14. My Own Worst Enemy
Eighteen months had passed since I’d rolled my last joint and I continued to see significant improvements in every aspect of life. Just like my parents had done with my sister Janet, I’d fastidiously removed all traces of Pennie from around the house and banned the use of her name. Supported by a terrific boss, my career had finally taken off and I was settling well into a challenging new role as personnel manager for the brewery. With fewer hospitality events to oversee, it meant that the kids saw more of their father. I had time to read, to play with them, to take them swimming and attend school plays. Annie and I talked more than we had done in ages and reminded each other of the people we’d fallen in love with. It was as if all the good things which had been withheld while stoned were suddenly released and had come flooding back into the house. The icing on this rich and flavoursome cake was discovering that Annie was expecting our third baby. This news provided us with the impetus to complete the refurbishment of the property, put it on the market and buy somewhere large enough to accommodate a family of five. In preparation for the move we were forced to confront the very last undecorated room – our old smoker’s corner, the utility room. Farewell I thought to the last vestige of our hedonistic partying lifestyle. Things really did seem to be ‘on the up’.
For our final party before the move, celebrations were transferred from the utility into the lounge. It was new year’s eve 1999, the cusp of the much hyped new millennium. With Pennie Fenton out of the picture, everyone accepted our invitation to attend and the house was packed. A few smokers popped through for a cigarette every so often, but the focus of the night was much more on the growing number of small children present and on catching up with old friends. It almost felt like a weight had been lifted. I bought one of those enormous fireworks you often see for sale at this time of year and think, who on earth would pay so much for a single rocket? It was a monster. The intention was to launch the missile from the bottom of the garden at the stroke of midnight and then watch in wonder as it shimmied towards the stars signalling the start of a new century. During the evening I asked guests to write down one personal wish for the future on a small piece of paper and, without revealing it to anyone else, fasten it to the side of the rocket. Everyone was really excited at the prospect of simultaneously launching their hopes and dreams at this unique moment in history when time itself took centre stage.
Unfortunately, the extra weight and various bits of tape, interfered with the trajectory of the missile and instead of heading upwards; it toppled over and careered off at a low angle. It only just cleared a neighbour’s three foot fence before scuttling along the grass and scorching their otherwise perfect lawn. Eventually, it collided with a garage wall and split into a number of pieces, all of which exploded across another two other gardens. Naturally I interpreted this disaster as being pregnant with implication. Would this now mean that our wishes wouldn’t come true? Would the following year be a difficult and arduous one for all?
It was the morning after the party before, when I realised that I wasn’t completely convinced I’d stopped smoking for good. Up early, out picking up the scattered remains of imploded rocket debris from neighbouring lawns; I collected a number of the blackened, but still legible wishes for the year ahead. Sneaking a look, it was clear that my wife wanted to take a part time teaching course; Faye hoped Stuart would propose to her: my son Toby needed a Red Power Ranger. Celebrations over and now feeling more sober, I dared to revisit my own charred message to remind myself what my greatest hope for the future was. In the cold light of day I was really disappointed with what I’d scrawled. All it said was: ‘I don’t want to see Pennie Fenton next Year’.
Out of all the aspirational things I could’ve wished for, all I could come up with was this pathetic plea to avoid temptation. Clearly cannabis still had some kind of hold on me and the longer I tried to exercise restraint, the harder it became to distance myself. Soon, the renewed energy I’d discovered during the previous eighteen months wasn’t enough to overcome years of emotional unsophistication. By simply parking my enormous attraction for ‘a bit of blow’ instead of really confronting it, I foolishly allowed it to creep back in. What you resist persists.
There was little doubt researching into Janet’s accident had been rejuvenating. It was like finding a missing part of a puzzle you hadn’t realised you needed. With this pivotal piece inserted, the rest of the puzzle made more sense. My mind had started to reassemble itself providing a salutary reminder of how much easier life had been before I’d ever got involved with cannabis. Problem was, although I felt more focused and had made progress at home and work without any assistance from cannabis, I remained strongly attracted to the habit I had forged for myself. Allan and Kirsty were both still heavy users and the temptation to cadge a crafty ‘toke’ was present whenever I saw them. Simply knowing that I was better off not smoking dope was insufficient to eradicate the mental reliance, particularly during times of duress. In many ways pressure was synonymous with cannabis and the more pressure I felt I was under, the sharper my desire to get stoned. By reinforcing this message to myself over the long period of time prior to stopping smoking, I’d conditioned myself into thinking the way to handle stress was to ‘knock a cheeky little number together’. So when a series of events conspired to test my resilience levels over the next few months, it was inevitable I’d seek assistance from my old support mechanism.
Looking for reasons to start again, which I could place outside my circle of influence, wasn’t taxing. Years of convincing myself I wasn’t responsible for anything which happened to me had made it easy to reject the notion of personal accountability. Potential external contributors were everywhere, if you looked hard enough for them.
In the end, it turned out to be sixties’ icon Marianne Faithfull who finally got me back into drugs. Growing up, every rebellious schoolboy’s dream was to be corrupted by her and somehow I ended up actually achieving this ambition. The week I crumbled (even easier than the blocks of resin I was looking forward to re-acquainting myself with) was mainly spent sitting on East Coast rail lines going back and forth to London with work. These were long boring journeys and I deliberately occupied myself by reading non-work material. Faithfull’s intelligent biography may have terrified some readers with its recollections of decadent excess, but I was consumed by the descriptions of her hedonistic drug fuelled lifestyle. I’d started to read the book because of the references to The Rolling Stones, but by the end of a week of monotonous meetings in the City, I was re-reading various chapters to discover more about the author.
I was interested in how someone from aristocratic roots, who had enjoyed a high profile singing career and was girlfriend to one of the most successful vocalists of his generation; could be reduced to living on the streets of London as a destitute heroin addict. Despite the subject matter I found the book entertaining and ultimately uplifting as it told how Faithfull went on to rebuild her life and career. It demonstrated that, even in such extreme circumstances, out of bad comes good. Many people may have interpreted the story to be a cautionary tale. Bizarrely for me it had the opposite effect. It reminded me of all the fun I used to have and suggested even users of the hardest drugs could turn their life around. Unfortunately the subliminal message I sent to myself was that a little smoke of marijuana now and again was nothing by comparison and could easily be controlled. The book therefore made quite an impression on my somewhat distorted imagination and by the end of a tiring week, I was dusting down my copy of her Broken English LP and preparing to contact my sister, excited to discover what a few drags of a joint would do to my head following such an extended break. Once the decision to call Kirsty had been made; the anticipation of that first flavoursome toke, was as pleasurable as all those memories I had of getting stoned.
Every high expectation I held was fully realised on Wednesday 16 February 2000 when Kirsty called round. Although I’d joyfully accepted that I was on the brink of partaking,
I held back for almost an hour in a feeble attempt to parade my so-called willpower to her. Unhelpfully all my patience was duly rewarded. The first few smokes after any period of abstinence were always the best. The active chemical in the spliff, the THC, is particularly potent and the effect on your brain seems much more recognisable. This meant if ever you did manage to stop for a while, the temptation to start again actually increases with time rather than decreases, because you are guaranteed to achieve a delirious high from your decision to defer.
By the time we’d burnt just one magnificent spiff right back to its cardboard roach; the much needed ‘reality check’ from the year before had well and truly bounced. The build-up to this backslide was a far cry from when I was thinking about trying cannabis in the seventies. In those days, I didn’t know what to expect, but suspected I’d like whatever it turned out to be. This time, twenty years later it felt more like defeated resignation, since I knew precisely what was ahead of me. The decision to allow Pennie back was marginally less sensible than inviting an anaemic vampire into your life, the very same bloodsucker who you were aware had been stalking you for years. Like a fool, I propped the front door open and told her to make herself at home. Pennie duly obliged.
The UK press did little to curb my renewed enthusiasm. I reassured myself by reading a growing number of articles, which inferred there were no long term effects from a surfeit of this mild and ‘natural’ plant. Reports about the proliferation of its use were rife. Back in 1995, it seemed like Howard Marks’s release from jail after serving only seven years of a twenty-five year sentence for trafficking cannabis, had received the same sort of positive coverage afforded to Nelson Mandela! Two years later The Independent on Sunday launched its own legalise cannabis campaign. Famously cautious pop star Gary Barlow admitted to partaking in the odd spliff; even former labour cabinet minister Mo Mowlam publically revealed she’d inhaled! To make matters worse, the government seemed to be endorsing its use when the Home Secretary went on to announce cannabis was to be reclassified, moving it down to class C drug, effectively removing any threat of arrest for possession.
The return of Pennie Fenton coincided with a marked change in my own fortunes. In 2000 progress at work and at home faltered. Everything became more arduous. This was the same year the brewery was bought out by an international leisure group. As soon as the takeover was agreed, the threat of ‘significant redundancies’ across the human resources team was being muted. Uncertainty about what would happen to my department left me feeling restless and somewhat apprehensive. My old boss was first to go. He was replaced by an ambitious outsider called Jack Wallace, who bitterly resented his enforced move to the Yorkshire brewery. Within days of this unwarranted appointment Wallace made it clear he had his sights set firmly on wider promotional opportunities and wouldn’t be around for long in what he regarded as a parochial little job. In order to move on though, he knew he had to make his mark. It didn’t take long to work out that this could best be achieved through a generous application of secrecy, influence, power and authority. Wallace was no visionary leader, the only way this man could ever see further was by standing on the toes of anyone smaller than him.
Employees in commercial functions at the brewery were an odd bunch. They tended to congregate in defined groups. Many were ruthless bastards, some laid back former professional sports players, others hard working careerists. The largest collective were middle aged men who’d fought their way up from rougher backgrounds and who would do anything to maintain the comfortable lifestyle the brewery was able to provide. Such individuals tended to keep each other’s company and secrets. My new boss and his disingenuous right-hand man fitted neatly into this category. Team nights out fuelled by loads of free booze, had led to a number of stories being circulated about them. The one which stained their expensive suits the longest was a recurring report which suggested these two married men had simultaneously hopped into bed with a not very bright young woman who worked as an apprentice in the staff canteen. This much mythologised feat, which allegedly took place only weeks after they’d started in role, was openly referred to by the rest of the team as ‘The corned beef sandwich’. Classy.
Wallace had a sergeant major type of approach to management, his emails were written in capital letters and always demanded a speedy response to any enquiry. I suspect Allan Hewitt would have loved the lack of ambiguity he provided as a boss. Wallace firmly believed people needed lots of applied pressure to perform at their full level and insisted that, “A kick up the arse is always a better motivator than a pat on the back.”
The man was a prick.
On Wallace’s watch, the brewery went through a series of complicated and time-consuming reorganisations. All of HR’s attention was devoted to how we could streamline our ever-evolving support structures. It was like walking on quicksand, no one ever felt fully settled because within a few months priorities changed and you would find yourself either working in a different territory or for a new trading company. The new senior management group seemed to revel in the drama of it all, providing them with an excellent excuse for being even more clandestine than usual. A series of announcements were shrouded in secrecy. Weekends and holidays were regularly interrupted by urgent calls at 06:00 a.m. to come straight over to the Head Office for yet another shock announcement.
At home there was no let up from these mounting tensions. Not only was the whole family frustrated by the lack of progress on the house sale; but as soon as the contracts were about to be exchanged, we discovered major structural problems with our new property. These issues led to protracted negotiations with the vendors about mortar erosion which further delayed the move. So, while Pennie Fenton had returned and cemented her position in my life, it felt like everything else was crumbling.
A couple of months after eventually settling into the new house we realised we weren’t using the integral garage and so while Annie nursed baby Travis; I set about converting the back half of this poorly heated space into a playroom for him and his two siblings. With Pennie back in the fray it was hard not to make comparisons with our old smoker’s room. Just like the utility room, this latest conversion felt like an add-on, connected to the main house but also outside of it. Since all the old chairs from the utility had been thrown out during the move, the only seating available was a well-worn blue futon cushion which was slung across the floor. This padded mattress transformed the otherwise functional room into something resembling a student flat. The perfect environment for a sneaky ‘single sheeter’ or two after a stressful day.
With pressures at work mounting, I was dropping in to see my sister more regularly at the end of the day to cadge a few tokes, before driving back to Scunthorpe. At home Annie turned a blind eye as one shared spliff became a few joints, a weekend blast with some borrowed gear became a frequent midweek treat. Overlay a few more redundancies in the team and it wasn’t long before I was back into smoking resin on a regular basis – not colossal amounts, but much more frequently at home than I’d ever done before.
Lubricated by the disappointment I felt for letting myself and my family down, I slid effortlessly into excessive enthusiasm. Dependent on something I despised, I was rapidly becoming Pennie’s bitch. According to a Spanish proverb, habits begin as cobwebs which over time, bind to form giant cables. The conversion from gossamer strands to steel rods in terms of my Pennie Fenton habit probably happened around this point, as our time together morphed from a social experience into a more solitary activity. Apparently misery loves company, yet here I was spending most of my time on my own. Friendships invariably took second place to Pennie and by this stage many of the more fragile relationships with old mates had already been broken.
My friendship with Stuart wasn’t far off breaking point. I blamed him for being distant and remote, for never coming round to see us after we’d moved. Unable to reflect on my own contributions to this situation, I decided that the next time I saw him I was going to confront him about his dilatory atti
tude. Straight talker Stuart wasn’t having any of it.
“Why the hell should I come round to see you when you have nothing to say? You’re away with the fairies, smoking too much of that stuff. It’s not good for you. I’ve been telling you for months, but you never stop to listen,” Stuart said, clearly seething.
“I thought we had a laugh whenever you come round,” I said.
“Well you thought wrong – recently, very wrong. What is the point in me making an effort to come round just to watch you sitting there getting trashed, repeating the same nonsense over and over again. To be honest, it saddens me to see what’s happened to you – especially in the last year or so since you went back on that stuff. I actually think it’s changed your personality.”
“I think you’re being a bit dramatic.”
“Not at all, you’ve stopped joining in with things, you don’t socialise, you’re not interested in mixing with other people. You have nothing to say. I’ve tried to talk to Annie about it – reminding her how you’d be invited to a party just to brighten it up…”
“What? You spoke to Annie – about me?”
“Yes, I did – only because I’m worried. I said to her that these days you hardly have enough get up and go about you to flick a fucking light switch on.”
“You went behind my back?” I said, sticking on the same point
“This is another example of what I’m talking about. You’re totally paranoid about everything. Straighten yourself out or lose the few mates you’ve got left Charlie,” Stuart said, now getting his car keys out of his coat pocket.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 18
