It’s a funny word, ‘spiked’. In the context of barbed wire, blackberry bushes or hockey boots it makes perfect sense. It is what it sounds like. But in the context of alcohol, the word always strikes me as incongruous. It sounds – well, kinda cheeky, conjuring up images of colourful punch bowls or brandy-spiked gluwein at a Christmas fair.
The reality couldn't be further removed. Being spiked in a bar doesn’t feel like a blackberry bush. Nor does it feel like Christmas or fruit punch. It feels like the Jelly Legs jinx, crossed with the Confundus curse. Getting ‘spiked’ in my first year of uni (I’ve just looked it up: the word is Middle English or Dutch, and is related to spoke. No mention of booze, however) was a surreal experience, both physically and mentally. Not that I was mentally present for much of it, of course: just five or 10 minutes, before the blackout descended and after the drug kicked in.
They weren’t interesting, funny, or attractive – in fact they were significantly, suspiciously older – but they were paying, and drinking at least part of the drink with them was the name of the game.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It all started with what, in hindsight, looks like monumental stupidity: two blatantly non-student blokes in long dark overcoats offering to buy us drinks in a club. My friend Sarah and I couldn’t be arsed to queue with them, so we waited at the table we’d shotgunned. They weren’t interesting, funny, or attractive – in fact they were significantly, suspiciously older – but they were paying, and drinking at least part of the drink with them was the name of the game.
We didn’t see them buy the vodka oranges. It was too busy, and we were too preoccupied with planning our exit strategy once our drinks had arrived to bother picking them out in the crowd. Harry was upstairs, Jen was on her way over, Dan was just in the queue. We’d play the loo card and join them as soon as we could. “Do you really think they’ve just come from their old uni mate's funeral?” I remember asking, gesturing toward the packed bar. “Bit weird, isn’t it, to go out out after that?”
“Ha, definitely not. They’re just chancers,” Sarah smirked. “Just a couple of sips with them. Then we’ll go.”
Beyond a vague, hazy memory of my head dropping and my legs buckling, I don’t really remember much else.
Thing is, it only takes a couple of sips, if it’s a drug – which we’re fairly sure it was, as we knew pretty well how a vodka orange should taste by that point. Adding more alcohol than someone has asked for also counts as spiking, FYI, but that is more discernible than a tasteless, odourless substance. They looked like vodka orange. They smelt like vodka orange. We had the requisite few sips, chatted about their dead mate, and made our excuses. Beyond that, and a vague, hazy memory of my head dropping and my legs buckling, I don’t really remember much else.
We don’t know what drug they used – there’s a whole gamut of possible options, according to the NHS website – but we know it was quick to take effect, and terrifyingly powerful. Most date rape drugs work within 15-30 minutes, and symptoms can last for several hours. In this, I was extraordinary fortunate. Wandering woozily upstairs after we’d made our excuses, I found Harry just before my legs gave out. And while I could barely speak, as it was 10pm he guessed this was from more than vodka oranges. He asked me where Sarah was; I couldn’t answer. He put me over his shoulder and, texting Dan telling him to find Sarah ASAP, carried me straight back to halls.
– Drink spiking is illegal and can result in a maximum of 10 years in prison for anyone who is found guilty (without a subsequent assault)
– If you think you've been spiked, someone you trust should take you to the nearest A&E department
– Most drugs leave the body within 72 hours, so it's important to get tested as soon as possible
Sarah woke up the next day: in her bed, but with no clothes, and no memory of how she’d got there. After comprehensive tests – negative, thank God – we decided to assume the best case scenario, because we couldn’t bear to think of the worst. She made it back on her own, undressed, didn’t have the wherewithal to put on pyjamas, and slumped into bed, we said. Just forget that it happened, we said.
In hindsight, now, we wish we had gone straight to the police – or at least to the university authorities and nightclub management. We wished we'd kicked off and made a racket, rather than burying our heads in the sand. Although, sure, they might have dismissed our testimony out of hand – less likely in today's current #MeToo climate, thankfully – it would have been worth it to potentially safeguard others against future incidents. I wish we had, but we didn't. I guess it was a classic case of a woman feeling compromised by the fact she was drinking, and had very little memory of what had happened. The same old story that plays out in endless variants across the world, every single day.
Still, at the back of our minds it remained, a sobering reminder of how many threats and risks we still have to navigate, simply to exist as women in this world. And to always go right up to the bar with a stranger if they offer to buy you a drink.
Image: Michael Discenza via Unsplash
