I NEVER partake and neither should you, but this must be what it feels like to take an unpredictable batch of the devil’s scallops.

The world feels like it is spinning in all sorts of directions, nice in one way, terrifying in others.

There are tight chests, flashes of red and white light, and noise – people are saying things, but you can’t hear. Why would anybody not be talking about football right now?

The uppers and downers of the last few weeks following this Arsenal team have been hard to navigate with a clear mind.

One minute, they are losing to Bournemouth and Manchester City, and we’re forced to watch the world’s worst man-meme mock-choking from an Arsenal bottle while he is goaded on by a group of grinning non-playable creeps.

The next, the Gunners are top of the league again and going to the Champions League final.

If you don’t feel disorientated, you’ve desensitised, a numb condition probably brought on by the pebbles which helped us through the Mustafi and Sokratis years.

Again, one moment Arsenal haven’t scored enough against a sick Fulham, the next maybe they have. These are bewildering times, but blink at all the shiny colours a few times and you’ll see the billon pounders at Chelsea losing every game. Spurs fans deliriously happy they might be able to squeeze a second 17th place in a row and Man United supporters delighting in Champions League qualification in a way they were always offended by when Arsene Wenger did the same.

Is this really all happening?

This mind-bending title run-in hits like accidentally becoming part of a clinical trial of psychedelic bath salts.

The highs are suspiciously high, the lows arrive without warning, and somewhere in the middle a man with a wardrobe of seven tight black sweaters and seven pairs of grey chinos is explaining that this is all “part of the process” while you nod along, pupils the size of frisbees. It’s euphoria, cut with the dust of dread and paranoia.

I picked up my phone 126 times in 90 minutes to check Man City’s score on Monday. Medical schools should study such rituals for a cure.

That sweaty fear sticks: what if there’s a duff result against West Ham or a mauling in the Champions League final – and yet the ride is more white knuckle than the craziest coaster at Alton Towers. Thrilling.

A buzz that’s hard to kick.