This happened to them as well and we spent the rest of the journey studiously looking at anything but each other desperately stifling laughter.The trip ( no pun intended ) from Paddington to Sloan Square was the longest 20 minutes of my life - or so it seemed. We couldn't look at each other or anyone else without wanting to burst into maniacal laughter. However, we reached the top of The Kings Road Chelsea and proceeded along the highway towards the Worlds End public house at the other end of the street - which as I stated was about a mile away.Normally I could cover this distance in about twenty minutes. But not tonight. Trying to walk on nine foot legs and having every red double decker bus smile at me was quite disconcerting. That, coupled with Julian talking to lamp posts an Alan disappearing up every side street meant it took us the better part of ninety minutes to get as far as the pub.We did get there though and met our friends over several pints of lager which tasted like nectar. Things seemed to have calmed down a bit in my mind and I had stopped laughing although the large clock in the bar kept winking at me and there was the Viking who was standing at the end of the bar. But apart from that I felt I was returning to normal. I wish I could have said the same for Jules and Alan. Possessed of their new found god like abilities they had decided to take poppers and much more alcohol as we all did. At around 23:30 that night we left the pub in what could only be described as an advanced state of inebriation. Somehow I managed to lose the rest of the people I was with and could not for the likes of me remember where I was supposed to sleep that night. I had a vague idea of where our friends house was but not the exact location. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to me to knock on the doors of every house I thought was likely to be where I should be. As you can imagine the residents were not too pleased particularly as I knocked the doors on at least two streets twice in the space of two hours. I finally gave up at 03:00 ish and decided that Id go for a walk by the Thames until it was daylight.Whilst doing this I noticed some very plush houses indeed and decided to investigate their premises to pass the time as much as anything else. At around four oclock now desperately tired I was just about to lie down on the lawn of one of the houses when someone called me. It was a police officer on the beat. I thought Oh good! Hes going to arrest me for trespass and put me in a nice cosy cell where I can sleep for years. As fate would have it he was from Wales and refused to arrest me but did tell me that a caf would be opening soon not far from where we were. He suggested I went there and drank some coffee. So off I went and became lost again.It was then I had a stroke of genius. I knew I needed to get some sleep pretty fast and I knew I couldnt afford a hotel especially in Chelsea. So what was I to do? It then occurred to me to travel to Portsmouth on the south coast. This was not as mad as it first seems. I was a student in Portsmouth in the late seventies and knew that a return ticket was relatively cheap. More to the point the train would be practically empty because it was so early and I could be assured some rest. I also knew that the train was checked at Portsmouth by rail staff before they allowed it to board a ferry for The Isle of Wight therefore I had a wake up call. So this is what I did. I haled a taxi and went to Waterloo station, bought a ticket, boarded the train, slept like a baby, was woken up at Portsmouth, bought breakfast and caught the next available train back to London and slept all the way back.Refreshed and sober I returned to The Worlds End pub and instantly remembered where my friends house was. When I got there I found out that I hadnt been missed until around midday because no one had woken up or recovered from the stupors theyd put themselves into the night before.The irony of all the previous nights fiasco was that I was as fresh as a daisy whilst my companions had continued partying into the early hours and were well and truly wrecked.It was fortunate really because that night partying continued once again and Alan and Jules insisted on taking the idiotic mix of mushrooms, poppers and booze. I stuck to beer.On the Sunday morning we had to make our way back to Wales. I was ok except that every time I shut my eyes I could see a chess board. Julian was shaking a bit but was rallying by the hour. Alan on the other hand was green. And I mean GREEEEEEN. Ive never seen anyone so ill who hadnt died soon after. He recovered though. It took a month or so but was OK.I for one as you can see will never forget that fateful trip to London in the Summer of 1982.