ABSOLUTELY SPLIFFING
I. Marwood on how Skunk can make you a better parent I NOW divide my friends into two cat- egories: those who smoke dope and those who don't get invited to my dinner parties. The last time I tried to mix the drinkers and the dopeheads, it was a huge flop. There came a point, at about midnight, when the drinkers got noisier and more argumentative, chain-smoked smelly cigar- ettes and wanted to crack open the whisky. The dope-smokers found this all a bit frightening. They just wanted to chill out, listen to the music, murmur about the meaning of life and then retire for an early night.
Me, I'm with the dope-smokers all the way. Though I like the odd drink, I'm invariably repelled by people who've had too much: their breath stinks, and their per- sonalities change so that they become aggressive or maudlin. But that's one of the dangers of dope. The more you smoke, the less you want to drink, which can turn you into a bit of a prig. Boozers often claim that dope-smoking makes you poor company. You sit around being vague and spaced-out, giggling inanely at non-existent jokes and spouting gibberish that is only comprehensible to People on the same weird planet as you. All I can say in our defence is that it doesn't seem that way to us at the time. As far as we're concerned, we're being as insightful and witty and clever as any mor- tal has ever been.
It may well be that all those wondrous apergus — 'stoner insights' — turn out to be embarrassingly banal when recalled in the morning. But they're not nearly as embarrassing as the 'you're my besht friend' guff you come up with when you've had too many drinks. And dope doesn't give you a serious hangover, so you don't spend the morning-after racked with guilt and self-hatred.
So if ever I had to choose between alco- hol and marijuana — and Heaven forfend that I should — I'd plump for dope every time. Hence, no doubt, my dismay and astonishment when I chance upon statistics like the one cited in the Daily Telegraph earlier this week, that at least one in five Britons has at some time in their life dab- bled with marijuana. Good God, I thought. Who are these four in five people who have never tried a spliff? Are they madmen? Are they liars? Are they the product of some government propaganda department designed to per- suade us that marijuana consumption remains the preserve of a few beatniks, hippies, crusties and other undesirables? Because, in my experience, it's the other way round. Roughly four in five of the people I know have smoked, and often continue to smoke, dope on a regular basis. It's those who don't that form the slightly eccentric minority. The dope-smokers I know — many of them honest Spectator-reading folk — range in age from their teens to their sixties and include bankers, lawyers, policemen, doc- tors, entrepreneurs and blue-chip business- men. But they're certainly not going to let on unless they can be sure that a) you won't disapprove or, preferably, b) you're going to whip out your secret stash of prize-winning Californian sinsemilla and bond with them over a celebratory reefer. That's the prob- lem with being a 'head': you can only talk about your hobby with fellow heads.
Every time you pass a reefer to a friend, you are technically guilty of supply and liable to a caution, a fine or even a prison sentence. You can't smoke openly in bars, clubs, or indeed in any public place. And there are times — pace William Rees- Mogg's recent claim that in Somerset you can more easily buy dope than you can the `Tune in, turn on, vote Lib-Dem.' Spectator — when it can be a devil of a job getting hold of your supplies, especially in the drought period before Christmas and the New Year.
Once you do get your hands on some, though, you will find that marijuana has rarely been better. Ten years ago, you usu- ally had to make do with either feeble homegrown weed or dodgy imported hashish cut so heavily with unpleasant addi- tives (sleeping tablets, melted down vinyl, etc.) that it either made you feel queasy or sent you to sleep. Now smokers' lives have been transformed by the wide availability of a new form of superweed, known as Skunk.
Skunk — once found only in Amster- dam, now grown in lofts all over Britain is a hydroponically cultivated weed with big, pungent, compact floral heads and a smell exactly like that of a skunk. Many smokers, those who work for a living any- way, prefer to keep their stash of 'Make No Plans' Skunk for weekend-use only.
The first few puffs make you feel relaxed; the next few, lightheaded and pleasantly detached from reality; the next, garrulous, inspired and giggly. After that, the effects grow less predictable. As the Furry Freak Brothers say, 'Dope comes in two quanti- ties: too much and not enough'. Personally, I tend to go through the horrors stage no more than two or three times a year: a small price to pay, for the many, many other evenings where dope takes me to the sort of places alcohol can never reach.
Another rarely cited virtue of dope is that it goes remarkably well with family life. I know many young mothers who would surely have strangled their bawling offspring by now had it not been for the numbing solace of a spliff. And though the same could be said of drink, dope doesn't impair your faculties to the same degree, so you can still function perfectly well as a nurturing parent.
Indeed, one remarkable side-effect I've noticed in dope is the way it makes children so much more interesting. Normally, I tend to find their conversation dull and irritating. But, after a few joints, one seems to have far more time and inclination to listen to their burblings; and perhaps even to go with them to marvel at the exciting wriggly worm or to join them for a session on their Sony Playstation. Perhaps it's because dope brings you down to their level and helps you rediscover your inner child. Or perhaps that's just the sort of hippie nonsense you'd expect an addled old head to come up with.
No, the only serious risk of dabbling with the wicked weed is that you're liable to become a bit of a drugs bore. There's noth- ing your average dope-smoker enjoys quite so much as discoursing on the respective merits of Durban Poison, Red-Bearded Skunk, pressed Moroccan pollen, charis, sinsemilla and Nepalese Temple Balls. I could go on, but better, surely, if you just go out and discover these pleasures for yourself. So skin up, turn on and chill out. You'll find yourself in excellent company.
Previous page
