This passage to enlightenment turned out to be skippered for most of its turbulent journey by just one man.
13. Oh Captain, My Captain
Starting in the mid-nineties and for the three years which followed, Allan Hewitt knocked on our door, as regular as clockwork on the eve of Christmas Eve. Following a quick chat and a late meal, we’d grab a beer and then settle down for a long evening in the utility room. Those nights were tremendous, bonding times. Allan liked getting trashed more than anyone I’d ever met and our sessions together always resulted in a major assault on our brain cells. We labelled these festive get-togethers ‘war’.
Anticipating carnage, Allan would arrive armed with his ornate wooden ‘stash box’. It contained all the necessary supplies - three packs of Rizlas, two lighters, a box of Swan Vestas, some tobacco and enough cannabis resin to intoxicate a small village. Annie and others would join us for a toke or two from the battery of spliffs he produced, but this tended to be by exception, with no one else getting quite so dirty in the trenches as the two of us. We were relentless in our enthusiasm. Cannabis was our unifying foible and we celebrated the fact.
Back in those fledgling days, the term ‘foible’ was often bandied about because Allan and I liked the way it downplayed the extent of our fascination. As this word was usually applied to the slightest of flaws; the implication was that our mutual habit was simply an expression of a more unorthodox approach. We started to use the term after Allan had read a quote by the eccentric horticulturalist, Frank Crisp. His words became like a shield for us and were used to buffer any gibes about our blossoming captivation with cannabis.
“Scan not a friend with a microscopic glass. You know his faults, now let his foibles pass”.
“Let our foible pass,” we’d say.
The strategy seemed to work, with most friends finding it highly amusing how the two of us had a ‘special fondness’ for being stoned. Because of this, we were pretty much left to our own devices.
I am not sure why Allan and I had such a strong predilection for smoking joints, but it was unmistakable that the two of us got a bigger kick out of it than anyone else we knew. Fundamentally we really enjoyed it. I mean REALLY enjoyed it. Because of our competitive natures, we would egg each other on to see who could inhale most of the thick foggy fumes. Spliff after spliff, was lit until we were as high as two kites on one very windy day. Unlike getting pissed at the pub, we could smoke until late, laugh our heads off all night and still function effectively the next day at work. There appeared to be no dull hangover and no deterioration of mental sharpness from our herbal high – at least not in the short term.
We both accepted that there were a couple of minor inconveniences linked to our favourite pastime. Firstly it was clear that a few spliffs didn’t mix well with lots of alcohol, since combining the two usually made you feel nauseous. Secondly, big smoking sessions always brought about a serious bout of the munchies, where you felt compelled to eat as much of the stodgiest kind of high carb food as you could fit into your mouth. Cheese and ham on toast, cheese on crumpets, buttery toast, any type of chocolate - all hit the spot. ‘Whiteys’ could also occur, which would stop you in your tracks. These usually followed straight after you’d attempted to satisfy your craving for crap food. They were characterised by the rapid disappearance of any colour from your face, followed by a feeling of queasiness which lasted for a few minutes. I was famous for ‘greenies’ – a house speciality which was thought to be a more extreme version of the ‘whitey’. The ‘greenie’ term was used to describe the distinctive olive coloured complexion which let onlookers know I was about to chuck-up masses of partially digested high carb cuisine into the nearest loo. Christmas time, mistletoe and wine... Following a short break, I’d roll up another ‘cheeky number’ and start all over again. Out of bad comes good.
Allan and I bounced off each other so well because we were very different people. What I wanted from smoking pot for example, was completely at odds with what he was after, yet whenever we rolled spliffs together, we had more fun than with anyone else. For me, smoking brought about the same kind of mellow euphoria I had experienced while experimenting with the ‘feinting game’ as a teenager. I especially liked the way a good spliff helped me to think a little more imaginatively, to consider other possibilities and to perhaps … become a little more creative . I was naive, impressionable and a little romantic about the benefits of getting high. Allan on the other hand, would never have dreamed about smoking to elevate his artistic temperament. Instead, he enjoyed smoking spliffs because marijuana helped him to burn away his frustrations and manage his formidable temper. For him, getting stoned was a functional activity which brought about demonstrable results, plain and simple.
It was Allan who taught me everything I needed to know about smoking gear. He was my captain, my sensei. His principal role was to educate me in the Ways of the Spliff and like any good induction programme, his first couple of instructive sessions back in 1995 highlighted the behavioural standards he expected from his new apprentice.
“In terms of etiquette, there are norms which you’ll need to adhere to,” Allan said. “The lighting of each new joint is always granted to the person who has rolled it. It’s a very special moment”.
“I can see that a Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind[4],” I flippantly replied, unable to resist injecting a little humour into the proceedings.
“It’s essential that a virgin spliff must always be lit using a single match Charlie, never with a vulgar high-tech lighter. One match is all you get. I do always bring a lighter or two with me, but these are used to soften the resin block – never for lighting the joint.”
“Wouldn’t it be a lot easier if we used a lighter – especially if you’ve got one in your box of tricks?” I asked.
“Years of research in this field, has revealed there is something unique about that first toke. Being forced to strike the spliff from a single crackling match means you invariably inhale a little bit of sulphur during the first drag and this makes the whole joint especially sweet.”
“Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope[4],” I said, bowing my head a little. “It is clear I have much to learn.”
“What are you going on about? I’m trying to share my knowledge here. If you’re taking the piss, I’m not going to bother.”
“Sorry mate, I’m not having a go, I just have loads of images of Star Wars running through my mind – you know when Luke was being trained to be a Jedi – It’s like you are the master and I’m the pupil.”
“Never seen Star Wars,” he said, before continuing with his orderly tuition. “When passing joints around, it is best to take three of four draws from an average sized spliff before giving it to others in the group. Always do this in a clockwise direction.”
“I see, three or four… in a clockwise direction,” I repeated, just to confirm I was on board and taking the whole thing seriously.
“The only exception to this rule is when more than five people are smoking at the same time. On these occasions, to make sure everyone gets their fair share; it’s good practice to have two or three spliffs on the go at the same time. This way there is no dilution of available drags.”
Mr Hewitt had thought about everything.
After he’d covered the basics, Allan’s next lesson was on the fine art of rolling a perfect joint. As any stoner knows, this in itself is something to cherish, an activity to enjoy. The finished product becomes a testimony to your skill and experience as a ‘master roller’. Determined to improve my competence in this area, I volunteered to roll every single spliff during that inaugural Christmas session. Given that it was Allan’s gear, he would always provide cues as to when I should commence with the next one.
“You should knock your next number up.”
“It’s time to put a cheeky little one together.”
“Are you ready to chillax Charlie?”
Through his patient mentoring my
skills gradually developed and before long I progressed from an amateurish ‘three paper blanket’ spliff to a more mature ‘single kinger’ technique. I was amazed to discover that the king sized Rizla – aka the joint- makers best friend, came in all sorts of varieties and flavours (liquorice anyone?). My personal favourite at the time was the medium weight, green coloured pack. These contained papers which weren’t quite as thin as ones inside the blue or silver versions preferred by many. Instead for me and my clumsy disposition, they offered a relatively unbreakable housing for the mixture of dried tobacco and crumbled resin block. The more I used them, the more proficient I became. Before I knew it, each carefully constructed spliff was a robust, ravishing little beauty. The only problem I ever encountered was sourcing some of the building materials since it was blatantly obvious what these king sized Rizlas were being used for. No one ever smoked rolled up cigarettes using extended length papers, so sheepishly asking to buy them at a shop, took me back to when I was a teenager going into a chemist to ask for a pack of condoms.
Rolling all these spliffs, even in the relative safety of the utility room was not without its hazards.
“You have to remember to soften the resin before you try to crumble it. Get this right and it will fall apart like an Oxo cube,” Allan explained.
“Any tips?” I asked, knowing that more advice would surely follow.
“Sure. The best way is to apply an even heat to one corner of the block, for just the right amount of time. Too long and you’ll waste my resin as it burns away into the air; not long enough and you’ll find it virtually impossible to work with.”
It was indeed a difficult balance and one which depended on the type and quality of the raw materials.
“How long is too long?” I asked.
“No more than five or ten seconds. Oily blocks always get hotter and soften sooner – so never let these burn for very long. Be warned, if you misjudge how hot the block has become, you could end up really burning yourself,” he said.
This was valuable advice. I learned that it was always the thumb which came off worst. Overheating invariably led to one or two pieces of red hot resin breaking from the block and welding themselves to the fleshiest part of your hand, creating little white blisters which lasted for weeks. The pain was excruciating. Additionally hot cannabis sometimes jumped from the tip of the burning spliff, like sparks from a crackling fire. These wayward chunks could singe holes in your clothing or fall to the floor and burn the carpet. It was a dangerous business.
Allan’s responsible reference to all things ‘health and safety’ turned out to be the last item on the agenda that Christmas. In honour of completing level one of what would become a very long programme, he rolled up a celebratory monster spliff. I can still picture that joint, it was a masterpiece.
“Ah, I am sure the fumes are strong in this, the most elegant of weapons my master,” I said, powerless to resist one final joke.
Puffing away on that bad boy, passing it between ourselves (every four tokes) like two giddy girls, we joked about how completing this final lesson on fire safety meant that I was officially au-fait with the awful dangers of this subversive drug. How little we knew.
Most of Allan’s mentoring and the majority of our smoking took place inside the safety of the utility room. Off and on we were allowed to smoke a joint at a friend’s house, but only if they had understanding partners. Once in a while we dared to take a ready-rolled spliff or two out with us to the pub. We always enjoyed the thrill of sneaking outside to find less visible parts of random pub car parks. While most of our friends were pretty cool about the whole thing, it didn’t take long for us to realise that many of the other pub regulars had a very different take on such shenanigans. Indeed, we’d heard that if anyone was found with drugs on them, the landlord of the Ashby Star would bypass his, “This is the last time I am telling you using my voice,” line in favour of a much more emphatic (wooden) instrument to highlight his inflexible stance on the matter. Allan and I therefore needed to be very discreet whenever we fancied a furtive spliff. We accepted that many drinkers in the pub believed smoking the demon weed was a gateway to harder drugs. Rather than confirm their existing prejudices about ‘layabout student-types’, we were sensible enough to see that we needed to be careful about who we involved and what we communicated. As a rouse to camouflage the true nature of any references to cannabis, the two of us therefore discussed the need to have some kind of code word which could be used whenever we fancied a quick spliff outside.
Allan had suggested we use a male name (Billy) which I rejected, in favour of female reference - believing this would enable us to discuss our obvious enthusiasm for her with far more candour. Pennie, was the name of a friend of my sister’s – a playful and indulgent young woman who was also a little left of centre. We’d thought it ironic that in literature, this name was synonymous with ‘faithfulness’. Funny because there was no way ‘our Pen’ ever limited her attentions to just one person at a time. The name Pennie also implied something disposable or low cost, which rang true. According to Allan the cost of a quarter of an ounce of resin had been about twenty-five pounds for as long as he could remember. Considering just how many spliffs you could get from one oily block, this always seemed to be rather cost effective – especially when compared to the escalating price of alcohol. We were therefore both in agreement - the name Pennie was perfect.
We’d struggled though, to identify a suitable surname. All our ideas were too deliberately bohemian, or too ordinary – making Pennie sound either like a spaced-out hippy or someone’s old school friend. Eventually we settled with Pennie Fenton. The two names went well together and resonated like a euphemism. The Fenton name came from a leaflet we’d seen for an omnipresent local solicitors which specialised in criminal representation. Perfect: Pennie and Fenton – joined together the name implied a promise of ‘cautious exuberance’.
The impromptu naming ceremony was followed by lashings of fizzy lager; after which Pennie’s name was passed around more frequently than all the spliffs she had been created to represent. With a name agreed, a legend was born and a new language established. By humanising our secret dealings, creating a female identity for our simple roll-ups; we’d immediately transformed an inanimate object into a daring little minx – our very own Femme Fatale.
Name, quickly adopted by the gang, everyone had found it terribly amusing to stand at the bar in front of the staff and start conversations about Pennie. We soon learned to abandon some of the more obvious phrases like, “I’m going to spend a Pennie – do you wanna come?” simply because it sounded a bit of an odd invitation. Slightly more successful was the use of, “Our Pen Friend,” – this worked better and was easy to include in discussions, although thinking back, it probably made us sound like a bunch of thirteen year olds discussing correspondence we’d received by air mail from someone who lived on the outskirts of Marseille.
Our original intention had been to create a way to navigate through potentially difficult conversations in public. However, it soon became clear that the personalisation of our little pastime was also helpful when making phone calls; sending letters to friends and even (for the more progressive networker) drafting surreptitious emails. We didn’t expect the phrase to snowball so quickly. From the second we had Miss Fenton’s name agreed, everyone was eager to demonstrate they were ‘in the know’ about her. I’d totally forgotten what happened at college when everyone loved the name Flash so much that no-one ever made reference to my actual name again. People like nicknames, especially if they know the story behind them and such was the appetite for this code name, it never went out of fashion. By assigning an innocuous name to our guilty pleasure, we’d created a verbal currency which was embraced by anyone who was aware of the back-story to it. The birth of a secret language which only the initiated understood.
“See you on Friday – find out if Pennie will be coming will you?”
“Kirsty and Allan will catch us up – they
bumped into Pennie on the way here.”
“Would Miss Fenton care to come outside with us for a little while?”
This ready acceptance raised Pennie’s profile and consolidated her position across the group. This would be our undoing. Her name was in the air. It was like a well thought out marketing plan, by getting people to talk about her, interest in the product had increased. Just as the ancient Egyptians believed no one really dies as long as you speak their name, we had effectively brought Pennie to life.
Our collective enthusiasm had accidently created what social anthropologists call a meme - a parasitic code which could be passed between us; one which was especially contagious to the impressionable amongst us. Memes rely on imitation to survive and even those who didn’t smoke (precious few at this point) had become far more accommodating about this thing called ‘Pennie’. By exposing them to our shared language, they too had joined our little culture and in doing so became slightly complicit. By creating this meme, the beast had been unchained, allowing the evil Lady Fenton to swoop down and gather up all the impressionable souls she could tempt. Anyone susceptible to her charms for a sustained period had unknowingly just taken a small step towards a world filled with regret. It must have been as easy as collecting conkers on a windy autumn day. Allan and I should’ve taken J.K. Rowling’s advice and only used the proper name for things, since according to the author ‘fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself[5]’. All we were doing was creating a Voldemort character for ourselves. By not actually having the courage to call cannabis, ‘cannabis’ we were hiding from the real issue of our growing addiction, while at the same time inadvertently making ourselves even more wary of it.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 17
