Tag Archives: weed

Escaping Reality, Emotionally Retarded

6 Jan

Pain isn’t something I am skilled at dealing with. Escaping pain, however, I am as good at as an Irish traveller is at fighting. Shrooms being my route of choice these days. It’s where the love lives. When life gets too ugly for me to be able to look at it, I discreetly slip away from the world and pay a visit to the realm of contentedness. These past few weeks I’ve been going there more regularly than I would usually need to. I am feeling emptier than I have in years. My spirit has been extinguished. An ache that won’t shift. A constant nausea. Too many shit things all taking place at the same time. A friend, one of life’s good humans, is lying in a hospital bed while her young kids and husband can only sit and put their faith in doctors and medical technology. Christmas. New Year. And not to mention the rejection dealt to me by a woman, – well, two rejections. Just one woman. But I was fool enough to climb back into her bed the moment she let me and then in the morning deja vu – who has, although not intentionally, absolutely crushed any confidence or feeling of self-worth that I had in myself before I met her. Destroyed. Man, I was in such a good place before that girl came into my life and turned it upside down. These things combined have knocked me on my arse. Not that anyone will know it. I am not a talker. Friends trying to engage me in conversation about what’s going on in my life just make me recoil. They meet a brick wall. It is not my way. Nor am I a social user of anything. I don’t like to have company when I’m feeling the benefits of whatever it is that my body has ingested. I fly solo. A bit of Me Time. I wait until I know I have the flat to myself for a night, and if that situation doesn’t arrive I take a bus out to my mum’s house in the sticks. No city, no cars, no street lights, no noise, and most importantly no people. A retreat. A place where I can get under the covers, drink tea, get as stoned as I want without being disturbed, and float away with the aid of some shrooms and some psytrance. It gives me perspective. Helps me to remember, even if only for a short while, that I have been prescribed an extreme dose of good fortune and managed to escape the poverty by being given the opportunity to work again, after a few years of sitting in a damp corner, occasionally having food gifted me by charities, shoplifting at times, and at other times just going without nutrition. Makes me realise that surely that was a far less desirable situation to be in than the current one of emotional trauma over a woman. Emotion is forgotten when you’re starving. These days I can eat when I’m hungry. I can drink when I’m thirsty. And I can smoke weed when I’m…….. awake. Basically. This time last year I couldn’t do any of those things. Well, as my dad used to say to me as a kid, “There’s plenty of water in the tap.” So I could drink. But you get the point. Things have been worse. Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

A week or so ago when I didn’t have any work the next day, I travelled out to my mum’s with everything I needed to be able to chill out. In the evening I laid down on the settee in the living room, ate some shrooms, wrapped myself in a blanket, got comfortable, pulled my hood up over my head, put my music in my ears and closed my eyes to block out the telly in the corner of the room that my mum was sat on the other settee watching. She knew to leave me in peace to enjoy my trip. And then the usual vivid memories started to come over me. The ones where I am actually back there, experiencing it again but at the same time detached, like Scrooge stood next to the ghost of Christmas past. If that makes sense. I went back to a night almost 20 years ago.

In that happy place

In that happy place

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Daily Mail’s Alternative Christmas Message: Why Everything In Life Is Better When Stoned

7 May

I have smoked weed every day for the past four months, apart from the odd day when I’ve run out of one stash before the next has arrived, and I gotta tell you, I feel pretty good. Have done consistently for, um, at least the last four months. I haven’t done any drugs since the end of October. I’ve only had one drinking session this year. I don’t smoke cigarettes any more, the thought of one makes me feel grim, and I don’t even ever want a rollie. Until a few months ago I was a 20-30 a day man. Now no cigarettes. ‘But Kris, you still get through a load of tobacco that you put in your spliffs. You’re being a bit misleading there,’ ‘Yes, I know I still smoke tobacco in my spliffs, thanks for pointing that out anyway,’ ‘Was that sarcastic?’ ‘Nooooo,’ ‘Now that definitely was, wasn’t it?’ Anyway, my point is, I smoke weed and I feel pretty good.

I have a little ritual. Every night before I go to bed, I roll three spliffs and place them next to the bed, then I put clothes for the next day onto a pile on the floor next to my shoes, then I throw a satsuma (and sometimes an apple) on top of the pile, and then I read in bed for a bit. Just smoking and reading. Currently The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. Verdict so far: good book. I’m pretty sure you’ve already read it. And then when I’ve smoked about half of the first of the three spliffs I turn off the light and go to sleep. I haven’t got a telly or access to a computer, so am keeping my evenings Dickensian. Except I’ve got an electric light instead of a candle. I wake at 6:30 to the gentle sound of this music, which I have set as my alarm tone. You might want to play it as the backing track to this piece of writing. You might not. I roll over and grab the half spliff. I light it. I get up and open the shutters to let the early morning light in. I put on the clothes that are piled up under the window. Then I get back onto the bed and smoke the rest of the spliff, listening to the music and waking up. And then at about ten to seven I put my shoes on, put one spliff behind my ear and one between my lips, stick the earphones into the phone to carry on listening to the music, and I quietly slip out into the morning for what I call ‘My Walk.’ It’s really just a standard walk. And I’ve got my satsuma with me. I just walk off into the Spanish countryside to enjoy the world for a couple of hours.

Today started like any other. I had been out for about fifteen minutes, was walking along this path, fields all around me, rabbits chasing each other around playfully, birds flying in majestic formation over head, the sun rising like a giant over my left shoulder, warming me. I checked to see if the phone that I was listening to music on had a camera. It did. Not a very good one. But it did have one. So I took this picture. Which I am sure you will agree is as beautiful as it is shit.

By the way, if you are one of the people who did decide to play the backing track to my story, you should now switch to this set. This is what I was by this point listening to myself. I feel it sets the mood a bit better.

Photo0148

It’s while I’m out on these early morning stoned rambles (the walking kind of ramble. The other kind of ramble, you are now an audience to) that my mind flows with geniusly witty observations, clever thoughts, amazing ideas, often amazing ideas for things to write on this blog. The downside is that there is never anyone there to hear any of these witty observations, clever thoughts or amazing ideas. No witnesses. But I definitely do have them, and they definitely are genius. The annoying thing is that I forget these brilliant ideas as instantaneously as my brain conjures them up, and by the time I get home from my walk and am able to write anything down, all that is left is the dregs. Good stuff – forgotten; boring nonsensical stuff – got loads. For an example of this, look no further than this post.

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A Heartwarmingly Tragic Tail Of Family Life Set To The Backdrop Of A Fluffy And Light Desert

5 May

Yesterday afternoon I was lying on my bed, bored. Just staring at the ceiling and thinking about Angel Delight. And then to ease the boredom I did what I think any one of us would do in the same situation – I wrote a letter to Angel Delight headquarters, in which I pretended to be a 38-year old woman from Dudley in the West Midlands. I got up early this morning and posted the letter. I don’t know why. I will share the contents of the letter with you.

First, though, let me say something. I am aware that some of you (you know who you are) aren’t satisfied with merely words when you come here. Some of you want your literature sweetened with images, much like putting a bit of roast potato on the fork with the brocolli to help it go down. That’s okay, I can relate. I also know there are two types of people that wish for pictures with their text. The highbrow arty lot, educated, the ‘thinkers’, they like something tasteful, subtle and thought-provoking. For them what I’ve done is taken individual photos of all of the pages of the letter, and then I’ve mounted them onto a purple background using Paint, to create a classy looking Angel Delight letter montage.

You’ll get to that in a moment. There are also the other lot, the lowbrow mob, uneducated, the simple to please. And I tell you something, we are an alright group once you get to know us. Anyway for them (us) what I’ve done, again using Paint, is create a collage that appears to depict a smug-looking man ejaculating to the vision of a packet of raspberry flavoured Angel Delight. Extra comedy weight is added by the placing of the words ‘Whip up with fresh milk’ at the top of the packet, with a picture of a winking star next to the words. It’s as if the star is egging the masturbating man on. Saying ‘Oooh yea, go on then, whip up some fresh milk, ooooh!’ but in Ray Winstone’s voice. If you are a bit more juvenile you might just imagine the star is the winking bumhole of someone you know. Or of someone you would like to know. It’s up to you. I knew a girl once, years back, whose bumhole spoke in Ray Winstone’s voice. I did not. I made that up.  Continue reading

Don’t Call Me ‘Mate’

4 Apr

‘He’s English. From Kent, I think. I’m not sure he’s a very nice man, though, cos when your sister was out here Matt passed him on the road and said ‘hello mate’ to him, and he got the arse, didn’t like being called mate, told Matt not to call him mate, said he wasn’t his mate. He really didn’t like being called mate! So if you do see him, I wouldn’t call him mate.’

That was my mum describing her middle-aged next door neighbour to me the first time I’d walked past his gated off property. As she told the story, the little pair of hands that reside inside my head rubbed themselves gleefully together. The first time I saw him I was gonna call him mate. It goes without saying, doesn’t it? I mean, come on. Well that was two months ago. I never saw the bloke! Until this afternoon, that is, when I was walking down the dirt path that constitutes the road here, on my way out, and he happened to be out collecting his post from the outside box.

Before I tell you about our encounter earlier this afternoon, I’ll just tell you a couple of other quick things about this guy. His house is the ‘big one’ in the area, the luxury pad, you know. It is mostly hidden from view by the huge fencing and walls he has had put up around the land, which have been painted black, he has a massive electric gate, and unlike every other household within a 10-mile radius, he doesn’t have any dogs. This is dog country out here. Everyone’s got dogs. They serve two purposes, that of pet, and that of guard dog. But this bloke doesn’t like dogs. Instead, his ‘fortress’ is protected by a thousand and one different security cameras, whose images are monitored 24-hours a day by some bloke in an office somewhere. If you believe all the massive stickers the guy’s got plastered over his gate and fences, that is. If you look through the gaps in the fence, you can see his grandiose patio and inviting-looking swimming pool. A few times I’ve glimpsed him through the gaps as I’ve been walking past, sitting poolside on a luxury sun lounger, in his Ferarri baseball cap, sipping a cocktail that Del Boy would send back for being too colourful, with his English ‘lady friend’ on a lounger next to him, reading what I can only imagine is the Daily Mail. Just blocking out the world. Erecting barriers.

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Sorting Out The Middle East (alternative title: Being Facetious About The Middle East)

3 Apr

Oi Palestine and Israel,

Come round to my mum’s house in Spain, the weather’s nice at the minute and we’re only a short drive from the sea, personally I walk it because I haven’t got a car. Or a driving licence. And I like a walk. But yea, come round. I know you two aren’t really talking at the moment, so rather than leave it up to you to arrange a night in, I’m taking the initiative. Next Friday. The house is gonna be empty, my mum’s going back to England to visit my sisters, so just come round about 9 in the evening, just the pair of you, and bring crisps. And biscuits. And cake. And some pizzas to stick in the oven. Normally I have to remind people not to bring pepperoni pizzas, cos I’m a vegetarian, you know, but I don’t think there’s too much danger of either of you turning up with that, is there? Bring olives as well, I don’t like them, but bring them anyway. And bring oranges, we’ll make juice. I will provide everything else for the evening. When I say everything else, I mean the biggest bag of homegrown you’ve ever seen. And cushions. And tunes. It’s pretty retro, I know, but I’ve got a decent CD stereo from the 90s here, and some good albums. So what we’re gonna do is sit down on the cushions, put the bong in the middle, stick some tunes on, eat the food, make and drink the juice, watch some funny comedy on Youtube, and just bond, man, like we seem to have forgotten how to. I don’t want either of you inviting any of your other mates. I don’t want them in the house. To be honest, I’m not sure how good mates they really are, but that’s for you to realise on your own. But they ain’t coming here, alright? Good. We’ll just get stoned, eat the food, drink the juice and listen to tunes. Simon and Garfunkel, and to show there’s no favouritism we’ll also listen to Cat Stevens, and we won’t get into any arguments about what name he should be referred to as. And we’ll listen to Bob Marley. He’s got a good message. And oi, Israel, don’t even think of trying to claim a Rastafarian as your own. That shit won’t wash. And if any one of us starts getting tired or nodding off, we’ll take it up a notch and stick some psytrance on and we’ll put Media Player on full screen and just stare at the moving pattern thingy, trying to work it out. It can never be worked out. It is a question without an answer. But this common search in our minds for the solution will connect us all. We’ll chat about old times, new times, imaginary times. We will not talk about religion. Whatsoever. You don’t even wanna get me started on that bullshit, you will both end up kissing and making up, united in your hatred for the new common enemy, me. So don’t bring any of that poison anywhere near my home. We’ll just get stoned, eat the food, drink the juice, listen to the tunes and watch some comedy. A bit of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and to show there’s no favouritism we’ll also watch some Omid Djalili, and we won’t get into any arguments about whether or not he counts as a Muslim, because it shouldn’t matter either way what someone’s religion, colour, race or anything else is, especially if that person is there to tell you jokes. And we’ll watch Mitch Hedberg, just because he cracks me up more than anyone else, and then if I can be bothered to get up, I’ll stick a Stewart Lee DVD on. Eventually we’ll have to crash, there’s a bedroom here for each of you, so don’t worry about that. We’ll sleep it off, and then when we wake up we’ll go out, get some food, bring it back, cook it up, eat it up, skin up, and carry on where we left off. I’ll let you guys do the cooking, your food is so much more fucking delicious than mine, but I might make some Angel Delight. Only joking. You guys are in control of the kitchen. Basically you’re coming here on Friday, you’re staying til Sunday, and we’re gonna just be in the moment. After that it’s up to you. I’m not gonna keep pulling strings to get us all in the same room together. We’re brothers, man! So after this weekend it is up to you. See how you feel about each other then. But for this weekend only, come to my house, just the pair of you, leave any negative feelings outside my door before you come in, bring crisps and biscuits and a cake and some pizzas and olives and oranges. And a toothbrush. And we’ll sit down on the cushions, put the bong in the middle, stick some tunes on, eat the food, make and drink the juice, watch some funny comedy on Youtube, and just bond. And if you don’t walk out of here having realised that what bonds us all far outweighs what divides us, even you two, then there’s something wrong with the pair of you. See if you’re not talking seriously about tearing down that apartheid wall once you two have had a smoke together. This is good weed guys. The kind that was created to be shared. You’ll see on Friday. See you then. Peace.

shalom-salaam-peace-big

 

What? Sometimes you gotta be facetious. I have just been pretty fucking facetious. And why not?

Looking Back On The Mid 90s (with the help of my school yearbook) (Part 1)

5 Mar

A couple of weeks ago my mum gave me something I had totally forgotten she’d kept. Something I had totally forgotten even existed. My school yearbook from 1996-97, the year I started secondary school. I was 13. I spent the next week or so taking a trip down memory lane each night, hours and hours of reminiscing. Whilst smoking a lot of weed. And writing down whatever memories and thoughts were conjured up in my mind by the pictures. Here’s some of the shit I wrote in the notebook:

Sitting in the front row of her class photo is the first girl I ever fell in love with. I remember when she moved to our school. I was 11. She was 12. An older woman. Way out of my league. Was never interested. But we would walk home from school together sometimes. She lived round the corner on the estate. Either in the grey block of flats or the house opposite it. I can’t remember exactly. I used to see her knocking about with boyfriends older than me. Hated it. Until I just looked at this picture I hadn’t seen her face in about fifteen years. I remember vividly her South African accent. Strong it was. At first, anyway.

I’m pretty sure that girl, my first love, ha! settled down almost straight after finishing school and started a family. I seem to recall seeing her pushing a pram. That first child she had can’t be too far off the age that we are in these photos. Man, time just disappears. Blink. Gone.

—–

On page 54 there’s the kid who I had my first fight of secondary school with. And who I continued to fight with about once every three months in the middle of the field at lunch time for the next few years. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The whole school’s formed a circle around the action. Better fight like you mean it! In about our third tear-up that kid gave me my first ever pummelling. He was in the year above, but for our first two fights he was near enough the same size as me. Then he had a growth spurt. I could be heard gulping, cartoon style. Fight three toughened me up for fight four, though, so it wasn’t a bad thing. We were sworn enemies for three years, constantly throwing punches at each other. It must have been over something fucking important. Must’ve been, right? Yea. One day a mate of mine threw an apple core in the direction of his group of mates on the field at lunchtime. It hit him in the head. He mistakenly took me for the culprit. He shoved me. Then he shoved me again. I threw a punch. In my mind that would be the end of it. He’d go down like a sack of spuds. Like on the telly. But my mind overestimated my power. He punched me back. We exchanged blows. He threw a lot more than me but didn’t land a single one. By that time I was into my third year of Korean martial art Tang Soo Do. Fuck yea! Who’s laughing?? I was a blocking machine! Wax on, wax off. Too busy blocking to remember to throw many, though. The kids in my year shouted for me. The kids in his year shouted for him. Two teachers dragged us by our collars inside. Detention after school.

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Metaphorical Coin Toss of Biological Force — Stoned Thoughts on Discrimination

26 Feb

Out here I can walk for miles and miles, surrounded on all sides by fields, brown mountains watching over me from afar, and I won’t see another person or hear a single car. And I can talk to myself as loudly as I want without anyone overhearing and presuming I’m loco. I can watch the clouds, the rabbits, the birds, and I can smoke as much as my heart desires without having to worry that someone unapproving might catch a whiff of it in the air. There’s no one to interrupt my thoughts. And then without warning a dirt path drops me on the edge of an urbanisation. And there are pavements. And detached houses, protected by thick, metal gates. And I’m not in Spain anymore. I’m on the suburban Hertfordshire estate that I used to stay on as a little kid when spending a couple of weeks of summer with my aunt. They may as well stop calling it an urbanisation and start calling it what it actually is, a British colony. Even the streets have got English names. Winston Churchill Road. Dublin Road. Does Dublin count as an English name? I don’t think so, actually. It’s an Anglophone word though. I think. Or not. Is Anglophone a word or have I just made that up? It doesn’t look right. I may have made it up. No, it must be a word. Shit, I’m watching my neuromotor skills deteriorate in real time. Is ‘neuromotor skills’ the right name for what I mean? Is neuromotor even a word? Well, I think I’ve just proved my point! I’ve forgotten my point. Did I have a point?

Unmistakably British gentlemen, retired, walk their dogs at dusk. ‘Come on Tiddles, there’s a good boy.’ Continue reading

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