Howard Marks' Book of Dope Stories

by Howard Marks

  Jack came alongside.

  ‘You all right, Howard?’

  ‘Yeah. But I need to get off my face, Jack. I’ve had a hard day. Some thumping techno with the usual accompaniments would go down well. Is there life after midnight in Norwich?’

  ‘You better talk to Luis here. His lot of DJs is actually called ‘Off Yer Face’.

  One look at Luis’ eyes, and it was obvious he had this time of night sorted. We went to a club called Kitchen. It was so dark, I could skin up without checking if it was cool. Confetti cannons, French maids, feather dusters and rubber-clad slaves allowed ambient drum’n’bass to welcome raging hardcore, and the conflicting rhythms peacefully coexisted. Eyes were ecstatic. Nostrils were smoking.

  Back in London, I called an old Oxford lawyer friend.

  ‘Can anyone stand for Parliament, even convicted dope dealers like me?’

  ‘Absolutely. All that’s needed, Howard, is for you to be alive, not to actually be in prison, and to pay a five-hundred-pound deposit.’

  ‘You mean ten hardcore stoners with fifty quid each to spare could get a guy into Parliament?’

  ‘That’s right. Even the potential of a few hundred votes would worry the main parties in any of the critical marginals. A few thousand could really shake them up. Single issues have been known to work. Look at the suffragette movement.’

  ‘Can the same candidate stand for more than one constituency?’

  ‘Of course, as precedented by Gladstone himself. If you were elected in more than one, you would have to resign in all but one of your choice. And if a person, party, or whatever, stands in more than fifty constituencies, then the government is obliged to permit a five-minute political broadcast to be screened on all channels at peak viewing time.’

  Maybe I’ll be part of a party. Let’s hope it’s non-stop. I like the connotations of the word ‘party’, so I formed the Legalise Cannabis Party and stood simultaneously for the four separate constituencies of Norwich North, Norwich South, Neath and Southampton West.

  I can get to places that other candidates can’t: squats, techno clubs, shabeens, brothels, illegal raves, prisons, recording studios, Ecstasy-safe environments, opium dens and other havens for those who wish to alter their states of minds. My election addresses have been used for everything from toilet paper to roaches. There aren’t too many registered votes in these places, but they’re a lot of fun. Another smoker who can get to even more places is Tricky, whose music fascinates me. His trip-hop is scary. Tricky is scary. Tricky taps that energy that the straights call gangster or superpredator, wears a dress, and tells the snitching Yankee gangsta to take it somewhere else. He was giving a concert at Norwich’s University of East Anglia in a few days. I was going to be there, campaigning. We agreed to celebrate our joint presence.

  At the Norwich election hustings, Labour Party candidate for Norwich South, Charles Clarke, admitted to having smoked cannabis while a young man. I asked Charles Clarke why he didn’t confess to his crimes. There are no statutes of limitation in British law. He should do his bird like the rest of us. He didn’t answer.

  I met one of the senior administrators of the university students’ union.

  ‘Mr Marks, you can’t come to the Tricky concert tonight and make political statements. It wouldn’t be fair to the other candidates. There will be thousands of students there. Far more than at the hustings we hold at the Union for all political candidates. As you won’t be able to campaign, it seems futile to even come here this evening.’

  ‘That’s no problem. I’m with the band.’

  I met Tricky backstage.

  ‘Tricky, can I come on stage and smoke a bong and a few joints?’

  ‘Treat my stage as your living-room, Howard. I like this. It scares me.’

  ‘Your fear is your strength, Tricky. Let’s do it.’

  The bouncers took the bong. Tricky said he couldn’t go perform without his props. The bouncers said they’d bust us if we smoked from it and ringed the stage. Tricky and I got on to the music- and searchlight-swamped platform and lit joints. We rapped for a few minutes during which I made an impassioned plea for the provision of Ecstasy-testing machines. I offered to be one. I exhaled into the bong. The bouncers got ready to pounce while Tricky begged everyone to ‘Vote for Howard; don’t be a coward’. I threw some joints into the audience and secured a few easy votes.

  The only purpose for which power can rightly be exercised over any member of a civilised community against his will is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant

  J.S. Mill

  Olaf Tyaransen

  Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail

  The Worst Night

  ‘HEY – YOU! THAT’S RIGHT – YOU! THE STUPID CUNT WITH THE DARK GLASSES! I WANNA WORD WITH YOU, YOU FUCKER!’

  From a distance the man looked short, squat and dumpy but, as he charged up the road towards me like some kind of crazed and bloodthirsty animal (which, in retrospect, was exactly what he was), he gradually got taller, broader and more menacing. Shit! I took a deep breath, puffed my chest out and braced myself for whatever was coming. He stopped just inches short of my nose, his ugly fifty-something face a contorted mess of undisguised redneck rage. His breath stank of something unpleasant and I nearly recoiled and stepped back, but didn’t. To do so would imply weakness and that was exactly what he was looking for.

  ‘DID YOU PUT THIS SHITE THROUGH MY DOOR?’ he demanded with a roar, shaking a balled up piece of white paper in front of my face. It was one of my election leaflets – a folded A4 sheet detailing the reasons why cannabis should be legalised immediately. I’d had 10,000 of them printed the day before.

  ‘YOU’RE THAT CUNT, AREN’T YOU?’ he screamed. His nostrils flared so widely that you could have fit a fist into one of them (if it was a small fist and you wanted to put it there).

  ‘What cunt?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘YOU THINK YOU’RE REALLY FUCKING SMART DON’T YOU, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE!!’ He was screeching now, really wound up. I wondered if he was going to have a heart attack. ‘WELL, LET ME TELL YOU . . .’

  He was obviously a very disturbed individual. I didn’t really understand him. I mean, what kind of man gets himself so worked up about an election flyer that he feels the need to leave the safety and comfort of his own home to run down the street and pick a fight with somebody half his age? If he didn’t agree with what I was saying, all he had to do was put the offending item in the bin and not vote for me. There was no need for the dramatics, no need for all this grief. I stood still and pondered this, as he continued to scream abuse in my face. Tiny specks of his spittle hit my shades, distorting his face even further. I didn’t move to wipe them. I could tell that he was just waiting for an excuse. If I raised my hands from my sides he was almost definitely going to hit me. The man’s son – just a kid, aged around six or seven – was standing behind him, trying to stare me out of it. An elderly couple were watching from across the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see curtains twitching in the windows of the house beside me.

  ‘. . . AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ARSE!!!!’

  He slammed the leaflet into my hand with such angry force that, days later, it was still bruised. I looked at him, standing there, hands on hips like Superman, waiting for me to do something, challenging me to do something. It was surreal. He seemed to personify all of the fear and loathing I had encountered over the previous six weeks – fear of radical change, loathing of anything or anyone who threatened his cosy and closeted little world. To be honest, I sort of felt sorry for him. I felt even sorrier for his son.

  Despite this, I still wanted to kick the shit out of him, wanted to beat his face to a bloody watermelon pulp. He was slightly smaller than me but better built, looked like he might have boxed in his time (though maybe his ears were that shape at birth). Even so, it would have taken me less than two seconds to trip him over and slam the heel of my boot into the bridge of his
nose. He wouldn’t know what had hit him. After that he wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d give his annoying little son a kick in the arse for good measure. Ultraviolent images flashed through my brain, pure adrenaline pumped though my veins. I was fucking furious, nearly as worked up as he was!

  Fortunately, common sense took over. I visualised the headline – ‘DUN LAOGHAIRE MAN ASSAULTED BY CANNABIS CANDIDATE’. ‘The election was two days away and that kind of publicity wasn’t really going to help my chances (not that I had a chance in the first place). Besides, it wasn’t really my style.

  ‘You’re a very rude little man,’ I said. Incensed at my deliberately patronising manner, he tried to push me and I quickly caught his arm. I held it tight, but not too tight. Just firmly enough to let him know that I wasn’t going to be spoken to like this. ‘Go away,’ I hissed.

  ‘YOU FUCKING WANKER,’ he screamed, going all purple in the face. ‘ALL THE BRAINS IN THE COUNTRY AND THIS IS THE KIND OF SHITE WE GET! YOU FUCKING CUNT!’

  The Story of O, 2000

  If people let government decide what foods they eat and what medicines they take, their bodies will soon be in a sorry state as are the souls of those who live under tyranny

  Thomas Jefferson

  Howard Marks

  The War Against Drugs

  THE FIRST PERSON to use the phrase ‘war on drugs’ was Richard ‘Tricky Little Dick’ Nixon way back in 1971. Tricky Little Dick was a fucking sharp villain who conned his way to the top. To distract the straights, he made out that the real enemy was not a yellow person with slit eyes but a plant that made you feel good. To prove his point, Tricky Little Dick played table tennis in Peking and declared war on drugs. At first, he didn’t need much in the way of armed forces. After all, most plants don’t carry guns. But he did need a bunch of brain-dead heavy meat-heads, so he formed the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration. Eventually, Tricky Little Dick got an air force and sprayed South American plants with poison.

  There’s never been much of a plants’ civil rights move in America (most of them are vegetarians), so no one really gave a toss about Tricky Little Dick’s antics until he got busted for housebreaking in the Watergate Hotel and grassed up his mates.

  Peanuts then became US President. He was very nice and very clever; consequently, it didn’t take long for the population to get shot of him. Americans, by now (1980), had completely lost touch with reality and only understood real slapstick, plastic popcorn and movies. The only solution was to make a cowboy actor called Ronnie into President.

  No one, not even plants, wants to play war with Americans, because they cheat, lie, chew gum and talk too much. They ripped off the Red Indians and turned reggae into slavery. When Americans run out of enemies, they fight each other. There is no America without a Civil War. Now the civil war is between those who take dope and those who don’t.

  When war is declared against a country, that country accepts the declaration and declares war back. So, American dopers, accept the declaration of war on drug consumers issued by your government and re-declare war back on the fuckers.

  ‘Get outside those kindergartens and schools, all you American dopers. They’ve made you into demons. They treat you like demons. So be fucking demons. Be drug enforcers. Force them to take drugs.

  ‘Get some Scary Sound Systems, spraying water pistols, counter-surveillance clubwear, stink bombs, lion shit (to frighten police horses and dogs), cheese, a few hookers, and maybe one rubber pointed stick full of drug-free piss, to keep next to your dick for the piss test.’

  Desperate diseases require desperate remedies

  Guy Fawkes

  CHAPTER FOUR

  COMMODIFY IT

  Steven Abrams

  The Oxford Scene

  ONE TENDS TO be introduced to cannabis at Oxford in a casual way. Cigarettes are frequently and openly passed around at parties and small informal social gatherings. No one is urged to smoke, and it is rare to be overtly asked to join in. One takes the odd puff until finally one night one becomes properly stoned. One then tends to be “turned on” by friends and eventually introduced to the pusher of the day. Cannabis is usually smoked in a small group in congenial surroundings in rooms in college or in digs. The atmosphere is rather like that of a sherry party. A gramophone is the most essential prop. As the drug begins to take effect within a few minutes, there is usually an increase in physical activity, accompanied by great mirth. One may feel a compulsion to dance. Sensory experience of all kinds is enhanced and there is an air of conviviality. The usual ‘high’ is an innocuous evening spent listening to music, dancing, talking and eating. One may also venture out to a party, a colour film, or even to a pub, and during the day it is pleasant to punt on the river or visit the Ashmolean art gallery. Many persons find they are able to do intellectual or artistic work under the influence of cannabis; and I know of a case of one young man successfully sitting an examination for a fellowship when he was ‘high’.

  The price of cannabis in Oxford tends to be about eight or nine pounds an ounce for hashish, which is more frequently used, and a pound or so less for marijuana. This works out at about the price of a pint of bitter for the evening’s entertainment. Whatever the profits may be in retailing other drugs, the margin in selling cannabis is very slim, and no one in Oxford makes a living at it. “Pushers” tend to be smokers who want to make a pound or two a week and get their smokes for free. They stay in business for a few months until they become well known and then quietly retire. The smokers take turns acting as pushers. Those who never push to make a profit are usually willing to sell small quantities of cannabis at cost to friends who have temporarily exhausted their supplies, in return for similar favours in future. One point which is clear, and indeed admitted by the authorities, is that in this country there is no organised criminal conspiracy behind the sale of cannabis. Sometimes the drug is smuggled into the country on a one shot basis by students. The major supplies are brought into the ports by merchant seamen acting for themselves and are sold to anyone who is waiting around the docks. Smaller quantities are sometimes sent through the post.

  From: The Book of Grass, eds George Andrews & Simon Vinkenoog, 1967

  Howards Marks

  The Commodification of Cannabis

  THE PRESENT ILLEGAL CANNABIS MARKET

  Today’s cannabis consumer lies at the end of a process conveniently divided into production, transportation (which often includes the crossing of international frontiers) and domestic distribution.

  Production

  Traditionally, cannabis seeds are planted in the spring and the herbaceous plant is harvested during the autumn. In ideal growing conditions, two crops a year may be harvested. Harvesting entails cutting down the plants and hanging them upside down to dry in the sun. When dry, small stems, flowers, leaves and (unfortunately) seeds are combined and retained as ordinary marijuana while the largest stalks and stems are discarded.

  Sinsemilla results from a variation of this method. Delta-9 tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), the primary psychoactive chemical in cannabis, occurs in unpollenated floral clusters usually referred to as buds. Sophisticated and well-researched agronomic techniques have been developed to maximise the size of these potent unpollenated floral clusters. Typically, all the male plants are eliminated during the early growth of the plant. This lack of pollination causes the female plants to enlarge their buds in order to increase their chances of acquiring whatever pollen might be around. The result of this reproductively futile process is a crop of resin-rich buds.

  Hashish is produced by extracting resin from buds. Shaking, rubbing and running through densely planted cannabis crops while wearing adhesive clothing are the traditional methods of extraction. The resins are then compacted into a mass.

  Most ordinary marijuana found in non-importing countries is cultivated by the indigenous population. Almost all hashish is similarly produced. Sinsemilla production is done by both cultivators in traditional source countries and home-growers in the co
untry of consumption.

  Transportation

  All three transport modes of land, sea and air are employed. Individuals own and/or operate private land vehicles, yachts and planes, while loosely knit organisations and alliances also use existing commercial freight systems. Payments to police, customs, military, coastguards and other individuals in positions of authority are a common feature of these methods. The transportation of cannabis across national boundaries, excepting that of minute supplies for research and therapeutic purposes, is highly illegal and occasions the most punitive penalties. Those engaged in this trade often make huge amounts of money, and far too many of them spend several years behind bars.

  Domestic distribution

  With the well-known exception of the Netherlands, all countries enthusiastically prohibit the purchase of even immediately consumable amounts of cannabis. Save for a few off-the-wall counties such as Singapore, the penalties for transgression are relatively small (usually fines rather that prison sentences). Sales of bulk amounts of cannabis are universally proscribed and can attract penalties at least as severe as those for international cannabis transportation. The existence and enforcement of cannabis prohibition, coupled with the popularity of the herb, has spawned a myriad of illegal networks engaged in distribution. It’s very hard for a street dealer to continue his business without being busted or, at the very least, being considered and documented as some kind of sociopath. Such casualties of cannabis prohibition have been extensively dealt with elsewhere and are not the subject of this monograph. But let’s never forget them.

  Cost

  Today, the production, export, import, international and domestic transport and retail distribution of cannabis carry the heavy cost of surviving confiscations by the government and insuring against infiltration by law enforcement. Significant funds are used to establish information valves and blocks that afford protection to one level of distribution from the danger that might occur when an individual or organisation from another level is busted. As a result, current importation and distribution firms are inefficient both in reducing costs and preserving and transmitting useful information. Although this does have the fortunate consequence of supplying people with the opportunity of making a living, it also implies that costs and prices of currently illegal cannabis are inevitably greater than those that would prevail in an untaxed or moderately taxed legal market.