This post talks about drugs, so before I begin, I need to legally preface this post with the following statement: 95% of this story is made-up and the remaining 65% true.
At some point after that awkward period of transition between childhood and being a teenager I’d decided to give up on aspirations and dreams…I’d been pretty beaten down (almost literally).
Having the constant reminder that my hands were “not workers hands, are you a poofter?” would probably do that to you. Architect, electronic engineer, computer programmer, heck even being a DJ was not the way towards making the skin on my hands “tough and hard, not girly like yours”. Good God, that man really was a toxic and sad individual. He was a prick.
Anyway, back to the main of this post….
It’s strange, isn’t it: there are some things which I have no problems talking about but the subject of this one is the one which I know is going to cause me issues should I ever pursue a career in politics! The subject? Drugs! I’ve always said that the question of drug legalisation (or even a proper debate) in the UK is never going to be corrected until the Daily Mail et al get behind it. It’s a sad state of affairs and I wish more politicians were more honest in their opinions instead of cowering in a corner, behind the pen of a staff writer or editor of the right-wing media.
I digress…
This is a story of the desperation and need of getting stoned as a teenager (it was one of many). I can probably attribute this story to the start of me being stoned every day for nearly 2 years shortly after this incident – thanks to the wonders of market forces and bulk buying! But this night in particular shall forever be entrenched in my mind. It’s a story of how one young lad, on a mission, facing almost certain death, arrest and incarceration, and being caught up in other peoples life’s and issues, had one simple mission: when getting stoned is the only thing on your mind.
Northampton: the Eastern District; a typical sprawling council estate to house the London overspill, located in the….east of Northampton. Within it are estates within the vast estate: Lings (where I lived), Thorplands (lived there too), Lumbertubs, Rectory Farm, Blackthorn (aka Smackthorn, notorious for smack – hence the name),… and a few more…
If Lings had a 75% proportion of decent, hardworking people (25% not so much of either) then Blackthorn’s ratio would probably barely be scraping 50%. It had a lot of social issues. And one of those social issues was people living there who were grasses. How would I know that? Because when a grass goes to the old bill and grasses, they get their house plastered in paint with the words “a fucking grass lives here” in big, bold, white masonry Wilko-branded paint, on the side of said house. Oh, and just for good measure, every path leading into the estate for where that house resides would have arrows and more words expressing Where and How Much of a grass they were. Don’t be a grass if you live there: you have been warned!
Now, these directions and notifications had been around for a while…a good few months in fact…anyone who had ventured into one of the many paths into Blackthorn would remember them well. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the many underpasses still had remnants on the footpath asphalt.
Now then scene is set, let’s roll into a late November evening. My usual dealer wasn’t able to deliver the goods so I was on a desperate search for an eighth of squidgy black. Enter Jay:
Me: “Man, my dealer is dry, what we going to do? I suppose we could go shops and get a bottle of 20/20?”
Jay: “I think I know someone. It’s only in Blackthorn. If they can’t sort us out then at least we’ll get served in the shops there”
Me: “Alright. Sounds good”
So off we trot, up along the path alongside Lings playing fields, across the bridge into Blackthorn, passing the prep school on our right (of all the locations for a prep school?!?). We pass once signpost for the grass house, then another, and another:
Me: “errr, Jay, how close to the grass house is the house we’re going to?”
Jay: “It’s cool man, it’s not that one, we’re good”
For whatever reason, Jay fails to re-assure me. I certainly wasn’t reassured when we rocked up to the front garden of the grass house
Me: “Jay, are you fucking sure?!?”
Jay: “Yeah, it’s all good…we’ll be alright”
Me: [inside my head: “I fucking hope so”]
Knock, knock!
A young mum (presumably her partner was the one to recently go on a long extended “holiday”) answers the door:
Yummy mummy: “Who the fuck are you?”
Jay: “It’s me, Jay, remember?”
YM: “…..ahh, yeah, Jay! What do you want?”
Jay: “Some squidgy black or weed if you’ve got it”
YM: “Nah, I don’t do that since all of this. But I can sort you out though, come in”
Jay: “And me mate?”
YM: “yeah”
Me: “Thanks. Hi!”
We go in and we all awkwardly linger around in the hallway.
YM: “Connor, go over to Dave’s house and tell him to come over”
Connor: “Ok mummy”
YM: “You two, go sit in the front room and chill”
Me & Jay: “Ok”
Connor arrives back with Dave and walks straight in. Dave ushers Yummy Mummy into the hallway:
Dave: “[whispering but in exasperated tones so I could hear] Who the FUCK are those guys? What do they want?!”
YM: “It’s ok, I know Jay, he’s cool”
Dave: “And him! [points at me]”
YM: “Trust me”
So in Dave walks.
Dave: “Alright then gents, what you after. What can I do for you”
Now, before I continue, I should describe Dave: taller than either of us (and I was six foot) sporting a long beard, like only a biker gang member would be sporting, and leather jacket to boot as well. He was a pretty big bloke. And he really didn’t look like he wanted to be fucked about or go down (again), least of all for two spotty feeble teens.
Me: “Errr, just an eighth of squidgy black, if you have it, please Sir”
Dave: “Money. It’s £15”
I hand over the money. I think it was a £20 note actually, so I was hoping for change. For some reason I wasn’t expecting to see it though.
So Dave leaves the house. I’ll be back in a bit.
“With any luck” the little voice in my head said. “Shut up, you’ll get us in trouble” I retorted, internally. Shakes begin to happen. I mean, the whole situation if pretty fucked up right now. I had a look around: the only real escape route is the way I came in. Ain’t gonna happen if Dave’s going to be there. Fuck. I’m going down. I’m going to be arrested. What if Dave is the reason for the grass house existing? Is this a trap??
Dave comes back just minutes later. He comes over to me:
Dave: “Here ya go. And here’s your change”.
Me: “Oh wow, thanks mate”
I take the deal and stand up, prepared to leave. Jay does the same.
Dave: “Where the fuck do you think you’re going!?”
Me: “Home?” I say in a rather feeble and nervous manor.
Dave: “No you’re not. Where’s your manors? I want some”
Me: “What, now?” asking because I wanted reassurance of what’s been requested
Dave: “Fuck yes, right now, roll a spliff”
Me: “Ok” now shaking ever more than previously
Jay and I sit back down.
Me: “Jay, you got a fag, I haven’t got any”
Jay: “Err, yeah mate, here you go”
So visibly shaking I tried to roll a king-sized rizla, ensuring that enough of the product went in to make it worth Dave’s trouble. And also because I was too f’ing nervous to pay attention to what I was doing. Anyway, like all master craftsmen, I constructed a pretty reasonably-looking joint considering the tools I had (my hands) were working against me!
Me: “Here you go” as I attempt to pass the spliff to Dave
Dave: “Nah, you light it up, you rolled it”
Finally, the penny dropped. Dave was sounding us out. If we were a set-up there’s no way we’d be able to spark the joint up – the police would have a messy case on their hands if they did (at least, that was my logic for this situation so far). So I spark up, take a few puffs and then pass it onto Jay.
The spliff passed round a few times before it was done. I don’t recall if there were any conversation, I’m sure there was but must have been. I think Jay updated Yummy Mummy on some of the family/friends they both knew.
Now….smoking when completely nervous does not make a good combination. It triggers your brain into overdrive even more so than your brain does on its own in this situation. It also impairs all reasonable and logical thinking. This was the genuine conversation going on in my head:
Voice #1: “I don’t think we can just leave after rolling one spliff. It appears rude if we leave now”
Voice #2: “But if I roll another one I’m not sure I can control the nerves. I’m pretty fucked up right now”
Voice #1: “If we don’t roll another one he might still think we’re under-cover police or something”
Voice #2: “And if we stay here any longer the more likely it is that the police will come, because, you know, this is the grass house, and the thing about grass houses is that police know that dodgy shit goes on here, and once they’ve identified a house like this they won’t leave you alone Dave knows this that’s why he’s testing us, and ….” voice #2 continued rambling on a long list of reasons for leaving
Me: “Shall I do another one?” I proclaimed to the group
Voice #2 “NOOOOOOOOOOOO”
Voice #1: What the fuck are you thinking?!?!”
So I roll another. Jay passes the obligatory cigarette required for the build process. And we smoke another. It’s about this point when Dave begins to explain what happens to grasses and what he – personally – has done to people who fuck him over. It really didn’t help calm the nerves. I’m pretty sure he didn’t and really didn’t appreciate the potentially compromising position that Yummy Mummy had put him in with us.
Anyway, all was good, whilst the second spliff was going around, Dave relaxed a bit and rolled his own and that entered circulation as well. I got the last few puffs on the final joint. And that point we all thanked each other for not fucking each of us over in our own different possible ways. The whole ordeal was probably just as strenuous for Dave as it was for Jay & I, it’s just that Dave would have left kicking, fighting (and possibly killing) his way out of his, as opposed to Jay & I’s handling, by which I mean just sitting and taking whatever kicking/arrests could have been. As we leave Dave tells us that we’re welcome at any time. I take that under advisement. We leave the house and walk around the corner of the block.
Me: “I think we should walk away from this place as quickly as we can”
Jay: “I agree”
Me: “I’m never going there again”
I mentioned above that smoking whilst in an extremely edgy state doesn’t help alleviate the nerves, right? It also doesn’t help with decision-making processes. For whatever stupid reason on our walk back to Lings we both thought it would be better to walk through the woods: “it’ll be quicker!”. We both agreed.
The woods: pitch black, unable to see anything. Just what you need when you’re brain has just rapidly caned a share of three spliffs whilst running at 1,000mph with thoughts of death and police! As we get halfway through the woods:
Me: “Jay, can you see them?”
Jay: “Yeah, I can! See what?”
Me: “The men standing there all in a line over there. And if I look over in that other direction they’re there too”
Jay: “Fuck, yeah, I see them”
Fuck. Really? A barricade of people all along the tree-line where we need to exit the woods are standing. Are they for us? They might be Dave’s mates. They might all be bikers.
Me: “I think we should go this way, we might be able to avoid them”
Jay: “Yeah”
Jay was pretty useless.
Me: “They’re following us wherever we go. I don’t like this. They can’t be real”
Jay: “They must be, I can see them too”
Me: “Fuck! Let’s just run, we don’t have a choice. They might behind us as well”
And run we did. We reach the treeline without incident. We ran like two possessed wolfs across the field and towards the bridge. We made! We both look back. There’s no one there.
Up to this point I’d always assumed the drug talks at school and in the papers about hallucinations whilst smoking were complete poppycock – that was until this night.
A few lessons were learnt that night: 1) Jay was not to be trusted when he said things were fine; 2) he knew some obviously troubled people; 3) not all bikers are scary; 4) don’t buy drugs from strangers.