That was 17 years ago and I must have taken 400 tabs of Ecstasy since then. I’ve always been quietly anxious about its effects, but that hasn’t stopped me.

To learn that recent reports on its long-term effects suggest memory damage is — strangely — a relief. It gives me the excuse to believe that my drug abuse may have caused me no more harm than a few “senior moments”. In exchange I have a bank of happy memories, and many of my friends today are people with whom I’ve spent mad, magical weekends high in fields and clubs. Yes, much of our euphoria was created by chemicals, but some sincere friendships have resulted.

At university in Manchester in the early 1990s, we took one or two Es a weekend. Since then we have all done dozens of pills at parties and clubs in London, at summer pop festivals and on trips to Ibiza.

I’m now 35 with a fairly demanding job, so any drug use these days is relegated to special occasions. But I’ll still probably do an E this New Year’s Eve.

We all worried about the predictions of a generation of serotonin-depleted thirtysomethings plunging into irreversible depression. Parkinson’s, drained spinal fluid and everlasting paranoia were other fears. At times when I’ve felt depressed, I wondered if E was to blame. It’s true that my memory is hopeless — often at work I’ll get up to do something, walk halfway down the corridor and forget what it was. I leave home without my keys, phone or work security card, and continually fail to return friends’ calls and pay bills.

Yet I feel I have no illusions about the drug. It makes you feel great; but there are consequences. I’ve seen it do horrible things to people — friends who have taken too much in a night and been unable to do much more than vacantly smoke joints for days afterwards; acquaintances who have become dealers and ended up as raddled weekend ravers. A few have moved on to crack and heroin; two have died.

I’ve taken pills that have made me sick, left me gurning madly or made me chew my mouth raw. But all I really regret are the risks that I’ve taken driving home along motorways, high on pills. I suspect that those nights are the nearest I have come to ruining my, and other peoples’, lives. I’d like to believe that all things done in moderation are acceptable. The risk is not knowing what moderation is.

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