Wasted again

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I burned another incense stick but the smell of weed was overpowering. There were a couple of windows open, but I was sure that they only spread the problem down the backs of neighbouring houses. For some childish reason the whole thing felt naughty. Here we were, two middle-aged guys wrecked on booze, pills, and weed on a mild July night. Listening to music. Laughing. Talking about the old days. Passing the joints back and forth like we’d done a long, long time ago. I wasn’t mentally ill, and he wasn’t struggling with his past alcoholism. Neither of us had been through tough times. Not last night, anyhow.

The lights drew moths in through the windows, the music moved on, we sank more beers, smoked up a good fug, and I twirled on the old office chair at my desk talking rubbish over and over again about that one person whom I’d have preferred to his company right then. He was oblivious, rambling and starting to lose any coherent train of thought. I decided not to offer him any of my codeine and pregabalin. I’d taken some but, then, I am a professional. I watched him – eyes reddened, slurring his words, veering wildly from reminiscence to periods of semi-rage as we navigated our shared experiences. He took longer to roll the joints, got less involved in listening, and more in talking. His eyes seemed to have become smaller, like tiny red marbles, withdrawing into his face to escape the sensory overload that the cannabis and ethyl alcohol were laying down on his brain.

He over-ordered from the pizza menu and I rang the order in, mostly because I was the nearest we had to a public face. When the delivery guy turned up he was greeted with a cloud of blue smoke and a beaming smile faking innocence and trying desperately to get the money into his hand and explain, yes, I’d over tipped by a long way but to just take the fucking money and let me shut this front door for the love of God. Too much attention was already being garnered at the back of the house, what with the music and the stench, to have to fight a battle against the general public on two fronts.

He ate greedily, in the clichéd stoner way. I chomped through my shitty pizza only because I hadn’t eaten for almost 36 hours. It tasted of warm dough, fat, and battery acid. When he’d eaten two pizzas and some chips we sparked another joint up and sat back with full stomachs smoking into the night. Bottles and cans everywhere, music booming into the early hours down this quiet hillside. Two old friends. Wasted again.

Bye Bye Howard. Thanks.

“Most people are driven by greed, fear, envy, and other emotions that render objectivity impossible and open the door for significant mistakes.” – Howard Marks

 

Slate. Moroccan. Gold Seal. Red Seal. Today, the most famous purveyor of Hashish is dead, and with him the faded old world of the moral smuggler, the deadpan police interview, gentlemanly handshakes, and the ancient and righteous belief in doing the right thing no matter what the cost.

He was a modern day prophet – without religion even getting a look in – and, in my opinion, he was one of the very few who transcended the drudgery of life. See, Howard believed 100% in the use of a substance to render a subtly different perspective on the user. And he believed in freedom. Think about that right now, wherever you are and whatever you are doing. Tempting ideas, eh?

Cannabis was never one of the target drugs for us at the NHS. Workers would laugh off a regular cannabis user; we had bigger and more poppy-flavoured fish to fry. That was until the hashish market fell apart in the 90s when people began to realise you can grow the stuff here and simply sell it as is, as opposed to having to go through the whole process of growing acres of the stuff to turn into hashish. First rule of business – create a product the market wants.

The growers began to nurture new stronger strains of cannabis plants in the attics of Toxteth/Balby/your street. Yeah, man. No more trips across the ferry for anyone. In a stroke it rendered HM Customs useless. But it created a monster even Howard never foresaw.

In place of the chilled out and peaceful vibe surrounding hash, the skunkworks of modern day cannabis farmers weren’t signed up to any moral or esoteric doctrine. Cannabis fell out of love with what was left of the Love Generation and into a brutal marriage with anyone who didn’t want to be perceived as ‘straight’ and boring. Love was lost; replaced with brutal gangs and lumped in with the harder side of the drug culture and its even harder products.

We argued a lot at work about the negative effects of cannabis – our records showed that, anecdotally, before the rise of skunk we hardly ever saw a ‘problem’ cannabis user – and came to the conclusion that skunk had changed everything a ‘safe’ drug used to be about. People were presenting at the service with pretty severe mental health problems since the rise of skunk, and links started being made. In the lab, the THC content of skunk was found to be four or five times stronger than hash. But worse, was that the Cannibidiol content of skunk was nil – Cannabidiol is a chemical naturally present in hash which suppresses the effects of the psychotic element in THC. Handy if you don’t want to start running after cars and barking at the wheels.

The modern day reefer burner is compromising their mental health where, in the past, they compromised nothing. How could such a decent substance have turned so shit?

And what can we do?

Well, Howard had the answer to that question: legalise cannabis. Let the producers produce. Regulate it. Tax it. Stock it in supermarkets. Skunk will almost disappear within weeks. Ye Gods… it really is that easy. Take it all back to the days of Gold seal and warm summers and good music and good friends.

Ah, the sweet vagaries of time and the wisdom of youth. No-one sane really believes in the current UK government taking that line. There is no corporate interest in cannabis. And a drug like cannabis doesn’t fit into an era of fear and greed and control. The government have objectives, but those objectives are not about the freedoms of you or I, they are about the accumulation of money for faceless multinational corporations. It’s about a gilded ladder that only the richest get to the top of, and only a tiny minority ever get to touch in the first place. This is all a huge mistake. Surely? You don’t need to be stoned to know what’s right and whats wrong, but who can blame anyone for wanting to detach themselves from the current bad vibes of living in the UK. Any port in a storm.

So to you, Howard Marks, I’ll raise a glass tonight. We talked about GO once. I’m sure you’d have beaten me no matter what you were smoking in recent times. Thanks for having morals, wit, and for a bit of my past.