Marksism

Marxism is the following of Karl Marx. Marksism is the following of Howard Marks. For those amongst us that are ignorant to who Marks is, I pity you. I really do. So just for you I’ll explain; Howard Marks was once an international drug smuggler, which in turn makes him one of the greatest living people on Earth.

In a country where there is not much choice between the political parties, I think it’s time that all stoners unite and have our wheezing, coughing voices heard by everyone else. We’re tired of not getting what we want, we’re tired of not being recognised and represented, we’re tired of being labelled and we’re tired!

I have said many times that legalisation of cannabis will change this country for the better, and too nobodies surprise, I’m saying it again; legalisation of cannabis will change this country for the better! I’m not sure if this is actually true, but I’m willing to give it a go. It’s not as if things could get any worse.

I’m currently developing plans and ideas for all other Marksists to join me in making us known. Ideas such as sit-ins, just like the African-Americans did to get equal rights, and look at America now; it has a black President. Maybe, if Marksism starts to act now we’ll have a stoner as Prime Minister in some decade’s time. Of course these sit-ins will be slightly different; we’ll get high for a start. And I not be calling them sit-ins, they’ll be titled “Hot Box Demonstrations”. Yes, some of us will get arrested! Some of us will get criminal records! Some of us will spin out!! But eventually it’ll all be worth it.


Sadly, we may not all be alive to see the changes in this country we’re trying to make. Cancer is rife amongst our kind, just like CIA assassinations were rife amongst equal rights activists in America, like Martin Luther King Jr. But like King, I have a dream! I have a dream that my future children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by their choice of recreational drug but by the size of the spliffs they roll. I don’t want the children of my mail order bride to live in what I see as a dictatorship like their mother did! I want them to be free, free to smoke a joint on the street, free to discover a new world threw mother natures blessings.

“I’m a Marksist, ‘cos I spark spliffs,
And Mary Jane is who my heart's with”

The Misadventures of Moz the Spoon Burner

Once upon a time in a little place called Lemo lived a man named Moz. Moz was a Spoon Burner. If Moz wasn’t burning spoons he was thinking about burning spoons or coming up with ways to burn spoons.

Me and my friends met Moz the Spoon Burner a few years ago and although he liked to burn spoons and he was twice our age we still spent time together.

This story involves Moz getting caught burning spoons. It was a usual evening at our secret headquarters (Graham’s Caravan), when there was a knock at the door. Graham opened it and discovered Moz. Graham invited Moz in and as he entered I noticed he was carrying his plastic bag of tricks. Moz went everywhere with his reliable plastic bag.

But today Moz was just making a quick visit to see us because he had a problem. ‘What was his problem?’ I hear you cry, well Moz had a major problem, but he wasn’t willing to admit it! His other problem; the one that he recognised and the reason for his appearance at the caravan, was that he needed a spoon to eat his yogurt. He dipped into his plastic bag, which always seemed to be bottomless to me, he carried everything he owned in that plastic bag, and pulled out his yogurt as if he was trying to prove something to us. Graham quickly filled Moz’s request for a spoon. But surprisingly Moz didn’t stay with us to enjoy his yogurt; he had to make his way. So he wondered into the evening with his plastic bag and newly acquired spoon.

Sometime passed and later on that evening Moz returned to regale us with his actions after he left the caravan. It turns out that Moz went to the local ASDA disabled toilets to devour his yogurt. Which is understandable, I don’t like people watching me eat so I often go to a public toilet with wheelchair accessibility to consume my snacks, I’m sure all of you have done the same in the past.

Apparently the staff at ASDA don’t like people consuming yogurts in their toilets and they entered while Moz was in there. And those yogurt eating hating bastards started to quiz Moz over his spoon. He went on to clearly explain to the ASDA staff that he had the spoon so he could eat his yogurt. Unfortunately for Moz and Graham’s cutlery collection, the people at ASDA didn’t believe Moz so they confiscated the spoon.

At this point Moz apologised to Graham for losing his spoon. But it don’t not all end badly, because those people at ASDA didn’t want Moz to go hungry so they gave him a plastic spoon, which he passed on to Graham.

So there we have it people, a Misadventure of Moz the Spoon Burner. I’m not sure if this story had a moral attached to it, it probably does, but that’s for you to discover for yourselves.

Milk, Two Sugars and a Lifetime of Addictions

Welcome back loyal followers. Firstly I’d like to apologise for the lack of Blogging in 2009. This is due to many reasons, the main one being my alcoholism; over the last few weeks if I haven’t been drinking I’ve been sleeping, so there hasn’t been much time to Blog. But do not panic, because I have returned. Recently, between my trips to and from the bar I have been contemplating what I should next discuss on my Blog and not too long ago I had a revelation about the amount of addiction in England and why it comes about, so here it is;

As we all know this once great country England has a major problem with addiction. There’s no point denying it, we all know it’s true. Our population is addicted to tobacco, alcohol, cannabis (yes, it’s not physically addictive but we all know it’s mentally addictive), coke, smack and all that other good stuff. But where does this addiction come from? Why do we seem predisposed to having at least one of these addictions? Well don’t fear because I have come to the conclusion. And many of my English brethren will not be happy with the explanation, because I’m placing the blame on one of countries most loved drinks; tea!

I am an avid tea drinker, which is one of the main reasons I’m taking aim at what I once called “the main cornerstone of British society” and also “the reason that Britain is Great”. I have met many non-English people in my time and none of them seem to understand the love us Brits have for tea. I try to explain it, but I’m unable to, usually I just go for the old; “get out of my country if you don’t like tea” argument.

I know what you’re thinking; “Tea isn’t addictive”. But you are wrong. I understand it’s unlikely that anyone has ever been out sucking dick or selling their body for a handful of PG Tips, but it’s still addictive. It’s just an acceptable and overlooked addiction. The thing about tea is the addiction starts as soon as you wake up, I’m sure most of you reading this start the day with a nice cup of tea to get you ready for the day, you may think it’s just the way to start the day but the fact is, you NEED that cup of tea, you just don’t know it, until now.

I have often raised this question to my friends; “If you had to go the rest of your life without one of these things; weed, pills, beer or tea, which would it be?” More often than not people say tea, but then I tell them to really think about it and then they with tract their first answer and reconsider.

Unlike other addictive substances, everyone that’s addicted to tea instantly becomes a dealer of tea. This doesn’t happen with any other drug on such a large scale. How often have you been at someone’s house and they offer you a cup of tea? Compared to the amount of times they’ve offered you a joint or a line of coke or a hit on their crackpipe.

The point I’m attempting to make is that tea becomes an addiction for us and it stays with us for our entire life. Drinking tea makes you susceptible to other addictions later in life. I’m a perfect example and so are most of my friends. In no way am I telling people to stop drinking tea, I’d never do that. I just want people to realise that making a brew is not much different than cooking up.

I Think I'm Turning Thai-anese!! (Trippin' on Thai)

About two months ago I was lucky enough to come across some Thai weed. I got a nice deal on if from a mail order bride that had come over to England to marry an old man. I ended up buying three ounces for only £200. My plan was to smoke an ounce and sell the other two ounces to make my money back and a nice profit. But I had to try it first, so this is the story that unfolded.

I picked up the weed on a Wednesday, but didn’t get around to smoking some until Friday night after a long shift at my day job. I had the house to myself as my friends were out drinking Government-taxed-drugs. So I sat on the nice leather sofa in our living room, put my feet up on the coffee table and beginning to skin up a joint while watching the idiot box. I lit up the first spliff and as the smoke filled up my lungs my eyes began to water, this was some good shit. I’ve smoked weed for a good six years now and in that time I’ve tried many strains but there was something different about this Thai weed that was different. ‘Was it just the strain?’ I thought to myself. No, I’ve had Thai weed before, once in the stoners’ homeland (Amsterdam), so that wasn’t it. Maybe it is because this was hidden in some prostitute’s snatch, who flew across the globe for over half the day, maybe this is some AIDs laced weed. But I highly doubt that weed can get an STI, but I’m no scientist. In the end I just decided that it was strong weed, plus it had been a few days since I’d had a smoke plus I’d just burned this spliff on my own.

As the time passed I was really buzzing off the high from the spliff. It was one of the best highs I’d ever had, my body was completely relaxed, I had the giggles and I was grinning so much that my cheeks hurt. So I chilled out for a while watching the TV, then I rolled another joint, blazed it and the high just got better. After a while the inevitable happened; I got the munchies. Now munchies is a problem for every stoner and this time it was a major problem, I was too stoned to cook and I knew for a fact that I had nothing in the fridge or cupboard. I did contemplate stealing some food off my housemates for a while, but I was in the mood for a takeaway. So I called the Chinese restaurant that is situated a few streets over, I knew they wouldn’t take too long. So I sat and waited for my order and rolled another joint and smoked it.

I’m not sure how long the takeaway took, but when I heard the knock at the door I slowly made my way to it and opened it up. The Chinese guy looked at me weirdly and asked; “Whereabouts you from?” This was quite annoying to me; I’d ordered food not a fucking conversation, but I thought I better be nice I give these people plenty of custom, the food’s always good and cheap I don’t want to come across as rude and have them spit in my food or possible cook and serve me a rat when I next ask for some Chicken Chow Mein. So I told him where I was born. He then responded with a remark about me being oriental. Then it dawned on me he was taking the piss because of my cannabis induced squinted eyes. I just passed him the money and took my takeaway.

I returned to my living room, which by now was smoke filled and had that potent cannabis smell, which was gradually creeping throughout the whole house. I love how the weed aroma drifts through the house and covers up the stench of the festering unwashed pots in the kitchen and the odour of solidified tissues coming from the bin in my bedroom. I sat in the in the living room engulfed by a cannabis cloud and inhaled my takeaway as if it was a bong hit.

Once my hunger was taken care of I decided to roll myself another joint. By this point, time seemed to be passing extremely fast or I was moving at an exceptionally slow speed. I started rolling this spliff at about 11.05pm but didn’t complete it until 11.50pm.There are only a few things I pride myself on and one of those ‘qualities’ I have is being able to roll a very decent joint in about five minutes, so this made no sense to me. Eventually, I brushed off this matter about how fast time was moving and I just sparked up.

As I inhaled a lung full and slowly exhaled via my nose my vision began to blur as I stared at the television. I took another hit and I could no longer make sense of what the presenter on TV was saying. I slipped backwards into the sofa into a more comfortable position. The last thing I remember is looking at the half smoked spliff and thinking to myself I’ll never be able to finish this on my own.

I woke up on the floor with two dark figures peering over me. It was my two housemates back from their night out. They were pissed and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, due to their slurs and me not being able to think straight. Leon helped me off the floor and sat me back on the sofa.

“What the fuck were you going on the floor, dude?” Leon asked. I didn’t know, I just look at him bemused and told him; “Pǒm yang mâi róo” (I don’t know yet). Leon and Kate looked at me as if I was talking in tongues. I understand why, because I had no idea about what had just out of my mouth. In my head I said “I don’t know yet”, but for some reason there was some miscommunication between my brain and my mouth.

I started to panic a little. A million things were running through my head at the time, but I kept having the same thought; this weed has given me brain damage. I took a few deep breathes and Leon asked; “Are you feeling alright, dude?” I stared at him with a facial expression that I thought surely explained I was not feeling too well. But sadly, Leon is not the sharpest knife in a Chav’s arsenal, especially after a skin full. So I attempted to answer him; “Mâi, pǒm róo sèuhk klêurn sâi!” (No, I feel nauseous!).

Now, I was really starting to panic because I couldn’t even speak coherently. I wanted to let Kate and Leon know that I was tripping out but they could understand what I was saying. I was unable to speak a word of English, only gibberish. Eventually after Kate and Leon came to the conclusion that I was not joking and there was a serious problem they decided to call someone that will help. I was hoping for a doctor but Leon decided not to call an ambulance seeing as it wasn’t an emergency, instead he was going to phone Chelsea, a girl we all know on a medical course at University. Chelsea’s smart, extremely smart in fact, last time we spoke she told me she was top of her class, but I was still pissed off that Leon didn’t class this as an emergency. He was clearly unbothered about my opinion as he ignored me shouting; “Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən! Hèet-gaan-chúk-chəən!” (Emergency! Emergency!).

Luckily Chelsea answered the phone when Leon rang, which was good seeing as it was now 2.40am. Leon explained how he and Kate had discovered me sleeping on the floor. They chatted for a bit, I knew Chelsea was explaining something difficult to Leon because, unlike him, I can tell what people are thinking from a facial expression. Leon reached for a pen from the table and began rummaging around for something to write on, in the end he settled on a rizla. He jotted something down, thanked Chelsea and put the phone down.

He stood over me and began to study the rizla. “Retinocochleocerebral vasculopathy …” He muttered. ‘That’s it’ I thought! ‘Whatever I have is contagious. Leon’s talking in gibberish too, soon Kate will be infected and we’ll all die from this’. If I’d have remained calmer, I would have released that Leon hadn’t finished talking, “… or susac syndrome, as it is commonly known as. Chelsea said that you’ve probably fell over, bumped your head and when you came around you’ve started talking in foreign accent or foreign language. There are many other symptoms too.” I couldn’t believe it, one short phone call to Chelsea and all of a sudden Leon thinks he’s Gregory House. “She also said that you shouldn’t worry too much,” he continued, “just try and get some sleep and if you wake up the same in the morning she’ll come over and take you to the hospital”.

I felt slightly relieved; at least I’d had some almost professional over-the-phone advice. I decided sleep was the best idea so I went to bed. It was easy for me to fall asleep seeing as I was still high.

When I woke in the morning and my thoughts started to collect themselves together, as they always do the morning after a heavy smoking session, and I began to think back to last night and if it had actually happened. I put on my dressing gown and walked into the living room to be greeted by Kate. “Feeling any better then?” she asked. I hesitated before I answered, I wondered if I’d just speak gibberish again, “I’m fine … that was English! I make sense!! Yeah, I’m great thanks!” I was cured. I could speak English again; of course I still spoke it badly. But it was English.

This all happened about two months ago, and since then I have discovered what I was speaking wasn’t gibberish, but it was Thai, although some people still believe it was gibberish. I question Chelsea’s theory too. I personally believe the Thai weed played a major part in what happened to me. Personally, I think that there was something wrong with it; I think if I’d have kept smoking it eventually my ethnicity would have been permanently altered. I fully understand that this is scientifically impossible (unless you’re Michael Jackson), but there was something strange about that weed. Make of it what you will; I’m just presenting the evidence. As for the weed, I sold it off in small amounts to people I didn’t know. As of yet I haven’t heard anything back from people possibly having experiences from it as I did. I didn’t touch it again, or let any of my friends smoke it, much to the dismay of all my friends. I did think about getting back in contact with the lady I got it off, but I’d rather put this incident behind me.