Amsterdamned; The Feature Length Blog

So I did it, I went to Amsterdam.

“What for five fucking months? Did you get locked up – what did you do THIS TIME Benjamin?” is probably what you're billowing out of your mouth right now, with specks of saliva gathering on the screen [which by the way; does not class as cleaning it].

No, everything flight wise went to plan and I returned home after the weekend away.

“But where's the follow up been, you cunt? I've been sat here five fucking months constantly refreshing this webpage, waiting to find out what's happened!” is now what you're more than likely spouting, as the collection of spit heavily grows on your monitor and begins to trickle down, collecting at the bottom, then dripping onto that napkin from Costa on your desk that you were saving for 'personal time'.

But let's move away from that shit and get into what you came for;

Amster-FUCKING-dam!

Let's get the most important stuff out of the way first, fuck the whores and weed, let's talk burgers!

Amsterdam may be globally known for the place to go for the world's best prostitutes and/or marijuana strains, but it doesn't pain me slightly - as the whore-mongering stoner to say; it's burger's surpass both of them, easily. Because I went to Amsterdam thinking there's a possibility I'd have an orgasm in someone's mouth, but instead I had one in mine [no homo] at Burger Zaken!

If we move away from the puerile factor for two seconds [sorry readers, I know you love your filth] Amsterdam is famed for it's architecture too. All the buildings have an extremely narrow width, but stretch back to make space. This is true in Burger Zaken too; so the chefs are right in front of you the whole time, totally surrounded by customers. So you get to see your burger made to your specifications while getting to hear all those snarky work comments. The guy on the salad was a fucking gem, I was inches away from him bitching about the way the lettuce had been cut. But that's more of the reasons I love the place, they actually gave a shit.

We visited Burger Zaken twice that weekend. The first was kinda by accident, we needed to eat and it was a burger shop, so we went in and basked in it's glory. Then Saturday, after going out for steak at 10pm, then hitting the pubs/coffee shops, we returned to Burger Zaken around midnight for a goodbye burger. I'd like to say the greatest thing was the fact that the guys remembered us and asked how we were doing – not a surprise you may think for a customers that were only in a day before, but this was Easter weekend, Amsterdam was full of tourists and their footfall always seemed maxed out on the many times we walked passed [while lost/trying to find our bearings]. But for me the greatest thing was waiting for my burger and basking in the banter of one the employees and a foreign female customer;
“So how do you like Amsterdam?”
“It's great, it's soooo free here!”
“What do you mean free? You still have to pay for things... Oh, you mean 'free' because of the weed and the sex. Do you not have sex in Norway?”
“No.”
“Then how are you here?”

I'd stagger to Amsterdam for another one of those burgers. Honestly, I'd even empower the myths of Jesus to walk across water, while kicking sharks in the face, barefoot, for one more bite of their super succulent burgers.

So if/when you go to Amsterdam please visit Burger Zaken, tell them Ben Broughton sent you, they have no fucking clue who I am, but if enough of you do it maybe I'll get a free burger next time I go!

But let's forget burgers for a the meanwhile cos you and I know you're only here for the sordid details.

Prostitutes! After my first visit, which totally shocked me and left me all bashful like the proper English gentleman I was [and still am], my second visit to the Red Light District was mild. I knew what to expect. I obviously had no need to take advantage of the products [women] on offer because for a male of my handsome attributes it'd be a crime against natural selections for me to pay for sex, but it's fine for me to look!

Seeing as it was Easter weekend and the streets were flooded with tourists, the farmers had brought out their best cattle out [that was a metaphor by the way, sadly there was no cattle market]. Honestly some of these ladies were so beautiful it made your dick tingle, until you think about the abuse they must have suffered to get to this point - then your penis shrivels back in on itself [told you I was an English gentleman].

But what I found fascinating what all the time I spent in the RLD [it was right by our apartment, we had to walk down it to get anywhere, especially when we wanted to see boobies] I only ever saw one person go to 'use the facilities on offer' even then he was being egged on by his mates so it seemed like a dare. Which to be fair is the best dare ever; “So is no-one in our group going to fuck a prostitute? If you dare me, I'll do it … but as a reward for the dare you guys have got to pay for it!” Oh, when I said 'use the facilities on offer' I meant 'fuck a whore', I didn't mean he shat/pissed on her... but maybe he did, it is Amsterdam after all.

Weed! And the decade long love affair with Mary Jane that's ruined countless relationships, soured my aspirations and nulled my social skills … but fuck it, as I was in her home town I had to indulge in my mistress's temptations.

Off the bat, I've got to say; whomever decided to have the marijuana capital of the world in a city with so many canals, deserves every joint smoked in Amsterdam's history, past and future, put out on his face for eternity. Because it's a fucking death trap.

On our first night we came up with a plan; coffee shop then bar, then repeat. Which is a bloody fantastic plan due it's simplicity, yet the roadblocks were thrown in our faces by the bulging populous of Amsterdam at the time; everywhere was packed!

We still stuck to our plan, but speaking for myself; I soon turned into a meandering zombie; lurching from place to place in hopes of cannabis or alcohol. At one point, in one of our seemingly never ending treks I was so high I think I reached what Buddhist's call enlightenment. I was in a dream state, still walking, yet at one with everyone and everything around me. I was floating above humanity, I was a higher-being, I was untouchable... that all came crashing down when another tourist slightly brushed passed me and almost sent me toppling into a filthy canal.

Now a drawback to being a bunch of proper English gentlemen, is the fact that each coffee shop we entered we thought it was fitting to buy some more weed, despite the groom-to-be telling us to we didn't have to. But what kind of person turns up to an establishment and uses a competitors product? A bastard that's who and English gentleman aren't bastards! This eventually left us with numerous bags of weed at the end of our last night and despite our best efforts to get our monies worth and smoke the lot, we failed.

Now here's the predicament... in that super-stoned mindset you start to think; “I could easily get this back to England... somehow! I bet everyone does it!” You begin to conger up plans... the best being just putting it in your pocket... yeah it sounds fucking ridiculous now, but in my mindset at the time it was genius, plus you haven't seen my “Oh... I forgot that was in there” face!

Eventually you sober up slightly and realise it's probably not worth the risk. Then at the airport, after they check your passport, you stupidly slide it back into your pocket and walk through the metal detector, setting it off. Now some G4S dude starts to frisk you. “I think it was the chip in my passport” you tell him, hoping it stops the borderline sexual assault taking place, sadly it doesn't. “Ha, you have some coins in your pocket too”, he says, with you half expecting to follow up with correct amount; “... three Euros, fifty-two cents”, seeing as his hands wonder all over your body like he's a teenage virgin and you're some passed-out slag at a party. He eventually gives you the all clear. Then you realise it's definitely not worth the risk.

… or is that just me?

Plus they had a fucking sniffer dog when we landed back in the UK!

Bastards!

Amsterdamned; The Prelude

After almost a decade I'm returning to what 'my people' claim as our 'Mecca'; Amsterdam.

By 'my people' I'm obviously referring to stoners and not sexually-deprived-perverts [haven't fallen into that category for ages – there's a smug look on my face as I write this]. I'm less Red Light District more Red Eyed District.

It's less than a week now and the excitement is starting to kick in as I haven't had what I'd class as a holiday since my first trip to 'Dam at the tender age of 18. It's hard to get away when you're caught up in a cycle of bills, shitty wage and crippling alcoholism, but luckily [as with most big events in my life, it's been planned out for me].

As a rapidly advance towards middle-age prematurely, I find less and less things I want to leave my home for [work, food, medium-large house fires], let alone my city [family weddings/funerals] and in turn; let alone my country [rape charge/pregnant girlfriend]. But it's a fucking stag-do in Amsterdam! That's harder to turn down than a... fucking stag-do in Amsterdam [sorry nothing else compares]!

I've only ever been on one stag-do before due to my antisocial attributes and obvious fact that the majority of my friends resemble Sloth from The Goonies [no offence guys, we flock together after all]. On that stag-do I was slightly out of step with the gentlemen present due to my selfish attributes of not visiting my home town and childhood friends. It's hard to re-carve out that same wise-cracking character you spent all those adolescent years building in the space of a weekend, especially with a whole new bunch of faces that have already implanted their place into your former group in your six year absence.

But this time it'll be different as we're rolling with just a four man team; me, [my BFAM;] French, [the Stag;] Chilli and [the random;] Chilli's brother-in-law [aka the guy we accidentally leave behind due to running up a large tab at a coffee shop]. Four [/eventually three] is workable amount of people, less opinions and easier to come to a decision, especially because I know how to manipulate them.

I understand that the Red Light District is a stag-do hotspot, but I think we'll be giving it a miss. AS WE'RE ALL IN VERY LOVING, STABLE RELATIONSHIPS [hopefully that sentence excuses me from buying a round for the boys]. Plus I entered the Right Light District on my last visit; it was surreal, scummy and rife with STI's – it's kind of the embodiment of me if I was an area in Amsterdam. And nothing quite prepares you for seeing scantly clad women dancing in windows. I found it quite fearful, as if some manikins had suddenly come alive and wanted to repopulate the Earth with their half-human bastard offspring. Although that could stem from a childhood fear due to a shop-window model toppling over onto me in a provocative manner. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but prostitution should stick to the classic methods; cards in public telephone boxes, names and numbers penned in public toilets and not-so-sly adverts on craigslist.

But if we're not going to bang Eastern European whores and them get forced out of more money by their pimps, what are we going to do?

… get high... obviously!

But I don't want to be one of those guys that only goes to Amsterdam to just smoke weed because the fact is you could shop around at home and spend the weekend in your house getting high on different strains for half the price of a trip to 'Dam. We need to at least do something cultural while we're stoned.

I haven't run these ideas pass the boys yet but I think I'm on to some winners;

Play 'Hide & Seek' in the Anne Frank museum.

Go to the Sex Museum and erect my own monument [get it; erect my own monument].

OK, so I didn't as many ideas as I initially thought. I was tempted by a visit to the Torture Museum, but I already deal with the public on the day to day basis and there's no rack or body manipulating device more torturous than that, so I'd probably get bored.

Be sure to check back for the following Blog in which I desperately try to piece together half-remember memories from my trip and write them into a mediocre post.

Dear Mr. Kyle

I'm an avid fewer of your television show and while some label it as 'human bear-baiting' [a term a don't believe in as surely it would just be 'human baiting', if someone is baiting a dog, it isn't called 'dog bear-baiting', is it?], I don't agree. To be fair your show is one of very few that actually lets the lower class [I'd call them working class, but 98% of them are jobless] be seen on television, yet it isn't doing them much favours as a class in the eyes of viewers, so congratulations for that, I think.

I'm writing to you, as a fan remember, to inform you on a matter than you seem to be extremely unfamiliar with; cannabis. Now you come into more contact with cannabis users than a hostel owner in Amsterdam, so I can't quite fathom why you haven't educated yourself more widely on the matter, hopefully this letter will inform you on the subject.

One of your many catchphrases is; “You know what the number one side effect of weed is don't you? Paranoia!” It's a good catchphrase, nothing amazing, not on the levels of “D'ho!” or “Legen-wait for it... -dary”, but for a man that pokes fun at idiotic pregnant slags and dole queue fillers, it's OK.

My one major gripe about it, is that it's not actually true. Wire yourself up to your trusted lie detector machine and say it over and over again, see what the results are [although I do question that too, if these devices are as accurate as you claim, why aren't they used in law enforcement?]. Form my experience with the drug, I've discovered the main side effect is a feeling of relaxation. But I'd assume you to counteract this claim with something such as; “No, you fool, that's not a side effect, that's the desired effect!! It's my name on the wall!! You should put something on it!!” To that I'd say; valid point Mr. Kyle.

So how about this; The number one side effect from weed is in fact the Munchies. The munchies, is what us stoners refer to the hunger that strikes when you are stoned. It is without a shadow of a doubt the number one side effect of smoking cannabis, so how about you put that in your pipe and don't smoke it... and GET A [PROPER] JOB while you're at it.

Basically Mr. Kyle, if I'm not at work [yes, I have a job, I pay taxes, I don't put money towards the upbringing of my children as I have none] I spend a vast majority of my time high. And you maybe shocked to discover I'm not paranoid any more than the next person and the next person is usually a close friend of mine that also smokes cannabis. You seem to be under the impression that one smoke of a joint and instantly my mind conquers up thoughts of a loved one cheating or some other similar theory that you can compress into a tag-line. This is not the case. Paranoia exists with or without cannabis use and there will be high levels of paranoia amongst your guests as usually it's their reason for being on your show and providing me with entertainment, as I sit back smoking a big spliff thankful that someone's life is much worse than mine... even if he does have his own TV show.

A Fare Trade

In the mist of a smoky haze due to endless about of marijuana and incense sticks being burned over the duration of the day sits Jack; a 21 year old, drug dealer. He sits transfixed to Call of Duty, only satisfied with head-shots, nothing else will do. The sound of his doorbell rings throughout the house, Jack doesn't acknowledge it and stays entranced by his soaring death-toll. Some murmurers can be made out over the sound of rapid gun fire blasting out from the TV speakers, then slow thuds as someone walks upstairs, finally there's a knock on Jack's door.

“Come in,” Jack shouts, “unless you're the police, in that case fuck off, please.” without glancing away from the game for even a nanosecond.
A young lad enters, around the same age as Jack, but with a massively contrasting demeanour; his hair is slicked back, his clothes are freshly pressed, he's a very presentable young man, the type of guy over-protective parents wish their daughters would eventually marry.

”I am Joshua,” he says gently, “your house-mate let me in.” Joshua speaks with an utterly middle-class accent, pronouncing every word perfectly. He has one of those voices that makes a working-class person want to punch him square in the face for no reason other than the annoying tone that oozes out of his posh cake-hole. Joshua looks over the bedroom he has just entered, seemingly disgusted by the state of it. He slowly makes his way over to Jack, cautiously stepping by plates encrusted in undistinguishable meals dating back weeks and balled up tissue paper filled with expelled love juice. “I am under the impression that you sell...” Joshua pauses for a moment, unsure of how to finish off the sentence, he braces himself, and whispers; “... marijuana.”
“You would be correct in your assumption”, says Jack in a slightly mocking tone. Joshua doesn't pick up on this fact.
“How wonderful, well I would like to purchase some please.”
“OK, what are you after?” asks Jack, eyes still glued to the massacre unfolding on his television screen.
“Marijuana, please.” responds Joshua, completely misunderstanding the question.
“No, what weight are you after, as in; how much?”
“Oh heavens,” Joshua says as he wrestles his wallet from his back pocket, opens it to inspect the wod of cash inside, “I' would like to spend £40, please.”
“So it's a quart you're after?”
“Yes please, a quart, please.”
“OK mate, just give me a … ” Jack trails off, “YOU FUCKING CUNT!” he bellows.

Joshua almost jumps out of his skin, he quickly scans the room again and attempts to configure the safest and fastest escape route from Jack's city skip of a bedroom. Jack frantically bashes the buttons on his Playstation pad to no avail, he tosses the pad to his floor, it knocks over a nearby bong and filthy bong water gathers in a puddle on his carpet. Jack stands and turns to look at Joshua.
“So it's a quart, then mate?”
Joshua takes a deep breath, “Yes, please.”

Jack makes his way over to his set of drawers that are buried under a pile of clothes, clearly he may have mastered Call of Duty but the complexed understanding of how drawers work is beyond him. He slides open the top draw and begins to rummage around until he pulls out a bag of weed. He turns and passes it to Joshua. Joshua begins to inspect the bag, then he pulls out a handful of jiffy bags himself, all of which are empty and bundles them into Jack's palm.
“I only take cash, mate.” Jack says, slightly bemused by Joshua's actions.
“Oh, yes, of course. But I simply thought that these would be beneficial to you, in your line of work. You could re-use them, recycle them even, as a way to help save the Earth.” Joshua explains.
“OK mate. I'll keep that in mind, I'll just add them to my recycling centre.” Jack says as he tosses the bags onto an already over flowing bin.

Joshua continues to inspect the bag. Feeling as if the deal is not actually going to happen Jack explains that the quality of the weed is second to none.
“It's some of the best stuff I've had in for a long time. Guaranteed to get you high. It's Thai Stick.” he says, with all the gusto of a desperate second hand car salesman.
“It does seem to be some of the finest marijuana I have come across to date,” Joshua pauses, as if he's mustering up the courage to ask something, “I was just wondering, is it really from Thailand?”

Jack looks bemused by the question, it's not the type of question he's used to hearing, usually customers want to know the weight and that's about it. Drug dealing is simple, it's all supply and demand, customer services doesn't really come into it that often.
“I'm unsure, mate. I just get it from my guy, who gets it from someone else. It's best to not go around asking questions when you're dealing with drugs.”
“Oh, I see, so you would not know if it was organic?” asks Joshua.
“It's is orgasmic, mate, I can guarantee that.”
“No, you seem to have misunderstood; is it organic? Is it grown without pesticides? I'm currently on an all organic diet and that includes my drugs too.”
Clearly getting slightly irked by the onslaught of questioning, Jack finally folds; “I'll just call up my contact, he'll know.”

Jack begins to look around for his phone, by kicking up bits of rubbish scattered around his room, in the end he unearths it from under an overturned ashtray. He picks it, scrolls through his phone book and hits call.
“Hey, it's Jack. I have a customer here that wants to know about the Thai Stick, I've got in.”
“What the fuck does he wanna know?” utters Jack's contact, luckily not loud enough for Joshua to hear.
“He's askin' if it's organic?”
“You fuckin' what? Tell the cunt to go suck some organic balls!” screams the voice.
“Alright mate,” says Jack, with a smile on his face.

Jack hangs up the phone and pushes it into his pocket. He puts a fake smile on his face.
“He clarified the situation perfectly, you have nothing to worry about, it's organic.” lies Jack.
“That is a weight off of my shoulders.”

Joshua begins to make his way to the door and Jack feels revealed that this ordeal is almost at an end. Before reaching the door Joshua stops.
“I was just wondering, by any chance do you sell cocaine?” asks Joshua.
“Well... ” says Jack, before he draws out a speech that he's probably said a million time before, “... I don't usually, but I do happen to have some in at the minute, one bag left, in fact. It'd be another £40 though.”
It's a well known fact that if you fool the customer into believing they're getting the last deal they'll take it, as this opportunity may not arise again.
“That is perfectly fine.” agrees Joshua as he once again begins to tangle with his wallet.
Jack goes back to the dresser, this time he delves into the bottom drawer and rummages around, finally retrieving a wrap of coke. The two exchange the money and the drugs.
“Oh, and don't worry mate.” says Jack, fearing he knows what's coming, “That coke is most definitively organic.”
“That is both brilliant and reassuring to know.” says Joshua.
Jack places his hand on Joshua's shoulder and slowly guides him to his bedroom door.
“I hope you enjoy the drugs.” he says as he opens the door for his customer and slowly guides him over the threshold.
“Oh, just one more inquiry,” Joshua spouts, Jack's face drops instantly, “is this cocaine fairtrade?”
“Well, I supply the drugs, you supply the money, then we trade. I'd say that was more than fair.”
Interrupting, Joshua states; “Oh heavens, I think you may have misunderstood the question …”
Jack swings the door shut, leaving Joshua in the hall. He then bolts it.
“Thanks, come again soon.” Jack shouts at the door.

5 Worst Times to Have an Acid Flashback

There's probably never a good time to have an Acid Flashback but I got to thinking about the worse possible times an ex-LSD user could have a flashback. Now I've never had an Acid Flashback and I doubt I ever will, as I've only done LSD once. I didn't hallucinate, I just felt really euphoric. Although I did wash it down with a bottle of Southern Comfort and I was on my own. Boredom is a disease that must be destroyed at any cost. The other reason I did this is because people seem to like lists, apparently they're easier to read when compared to my long-winded rants that occasionally go off topic, much like this is now, so let's just get down to it; 


5) At the Alter of Your Own Wedding

It's supposed to be the happiest day of your life but if you have a flashback whilst stood at the alter, it's safe to say things could go pear shaped. First you just think it's nerves but by the time you've stripped naked, shat into hands and you've smeared large quantities of faecal matter all over your grandmother-in-law [to be], it's safe to say you are experiencing an Acid Flashback. This will more than likely put an halt to the days proceedings and eventually ruin the relationship with the woman that you was to marry, leaving you to die alone.

4) In an MRI Machine

Imagine you've been struck down with some strange illness and you've gone to the hospital for the doctors to figure out what's wrong with you. They've got all their best doctors trying to diagnose you, even the guy with the limp is working on you. They think they've sussed it out and they're just checking your body for anything irregular in the MRI machine, then BAM; you have a flashback. They think it's a new symptom and they go on a new path trying to figure out what's wrong with you. The flashback stumps them and eventually you die of some curable disease.

3) While Sky-Diving

Now this would never happen to me, I'm not into extreme risk taking hobbies such as sky-diving, if I want an adrenaline rush I'd simply inject myself in the neck with a syringe full of adrenaline and kick the wall of the hinges [yes, the wall, not the door, anyone can kick a door of the hinges, it takes a real man to kick the wall of the hinges]. Anyway, having an Acid Flashback whilst sky-diving is going to be shit. Firstly death is inevitable [as you're not going to be able to get a grip and pull the chord to release your parachute – I mean a mental 'grip' not a physical, hand-grasping-the-chord 'grip'], which is good reason for it to be shit, yet the whole process of falling through the atmosphere while tripping your fucking balls off is really going to fuck with your head for the next couple of minutes of your life. You'll be praying for increased falling rate just to end the madness that's taking place in your mind. I'm sure when you're turned for a solid based form to a liquid based form with the help of a concrete [and velocity], you'll breathe a breath of relief – if you could breathe, it's probably safe to say your lungs are so intertwined with gravel they'd be completely useless and you had a Donor Card too – that was pointless!

2) Whilst attempting to Summon Satan with an Ouija Board amongst Friends that Believe in Supernatural Beings and are Extremely Gullible. 

If you can't see where this is going you're a fool. So... you're sat around an Ouija Board with some mates that are “well in to ghost and that”, of course being a rationally thinking person you fully well understand that spirits and Lucifer don't exist, you're just there to pick on the others. But midway through, you're hit with an Acid Flashback. Your gullible as fuck mates wonder what the fuck is going down as you spaz out and talk crazy. One shouts out; “He's speaking in tongues!” They all squeal like little four year old toddlers, as they clamber around the room, spilling the Ouija Board to the floor. “He's possessed by Satan”, screams another friend. Then one of your mates [probably the one you secretly hate, but everyone else likes him so you're forced to hang around with him, even though you know he's really a proper cunt] decides to be a hero and come to the rescue [see, told you he was a cunt]. He quickly grabs the nearest heavy blunt object; lamp, bottle, small child, and proceeds to smash your skull open, whilst quoting The Exorcist; “May the evil inside of you be gone, may the evil inside of you be gone …”, he continues to pound away as your brain slowly oozes out of your cranium, forever spouting lines from The Exorcist; “... you're mother sucks cocks in hell!” [see, he really is a cunt]. It's safe to say you're no longer having a flashback because you're dead.

1) When Defending yourself in Court on Charges of being Clinically Insane

OK, maybe the average Joe Bloggs doesn't find himself in this situation that regularly, I understand that. But imagine it; you're in court having to defend yourself on charges of being clinically insane, I'm not sure how you made it to this point, maybe it had something to do with you using shit as paint substitute on your grandmother-in-law [to be] at your wedding. Either way you're there. It's actually going quite well, you're presenting yourself as a normal run of the mill citizen that just had a 'bad episode' once and people shouldn't judge you on that. Then the inevitable happens, you start tripping out, you attempt to clamber out of the witness box onto the Judge's lap, he yells for security, you take his wig and place it on your head, elevate yourself to his desk and begin to dance around like a Native American. Security attempt to capture you, so you try to fend of these 'cowboys' with your 'axe' [the Judge's gavel]. You strike them across the head. You jump from the desk and run towards the jury, propelling yourself into their box, crawling across them as you lash out pain with your 'axe'. Eventually security grab you and everything calms down, by the time you come around from the flashback it's too late. You will be spending the rest of your days in one of those jackets where the sleeves tie together at the back.




So there we have it. Remember children drugs are bad and you should never do them.

Mephedrone is for Pussies

Yeah I said it, it’s for pussies!

If you are unsure what mephedrone is, it’s a new drug, it comes in a white powder like coke, it is snorted like coke and it’s shit … like coke [yeah, I said that too]. Mephedrone or ‘Homeless Man’s Coke’ [because it’s not even a Poor Man’s drug] as I like to refer to it as, is currently becoming popular amongst fucking idiots. Many readers will know that I’m quite the advocate for drugs but when it comes to mephedrone I couldn’t give a shit. I know a handful of people have died from taking the drug [along with other drugs, although newspaper’s don’t like pointing that out], I couldn’t give a shit.

Apparently Mephedrone is the 4th most popular illegal drug in the UK, what a pity when there are so many better drugs out there.

Just let me point out that I have made this decision on my own, I have not been influenced by a media campaign against the drug. I couldn’t give a fuck what some scare-mongering journalists think about the substance.

The thing is I’ve tried mephedrone and thought it was shit, yeah it got me a little chatty but that’s about it. Luckily for me there’s already a drug out there that gets me chatty; alcohol, and I don’t have to hide in toilet cubical, knee deep in piss to ‘take’ alcohol. In fact I can drink alcohol in a pub with my friends while being stood in no piss whatsoever.

I thought that mephedrone was so popular because it was legal, when it was made illegal I thought; ‘I suppose people will go back to taking real drugs now’. But they didn’t. They continued to take this cocaine wannabe. But I suppose mephedrone is just the new ketamine (remember how popular that was about two years ago?). In about two years, there’ll be something new to shovel up your nose, so don’t let your septum fall out too quickly.

So why is it for pussies?
Look at the facts, it’s known as ‘MCat’ or ‘Meow Meow’, they are some pussy names for a drug that’s [helped] lead to the deaths of some people. Now it’s illegal, users must deal with real drug dealers instead of buying it as a ‘plant food’ from online, and yet although they’re dealing with drug dealers they don’t buy some real drugs; pills, MDMA or coke. MCat is for indecisive drug users. MCat is like a bicycle with stabilisers. I mean, it’s usually fatal when mixed with other drugs because it can’t do the damage on its own. When legal it was marketed as plant food, quite ironic as now it is used by weeds and vegetables, too scared to do some real drugs. Pussies!

*** If you are an MCat user and you have been affected by anything mentioned above I would like to offer out an apology to your mother for raising a cunt. Get a life or get a real drug habit, you pussy! ***

Dealing with Dealers

This world would be a massively different place if there were no drug dealers on it. Many would speculate that it would be much better, others would speculate it would be much worse, as for me I’m currently undecided on the matter. Drugs are bad, but at the same time I do like them, so … I’m kind of sat on the fence whilst smoking a spliff.

The thing is dealing with dealers is a double edged sword. In no way am I saying that any of the dealers I’ve come in contact with have ever been threatening, no I’d take a threatening dealer over the over-friendly dealer. Look at it like this, a drug dealer is providing a service; money exchanges hands and then I get my drugs. That is of course were it should end. But just lately I have started to pick up my ‘medication’ from someone else, whom seems to think that when I call him asking; “You got any weed?” I actually mean; “I want to buy some weed from you and smoke it with you.” This is certainly not the case. MY MONEY, MY DRUGS!

I recently went to pick up and then got invited into the dealer’s house. I had to accept, it’s a good idea to stay on the good side of a person that supplies you with what you want. I thought I’d be simple enough, chill out for 5-10 minutes then I’ll get on my way. We entered his bedroom, it was littered with sweet packets, crisp packets, empty Pot Noodles; it looked as if a fat child had run a mock in a sweet shop. I took a seat and spotted a kettle next to the bed. I got the feeling that this guy hadn’t left this room in a while. The dealer went on to offer me a joint, I accepted, like I said; it’s important to stay on their good side. The dealer than asked me to chip in some weed for the joint, which is quite peculiar, I mean, he is a dealer after all. He was the one offering a spliff to me, not vice versa. Bartenders don’t pour you a pint and then drink half of it. Employees at supermarkets don’t help themselves to the items you’ve just purchased. Therefore a drug dealer shouldn’t be asking his customers for marijuana, it’s a complete role reversal of the relationship of dealer and customer.

Of course I had to give him some, as it’s a vital to stay on the good side of people that sell you your drugs. So he rolled it up, lit it and hit it and hit it and hit it and hit it … this went on for sometime until it finally reached my grasp. As every stoner knows there are unwritten rules to smoking a joint and the number of tokes per person varies from group to group, but from my extensive experience the average number is about three, maybe a couple more if you’re lighting it so you can get it burning correctly. This dealer was hitting the joint so much I thought it’d had fucked his girlfriend. Anyway, I had the joint and had my tokes and passed it back. I was tempted to have some extra to balance out the average but I’m stooped in stoner tradition and like to come across as not being a filthy, greedy bastard. So I passed it back, the dealer reverted back to smoking loads. Sometime passed and I noticed that the joint had been in the ashtray for a while without him picking it up again, by now he was transfixed by his laptop. This was kind of infuriating, as I didn’t want to be there, yet I’d stayed to be friendly and stay on his good side and I was being ignored. He didn’t need me there; all that was happening was what would have been happening if I wasn’t there. I was literally wasting my time. This guy had taken my money, asked for my weed and was now consuming my time. What else was he expecting me to give? My ass virginity? One of my kidneys? My first born child?

I glanced over to the now unlit joint in the ashtray, after being left on it’s own for too long it’d gone out due to neglect. I wondered if I should leave it for him to finish and get on my way, but I was starting to get annoyed at the prospect that I’d been cheated in this situation and I at least deserved a few more tokes, so I took the spliff, re-lit it and hit it. I passed it back to him, as he remained glued to his laptop and put it into the ashtray for it to go out again. Silence descended. I was about to inform him of my departure, when he asked; “Hey, how about you skin one up and we’ll have two going at the same time?” I was shocked. I just thought; ‘Two at the same time? You’re not even smoking the first one?’ I respectfully declined the offer of sharing more of my weed with the person I bought if from. This was it, I had to leave.

Not to sound rude for leaving I said I had to be off for some bullshit reason; got to meet someone at 6.00pm. It was 5.50pm, so I knew this was a good plan. But not good enough for the dealer; “Let me just show you this…” he turned his laptop to me and began to show me some unfamiliar music making program, which I didn’t care for. I love music, but making music seems like a long and drawn out process that I don’t want to be part of never mind watching another individual embarking on it. I watched while mindlessly complementing in a hope that it would get me out the door sooner. No such luck. I kept glancing at my watch. It was 5.58pm. I’d already said I was meeting someone at 6.00pm that was my definite cut off point. I mentioned it again and begin to stand up. Then I had to pull off some of the most fast-paced lying I had ever achieved, some of the quick-fire response lies that men usually only have to disperse in an argument with a lover or in a police interrogation room.

Me: “Look man, I’ve really gotta be off. It’s almost six.”
Dealer: “Who you meeting?”
I wasn’t meeting anyone, but I had to lie, couldn’t say a mate or he’d want to come, so I went for …
Me: “The girlfriend.”

Dealer: “Where?”

Me: “From work, she finishes in a minute, I’m gunna be late and she’ll be pissed.”

Dealer: “Let me finish off this joint and I’ll give you a ride.”

I had to get out of this.
Me: “But I came on my bike.”
There’s no way my bike could fit in his car.

Dealer: “You can come back for it tomorrow.”

The thought of coming back sent a shiver down my spine.
Me: “But I have work in the morning. I need to bike it to work, so I just better be off.”

Dealer: “Alright then mate. See you soon.”

And I left, relieved, like a man that’d just served a murder sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. The weed was good, it was on weight and a decent enough strain, but the strain put on me to secure the marijuana and to preserve the vital bond between dealer and customer was too much.

Reefer Sadness

Let me start out by saying I like marijuana, after a long, hard day there’s nothing better than getting home rolling yourself a nice joint, putting your feet up and blazing some weed. Although it’s a tricky subject, as we all know, when I do this I’m breaking the law, seeing as marijuana is illegal. I know this and I fully understand, but let’s be honest it’s one of those ‘flexible’ laws, much like speeding. Almost everyone that drives speeds. Although on the flip side, nobody’s life is put at risk when I consume marijuana. So smoking weed is much less serious than speeding. Maybe it’s more like littering, although the environment isn’t put at risk when I get high... Well smoking weed is against the law, and let’s face it, if you’re going to break a law you may as well break this one, seeing as it harms nobody else or the environment.

Basically, smoking weed is good fun. I would also like to point out I’m not a stoner. Not anymore at least. I’m passed that. Yes, there was a time in which all I would do is smoke weed, on a daily basis, but it left me unmotivated and lazy; I couldn’t be bothered to do anything like; housework, University work, overtime at work (I always turned up for my usual shifts though, seeing as weed doesn’t pay for itself) or write my brilliant Blogs. It then dawned on me that I had become a stereotypical stoner. A pot-head. So I decided to chill out with my marijuana consumption, because the true fact is that people that truly love weed hate stoners.

“How can someone that loves weed hate stoners?”
The fact is that one day everyone that smokes cannabis hopes that it will either become legal or decriminalized; stoners want that too, of course. The problem arises when we look at the people that smoke weed. The depiction of cannabis consumers never falls into the lines of what I am; a casual smoker that works, studies and has an active social life, instead we see the zombie-like stoners, glued to their X-Box 360s, surrounded by a mess of dirty clothes and dirty dishes encrusted with old food that is no longer distinguishable. It looks as if a bomb has gone off in their bedroom.

These people do nothing for the cause. Stoners are to the decriminalization/legalisation cause as what a scantily clad feminist was to the equal rights for women movement; an oxymoron. Even some of the most famous “stoners” of all times aren’t actually “stoners”, in my opinion, but people that love weed. For example, let’s look at Tommy Chong. For those without knowledge of Tommy Chong, I will explain that he is part of a comedy duo named Cheech & Chong. Now Cheech & Chong made many classic stoner films together, the first being Up In Smoke (1978). Now these were some of the first films that depicted marijuana users in a new light, they were no longer dope fiends such as the characters in early exploitation films such as Reefer Madness (1937) or Assassin of Youth (1936), no, by now weed smokers were lovable idiots and no harm to society. They no longer went mental from a couple of puffs or tried to rape innocent white middle-class women, they were just a couple of dudes that liked to get high. The fact is if Tommy Chong was a real stoner these excellent movies would have never been made, instead, Chong would’ve simply been at home talking about making them, because that’s what stoners do; talk about doing things. They rarely accomplish anything, other than maybe setting a new high score on [add recent videogame for topical effect].

So while the rest of the world gets on with their business, stoners stay at home talking about maybe “nippin’ to the corner shop later”. This is why stoners are the anchor to the boat of legalisation. If they took their fucking heads out of the self-produced cannabis clouds for two minutes, looked in a mirror and realised that they’re doing nothing of worth; in life and for the cause, things would get better.

Scarface Syndrome

This is an appeal. Now I usually don’t use my powers for good, but I’m turning over a new cannabis leaf. There’s lots of problems in the world; war, famine, AIDs, cancer, Jade Goody (although by the time you read this she may no longer be a problem). But there is one problem that the media shy away from. It’s a problem that many people shy away from. But don’t feel guilty, because it’s not your fault. This problem (which you may have guessed from the title) is Scarface Syndrome!

What is Scarface Syndrome?
Scarface Syndrome is condition found in a certain type of person. It attacks many, although most of them are usually male, but it does not discriminate; white, black, tall, small, fat or thin. It forms when a person begins to sell illegal drugs. This person then actually believes they are a drug lord, when in fact all they are is a petty weed dealer. It usually takes form after a person has sold some weed to a couple of people, once they make a profit they think they’re cool, the cycle repeats until a point in which the person gets a little big headed and acts as a go-between. A go-between is someone that often buys drugs from a dealer then sells them on to you. By this I mean, the go-between buys 5 pills, and then sells them to you. They don’t actually deal the drug, in reality, because they don’t stock it, but in their minds they think of themselves as Class A dealers, then the ego inflates a lot more.

What are the Symptoms?

· Loud Mouth
People suffering from Scarface Syndrome often like to brag and boast to anyone that will (or won’t) listen to them about how they sell drugs or are able to get you drugs.

· Undeserved Ego
This is how the syndrome gets it’s name, basically people think they are Tony Montana (from the popular 1983 film Scarface). When in actual fact they’re more like Hannah Montana (from the shit Disney TV Show by the same name).

· Constant Letdowns
Although suffers claim to be able to get you (the drug addict) whatever drug you desire, they often let you down because they’re not the drug lord’s they think they are, they’re simply go-betweens – and not very good ones at that.

How will my donation help prevent this terrible condition?
Firstly we will set up a clinic for suffers of Scarface Syndrome and kit it out with all the necessary shit that it will need; plasma TV, PS3s, Xbox 360s, Sky TV, some MACs, some PCs, the fast internet connection, Porn, Lap dancers and so on. This is bound to cure anyone suffering from Scarface Syndrome. Secondly, we would sent up a Drug Dealers Alliance, which would monitor drug dealers and give them the Official DDA stamp of approval, so all the weed smoking, pill popping, coke snorting junkies out there now that they are not dealing with a sufferer of Scarface Syndrome. We need to stamp out drug sales that involve people with Scarface Syndrome, until they have been cured by out clinic.

So thank you for reading, please make a donation today. And remember, you’re not a drug lord until you have your face in a mountain of coke!