by Ben Elton
‘And in answer to my Right Honourable colleague’s question, no, I do not consider drug use a trivial thing. I can assure you that I have better things to do than waste this house’s time with trivia. But I feel bound to add that nor do I think it a trivial thing that the vast majority of police time in my constituency is consumed m either pursuing drug users or dealing with the consequences of drug use — theft, prostitution and gun law! It is a matter of simple fact that a vast proportion of the young people in this country take drugs. That does not make them all drug addicts, but it does make them all criminals! Yes, Madam Speaker, criminals! Along with the numerous prosperous, law-abiding people who smoked marijuana at university and still take it occasionally at dinner parties! Class B? Class C? Class X, Y and Z! It doesn’t matter: they are still all outside the law! As are the young professionals who snort cocaine as a weekend treat. And prominent celebrities…pop stars such as Tommy Hanson…‘ Peter waved a newspaper above his head. ‘…who only last week was once more on the front pages of the tabloids openly discussing his thousand-pound-a-day habits and his efforts to kick them! Along with the members of this house…Yes, Madam Speaker, the members of this house! Those who took drugs in their youth and who continue to take them nowV
The pandemonium that had been ringing around the debating chamber redoubled. Peter faced them down. It was David and Goliath, a great throng of baying, screeching school bullies against one small brave voice of honest reason. Peter knew that never again in his life would he do anything as significant as what he was doing at this moment. His hour had come.
‘No, Madam Speaker, I will not withdraw! There are over six hundred and fifty members of this house, all adults, mostly born in the fifties and the sixties, educated in the seventies, the eighties and the nineties, educated at British universities which, like the rest of the country, are awash with drugs. It is absurd to pretend that none of us here today has experienced illegal drugs, impossible to imagine that there is no member of this ancient body who might not still indulge in such a thing. I will not withdraw!’
The stern-looking woman in the Chair enquired whether the Right Honourable Member for Dalston North West had anything to confess himself. Peter was, of course, ready for this. He had rehearsed it with Angela playing the role of speaker. He rose up to take the challenge between his teeth like a lion bringing down an antelope.
‘Yes, Madam Speaker, I am perfectly happy to inform this house under parliamentary privilege that as a student I occasionally smoked a marijuana cigarette, or ‘joint’. I no longer indulge in the habit, but I most certainly did at one time and I have many friends who continue to do so, and who do so on occasion at my housed Peter’s confession took his audience by surprise, quietening them momentarily. Allowing one’s premises to be used for the purpose of drug-taking was, after all, illegal. Peter was admitting to a criminal offence.
‘I would, however, be loath to make such a confession outside of this house, for I should not wish to inconvenience the police by putting them to the trouble of interviewing me, which would certainly be their duty under the current law. Although, as we all know, the police have scarcely the energy or the resources to carry out such a duty…No, madam, I am not trying to be funny. You will know when I am trying to be funny by the simple fact that people will be laughing…’
This was cheek indeed from a lowly backbencher, but Peter was on fire. What was more, the joke actually played rather well and would later be much reported. Could it be that he was making progress?
‘I am attempting to point out that, under British law, pretty much the entire population of this country has been criminalized. We are all either criminals ourselves or associates of criminals or relatives of criminals. We buy CDs produced by criminals, we see films that star criminals, watch award shows compered by criminals! Our stocks and shares are brokered by criminals, our roads are swept by criminals, our children are taught by criminals. Can we not admit it? Are we not a mature enough society to face the clear and obvious truth? We must admit it. Our future way of life depends on it. For this vast nation of — how shall I put it? — social criminals is linked arterially to a corrosive, cancerous core of real criminals. Murderers. Pimps. Gangsters.
Gunmen. Lethally unscrupulous backroom chemists! We are all connected to these people because there is no legal way for an otherwise law-abiding population to get high, which it is clearly intent upon doing. The law is effectively the number-one sponsor of organized crime!’
Once more there was pandemonium in the house. The opposition waved their order papers and the government front bench sat stony-faced. It was, after all, one of their own backbenchers who was delivering this inflammatory heresy. They hated Peter Paget, had hated him for years. But now he had become dangerous; not happy with merely opposing their mild decriminalization policy, he was now calling for legalized anarchy. They feared he would bring discredit upon the whole party, perhaps cost them the next election. The Prime Minister turned and glared at Peter with a silent steely gaze while the house descended into uproar.
‘You may try to shout me down, but I will be heard, and I will tell you this. An officer in my constituency was killed in a Yardie gang shooting last week. I attended his funeral. I watched as the dead man’s coffin, bearing the union flag, passed by his weeping family. That same flag, Madam Speaker, flies above this house! And above every government building. It is the symbol of our law. And yet it was this law that killed the brave officer I saw buried last week!’
Now the front bench were no longer stony-faced. The Prime Minister’s visage was a mask of grim fury; the Home Secretary waved his arms like a new boy. The Speaker felt moved to warn Peter that it was no part of his duty as an MP to insult the flag to which he had sworn allegiance, but Peter would not be warned: he felt inspired. What was more, he knew he was right. And he knew that they knew he was right. That was what was making them so angry. The only thing that stood between the government of Great Britain and the stone-cold logical truth of his argument was that his was a truth that so far nobody in any position of responsibility had been allowed to acknowledge. Well, Peter Paget would do that for them, and he would make them listen.
‘No, madam, I am not trying to score cheap points! If you think that I would invoke the memory of a recently dead hero merely in order to decorate my argument, then I am afraid that it is I who must protest to you. I am stating the simple fact that an officer in my constituency was shot dead while pursuing a criminal whose income is derived solely from supplying cocaine to otherwise entirely law-abiding people. If those people were able to get their cocaine at the off licence, properly licensed, taxed and restricted to adults, then the man who killed that officer would have to find some other means of making a living and there would be one less police widow! And it is not only the police who walk in fear in our increasingly violent society! We all do! In some communities people count each day a lucky one if their homes are not broken into and their persons not assaulted by depraved junkies desperate to finance their terrible craving. We all know that the vast majority of muggings and burglaries are drug-fuelled! Why should we have to suffer for other people’s addictions? Let me ask you this, let me put the unashamedly selfish argument for legalization: would you honestly care if the number of addicts in this country doubled, even trebled, if it meant that your home was no longer in danger of being broken into and your children were free from the fear of being mugged for their pocket money and mobile phones?’
For a moment the uproar died. This was an interesting point.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m not at all convinced that the number of addicts would rise dramatically anyway. Experiments in Holland suggest that they would not, but I put it to you again, even if they did would you really care as long as they were properly housed, properly looked after and above all not stealing your VCR?’
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS LOBBY, WESTMINSTER
Peter Paget’s parliamentary assistant felt her heart pounding with excitement. She could h
ear the roars from inside the debating chamber and knew that her employer was truly in the lion’s den. Samantha had been with Peter for almost four months and had shared with him the build-up to this moment. She felt that it was almost as much her day as his. Unable to stand the tension any longer, she phoned her mother on her mobile phone.
‘He’s in there now, Mum. It sounds like they’re tearing him apart.’
Forewarned by her daughter, Samantha’s mother had been watching the debate on the Parliament Channel and assured Samantha that Peter was acquitting himself splendidly.
‘Oh, he’s so wonderful, Mum. He went through the speech with me this morning, sitting on a bench in Parliament Square. It’s incredible, his passion, his commitment, the things he believes. He’s the only real man in that bloody place. The Prime Minister’s just a moron compared to him. Oh, Mum, I wish you’d seen us out there working together, right in the shadow of Parliament. I felt so proud that he chose me to try out his lines on. He even took a couple of my suggestions! I know! He’s got this bit about the Union Jack draped on a police coffin and as he was talking I looked up and saw the flag that flies above the house and it seemed like providence, so I said that he should draw a comparison between the two flags. He said it was a brilliant idea and promised to use it! He did? Oh, that’s amazing! But it’s all him, of course, I mean it’s him that makes it work. He’s just brilliant, that’s all. He claims his wife helps him with his stuff, but I doubt it, I mean, come on, as if. What would she know? She’s just a boring little mouse. Although I do think it’s sweet of him to be so supportive of her. Honestly, Mum, it was just so exciting going through it all with him…with Big Ben looking down on us and the sunshine on the roof of Westminster Abbey, so romantic…And then when he got up to go in he said ‘Wish me luck’ and I did and then he kissed me! In public! He’s never done that before…I’m not being silly. I just think it’s a sign, that’s all.’
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, WESTMINSTER
Inside the debating chamber the object of this girlish affection was hot. Peter wanted to remove his jacket, but he knew that there would be dark rings of sweat at his armpits. He wished that he had worn a lighter-coloured shirt. He was experienced enough a politician to know that sweaty armpits were just the sort of thing that could blow an entire speech by securing more coverage than the issues under discussion. Although on this occasion such was the force of Peter’s performance that he could probably have stripped naked and still have the content of his speech properly reported. He had galvanized the emotions of the house in a manner not seen since the heady days of Mrs Thatcher.
‘I am not alone in my thinking, Madam Speaker. I can see that there are Honourable Members here today sitting on all sides of the house who see things as I do, although they’re scared to admit it. And let me tell you this: no less a figure than the senior policeman in my constituency, Commander Barry Leman, agrees with every word I’ve said. He has been my trusted adviser during the preparation of my bill and would be happy to appear before a parliamentary committee to offer a police perspective.’
Madam Speaker observed that it was not for police officers, senior or otherwise, to invite themselves to address parliamentary committees. Madam Speaker wondered if Mr Paget was suggesting that Commander Leman represented the official view of the Metropolitan Police.
‘No, Madam Speaker, I suspect that he does not, just as my views do not represent the official line of my own party. Nonetheless, Commander Leman and I both believe passionately that it is the law that is killing officers in the drugs war! For the law refuses to acknowledge the patently obvious fact that the drugs war is lost! Yes, it is lost, Madam Speaker! Will this house persist for ever in its self-deception? Sufficient people take drugs to make life in this country and indeed the entire world an ever worsening misery. But only, Madam Speaker, only because they must buy them from criminals! We have lost the war! We are currently living under the yoke of a victorious army of occupation! An army of drug barons, gangsters, pushers, traffickers, murderers, petty thieves, prostitutes, muggers, corrupted officials and all the low lifes of a criminal economy, a vast world trade existing outside all law. Can not we, who sit in this house, this house, which is the mother of all parliaments, the proud cradle of democracy in the modern world, can we not once more give that world a lead? Have the courage to do the unthinkable! To do that which would in a single instant pull the rug from beneath ninety per cent of the criminals on this planet? Can we not move to legalize, legalize, mind, not decriminalize, all drugs?’
Afterwards, in the lobby of the house, Peter Paget stood blinking in the light of his instant fame. His had been one of the great parliamentary debuts, for, despite his seventeen years of service, to all intents and purposes debut it had been. The kind of bravura, firecracker performance that weary lobby correspondents had thought had long since been consigned to the romance of history. By the end of his speech, as he himself had noted, Peter had without doubt begun to make a favourable impression on many of his colleagues, and his back had been slapped and his face snarled at in equal proportions. This is not to say that half of the Members of Parliament were going to vote for full legalization, but many were grateful to Peter for having the courage to raise the issues. Particularly since they all viewed his bill as career suicide. Nobody in recent years had sparked such instant and furious debate. Peter Paget was blinking in the limelight and as he smiled at the starstruck face of his parliamentary assistant he knew that he was finally above the radar.
THE LEMAN HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
Ten minutes after Commander Barry Leman left the house the phone rang.
‘Hello, Leman residence.’
‘Mrs Leman?’
‘Yes. Who is this speaking?’
‘I’d like to speak to your husband.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘A friend.’
‘I know all his friends. I presume you have a name.’
‘Just put me on to your husband, please, Mrs Leman. It’s in his interests.’
Christine Leman pressed the record button on the answerphone connected to the Snoopy phone’s plinth. She wondered if the caller heard the click. ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t speak to people who refuse to identify themselves.’
‘Then will you give him a message?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell him to drop his support for Paget’s Private Member’s Bill.’
‘Ah, I see — ’
‘And tell him to drop his inquiries into Drug Squad corruption.’
‘If you have views on either of those subjects you can address them in writing to Dalston Police Station, or alternatively my husband’s email address at the Met is — ’
‘Tell him to drop what he’s doing or we’ll drop him. Did you hear that, Mrs Leman? Do you understand?’
‘I’m recording this conversation.’
‘You can record what you like, Mrs Leman. And once you’ve recorded it, why not play it to your daughter? The one who attends Kingswood School for Girls. The one who walks unaccompanied to drama classes every Saturday morning. The one who attends netball practice Monday evenings six till eight and then gets a lift to the corner of Jackson Road and cuts home through the allotments. Do you understand, Mrs Leman?
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, WESTMINSTER
The Shadow Home Secretary glared furiously at the Speaker, to Peter Paget, and then back again.
‘Madam Speaker, in all my years as a member of this house, and they span no less than five parliaments, I have never been so revolted as I am by the comments made by my honourable colleague the Member for Dalston North West. That such an irresponsible man with such dangerous, anarchic opinions feels able to remain a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament simply beggars belief. Just as it is astonishing to me that the high-ranking police officer whose support he claims to have secured, Commander Barry Leman, openly advocates drug use and yet feels able to remain a member of the Metropolitan Police. If there is one thing on which
I think all sane and right-thinking people in this country can agree it is that people, particularly young people, particularly children, must be protected from the evils of drugs! Surely that single principle is one which must cross all party boundaries? And yet we have been forced to sit listening to a member of this house, a government backbencher, suggesting that we legalize these lethal substances. That we make them readily available to any bored teenager who might imagine that he or she wants them. I am sickened by the whole idea. Will the Prime Minister not immediately condemn his errant colleague? Will he not withdraw the whip? Banish him from his party, a party which, for all its many faults, has never thus far harboured apologists for criminals and advocates of anarchy!’
The Prime Minister did not need this. He had an extensive legislative programme to push through and already too much parliamentary time and no doubt every headline in the next morning’s papers had been hijacked by the MP for Dalston North West.
He rose to reply.
‘Madam Speaker, as my honourable colleague the Shadow Home Secretary is well aware, the Member for Dalston North West has introduced a Private Member’s Bill, which is his privilege. His opinions form no part of the government’s policy and, like my honourable colleague, I reject them utterly. We shall continue with our cautious approach to the decriminalization of cannabis while committing ourselves with ever more energy to the rigorous enforcement of the law on Class A drugs.’
He sat down to respectful applause, but nonetheless there were doubtful faces on the benches. Paget had lit a touch paper; he had said the unsayable and the genie was out of the bottle. Everybody knew that the war on drugs was if not lost at least unwinnable, and if Paget continued to pursue his crusade with the vigour with which he had started it, the ostrich politics that had informed the drug debate for so many decades would no longer be an option.
