Note: this post includes stories of drug taking and as such names of the innocent have been changed. You know who you are!
I’ve been stopped by the old bill seven times in my adult life, each one of those times was whilst driving and the result of a “random” stop. All those stops were done by pleasant and respectful officers…well, all with the one exception of officers from the Northamptonshire constabulary – those arseholes are just…unscrupulous arseholes (putting it mildly).
Maybe I’m being unkind. Maybe it’s because when I had two cars stolen within two months of each other their only concern was whether I had valid tax and insurance on them: “Did your car(s) have valid tax and insurance, Sir? You know your car cannot be on the road legally without them having valid tax & insurance…Sir.” No shit! Needless to say, my reply of “I think the thieves might have driven off at speed above the speed limit, will you do something about it now?!” was never responded to.
I think I’ll save a few of my interactions for a future post. Let’s get back to this one and on with the reminiscing…
We need to rewind time a bit and explore a run-in with the old bill around the age of 16/17. It was a period just before summer ’95, which would put me towards the end of my first year of sixth form. [sidenote: Ironically(?), I’m writing this listening to a Grooverider tape from Club Kinetic from 1995! Old Skool will never die! Oi Oi!]
So, around this period of time I’d be at sixth form during the day and working evenings doing some crappy QC stuff at a beef factory for one of Northampton’s notorious employment agencies (Quest for those that know). To be fair, the job was pretty cool – I didn’t really do much and at the end of each week I’d be bringing home around £100. Nice. Except Fridays evenings – those were reserved for me to do a bit of “business” for a few friends.
“Business” was basically to go to my dealers house (which conveniently was just a couple of doors down, ok, ok, right next door). My wages would cover the order I’d be placing and I would effectively resell the remainder to close friends. It was a pretty good deal – I’d be left with anything from a quarter to half ounce for near-zero money. That’s the economics of buying in bulk – something learnt in Business Studies and applied in the real world, but maybe not they way the teachers had envisaged?
This particular Friday was a bit of a bulk order. Liam, Marcus and Ted (sorry Ted, can’t find a better name) all wanted a quarter ounce this week – that’s four of us putting £25 each in. It was time to invest my profits from this order into something I’d been eying up for while: I popped straight into town after school so that I could buy some scales – I wanted to make sure everyone was getting the grammage that they had paid for! I found a fancy little set on the market, presented in this really nice and obfuscating purple velvet/fuzzy-felt covered case. And the bonus was that they fitted into my overly-sized baggy jeans pocket quite nicely. I was happy; the market-stall owner was happy; every one was happy! Roy was going up in the world of drug dealing; within a small few years I’d have the whole of Northampton supplied by me! Well, that was a fleeting thought for a few moments but the reality is that I simply didn’t want to under-deal my rather small and rather close and personal clientele!
I get back home with my purchase and head back out again for the long walk to do the deal with the neighbour a few doors down (who I’ve already established was actually right next door) and walk out of his with one and a quarter ounce of squidgy black (the ounce was £50, but a quarter was £25, I’d need to buy a 9bar to get more discounts). I skip over the grass between his driveway and our front path, walk back into mine and get the hot-knife ready to dissect my “free” quarter ounce. That quarter would serve me for the week – so long as no-one finds out I have it! Puff-puff-give only works when you’re having a session with others, not so much when you want a nice quiet smoke each morning on the walk to school!
Deal done and my cut sliced off, I head out (again) for the long walk from the eastern district of Northampton to Abington, ready to meet Liam & Marcus at Ted’s gaff somewhere near the old cricket ground.
I knock at his door, walk in and get down to the business of rolling up. The others were pretty amazed by how sizeable the ounce actually looked. In all fairness, it probably was when compared to our usual eighths or quarters we’d been used to. There were spliffs-aplenty that night, so much so that we even added a sizeable sprinkling to our pizzas as an extra topping that night.
I think it was this night that we discovered that Ted’s stereo would play both tape decks out at the same time. We’d let two Dreamscape tapes play out together for the full 45 minutes, astounded by how much they were both playing in perfect sync with each other. I’m recoiling now because I’m 100% sure the reality of the noise coming out was far from perfect.
Fun was had by all but at some point it was time to leave for home. It was probably around 4am. I can’t remember why we left so early that morning – maybe Liam had to get home to help his dad with their holiday tent preparation ritual thing they had going on every year – who knows?
Before I leave I take a look at the sizeable block of squidgy black we still have left and divvy it up into four equal pieces. Probably because I knew I had my other quarter at home, I decide to leave my share there at Ted’s – we were going to be coming back tomorrow anyway. I assumed Liam and Marcus took theirs with them.
So the three of us are walking home via the service roads between the back of the 100 year-old houses around Abington. Marcus lives nearby and the service roads would take us right out near his. We’re all pretty smashed at this point – bongs, spliffs, pizza (with the extra topping) – it’s fair to say we’d had a fair bit this night.
As we walk out of the service road and into one of the main streets a huge commotion of blue flashing lights and police vans come rushing past in front of us and they all come to a screeching halt – they were that close the blue lights felt like they were flashing right directly into my retinas. A load of officers jump out of the vans. I mean, it literally looked like hundreds. They must be after a big gang of people or something.
“What the fuck’s going on here” I think I proclaimed loudly to Liam & Marcus. It’s almost at this point in time I realise the 3 riot vans – lights flashing away, and hundreds of coppers – were here for us.
Time goes slowly when you’re stoned. From this moment on, time for me quite literally froze still.
Liam and Marcus are taken away and we’re all separated from each other. Hours pass.
I’ve no idea where Marcus went but I eventually see Liam being quizzed by a few officers. Liam also had a backpack with him. The coppers were obviously interested in that and I witnessed – in slow-motion – one of the officers removing the items from the bag:
One expensive Sony walkman
One pair of scissors
That’ll be a big pair of scissors Liam had “borrowed” from the art room at school.
Some Letraset sheets (also “borrowed”)
Another expensive walkman
Why the fuck would Liam have two walkmans on him? Now he just looks like a burglar or something……oh….wait…….they think we’ve been on the rob! And here’s Liam with our swag!
Another pair of scissors come out.
Jesus fuck, Liam! I’m pretty certain at this point that we’re all going to be hoisted into the vans. There’s no way my mum’s NOT going to find out about this. Fuck!
Wait a minute….Liam and Marcus have their share of the squidgy stuff on them! Oh man, I’m properly ruined now. My career in politics ends right here.
Knowing we’re a lost cause, I focus my eyes elsewhere, but still with those blue lights flashing in them. I’ve no idea where Marcus went to. I suspect they found his drugs and was already in the back of one of the vans.
Eventually – after what really did feel like hours – a copper came over to me.
“Do you have anything in your pockets?” he asks me.
“Keys, wallet…?” I reply.
Starting with my left pocket, I put my hand deep down and retrieve my wallet and keys and hand them over. I then move onto my back pockets.
“Is that everything?” the officer asks.
“Oh, no, wait, I have something in my other pocket!” I exclaimed in a rather unenthusiastic voice.
My hand reaches into my right pocket. I didn’t have to dig that far…a set of weighing scales in a purple velvet case have a tendency to take up most of the pocket space. I sheepishly reveal said case to the officer. He opens it up and revealed are all the individual gram weights and the little saucer scales. It also has the evidence of what we’d been up to that night – with little remnants of black stuff scattered throughout. The officer moves some of the pieces around with his little finger. He takes the case to his face and inhales through his nose. I know what he can smell.
“I’m screwed” are the words running through my mind.
But also running through my mind was this glorious excuse I’d just come up with, on the spot, right there and then – I remember being the utmost impressed with this reason for my possession of the scales. I confidently and brazenly explain to the officer:
“My mate had these on his mantlepiece and I liked them so much I asked if I could have them to take home to my mum to give to her as a gift”. The sentence I recall right there verbatim. He walks off with my possessions and I’m left there waiting. Time begins to start going really slowly again. Hours pass. I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy my story. I mean, who would!? I’m definitely screwed.
He eventually comes back (or it could have been another copper, it turns out face blindness is a thing when you’re stoned) and gives me back my keys and wallet….and my scales. Pretty sure he can see my shocked expression. He writes out some details on this tiny A6-sized piece of paper, asks my name, address, etc, rips the top sheet off and hands it to me. I’m free to go. But he gives me a few words of advice:
“Next time, stick to the main road at this time of night. Otherwise, we’ll probably think you’re burgling houses”; and
“We don’t buy your story about your scales – it’s the biggest load of bollocks we’ve ever heard”; and the infamous line:
“Go on, on your way, you’re free to go”.
Time suddenly speeds back up and in an almost Benny Hill-like sketch the coppers load back up into their vans and disappear into the darkness. Marcus and Liam make a sudden but relieved reappearance at this point too.
We quickly compare notes on what had just happened. We laugh at Liam for all the weird and wacky contents of his backpack. And then we get onto the subject of prohibited substances:
“I left mine at Ted’s tonight – figured that I might as well as I’ll be back there tomorrow.” quipped Marcus.
“Haha, I did the same thing” retorted Liam.
“No way, I did the same thing! But I still had the scales in my pocket! I’ve no idea how I got away with that!” I replied.
I learned two lessons that night:
- I am no longer going to walk miles with any more than a small quantity of “stuff” upon my person
- Always stick to the main roads
And yes, the scales never again travelled with me again. I guess that would be lesson number three.
Lesson four was that I’m not very good at making up excuses on the spot, but a part of me thinks that the bloody big laugh the police got out of mine was what allowed me to get home free that night.
My career in politics was not tarnished.