I suppose it all started when my fourth child was born. Money was a bit tight and I decided to go back to work as a part-time Bar Maid. The only hours that suited were in the evening; It was pretty hard running around after four kids all day then running around after 'big kids' until 3.00am then back up at 7 for the school run. I was absolutely knackered but at least some of the bills were getting paid.
I set off one Friday evening as normal - it was a hectic shift and by the time hubby picked me up in the early hours I was done in. We set off on the 3 mile journey home and I sparked up the 'banger' hubby always had ready for me (a man who knows his place) bliss! He was banging on in the background about a shower (I had kinda guessed he had his housecoat and slippers on for a reason), I just let his words wash over me without giving them too much attention.
We were about a third of the way home, hubby had got the idea and piped down a bit, and with 'Comfortably Numb' gliding out from the new Cd player he had just fitted, I was just sliding into the groove. Just at this, the most blissful of moments, through my closed eyelids I could see the flashing lights. "Oh shit, Cops and no tax disc, this could mean trouble". Then like a lightening bolt the thought seared through my mind "Cops and joint", this could mean a whole shit load of trouble (these were the days when a half oz could get your 3 months!). As inconspicuously as possible I slid down the electric window and dropped out the joint and sprayed a fivers worth of Ysatis to smother the aroma of good home-grown Kali Mist, and pasted on the best 'Good evening Officer' smile I could muster at 3 in the morning.
The Copper had an irritatingly smug grin on his face as he asked for my husband to get into the back of his car.
"I...I...I've just been in the shower", stuttered my man; "Just picking the wife up from work", he mumbled, more shame faced that I had ever seen him. It fell on deaf ears, of course, and he was done with no tax.
Once the two guardians of Justice and Freedom had disappeared over the horizon on their quest for another dangerous, tax dodging criminal, we jumped back into the car to continue our journey home.
The first fat drops of rain were beginning to plop onto the windscreen just as 'housecoat man' turned the keys...splutter...splutter...splutter went the engine; plop, plop, plop, went the rain; no, no, no screamed my mind - the fuckin car wouldn't start. I sat stunned for a second or two - how much worse was this going to get - done for tax, ditched my only dooby, and now I was going to have to walk 2 miles home, in the middle of the night, in the pissing rain.
"Why me?", kept repeating itself in my mind. and through this confusion of anguished thoughts, I was dimly aware of an idiot in PJ's suggesting I give the car a push.
"Give the car a WHAT?" I managed to snarl. "In my four inch heels, mini-skirt and bar-maids blouse"
I think my tone awakened something deep within his man-brain, something which alerted him to the fact that he might not survive the rest of the night if he continued thinking stupid thoughts out loud. He tinkered around under the bonnet for another 10 mins, before announcing what I already knew to be the case - we would have to walk!
As we trudged through the rain, the only break in the sullen silence came when a car approached.
"Get in front of me" bleated hubby, followed quickly by "Get behind me", in a vain attempt to hide the fact that here was a 35 year old man walking around in the middle of the night, in the rain, in his pyjamas! If it wasn't for the fact that I was ready to castrate him with my bare hands, I would have laughed. This comedy of errors continued nearly the rest of the way home, but as we neared the village where we lived he had progressed to jumping behind bushes, fearing he might be spotted by someone he knew - then ridiculed for the rest of his life (like he deserved!).
It was while he cowered behind a bush that an on-coming motor slowed down and stopped just in front of me and a rather seedy looking bloke got out and said "On your own love?".
"No she's fuckin not mate", shouted my husband leaping from behind the bushes - it even gave me a fright - but seedy bloke well! he shat himself, I have truly seen the colour drain from someone's face - I could even swear I heared the bloke fart as his arse collapsed. He high tailed it into his car and disappeared in a cloud of frantic rubber.
We managed to get home without further incident, but the fates had one last kick in the teeth in store - when we went to pick up the car the next day, someone had tanned the window and nicked the new CD player!
'Grey Mould' the large fan leafs will yellow and wilt with the secondary leaf growth wilting, becoming brown and shrivelling up, the pistils will brown and shrivel and as
they do so the bark will crack and fluffy mould growth will develop.
See Issue 3 for info on how you can protect your garden against this menace and what action to take if you are unlucky enough, or careless enough, to discover it in your girls.
Also in Issue 3 'Biz Ivol, Cannabis hero', killed some believe, by the utter callousness displayed by a mob of judicial zealots. When you persecute a sick person to their very grave, in pursuit of your daily crust, it takes a special kind of 'State slave' to go home and kiss the kids goodnight with a clear conscience. But they do..........does that make you angry?
Howard answers my "Hello", with a chuckle in his voice, as if he still finds some kind of school boy-ish fun in what we are doing. I tell him I may be a bit nervous, he is after all, a legend.
"It's all right, you'll find me easy", he says, kicking off another round of his infectious laughter.
S Do you regret how things turned out?
H "I don't regret it for a single moment (except spending time in prison, of course). and I miss it as much today and on a daily basis as I ever have............."
...and so begins the interview with the Stoner legend that is Howard Marks. This interview begins a new series in Stoner magazine called "Cannabis Heroes", where we pay homage to those who have put it on the line in the struggle for re-legalisation of Cannabis. We include those who have laboured away in the background producing the genetics and setting the standards which the more reputable parts of this largely unregulated industry can be so proud of today. Don't miss a word from the cutting edge of Cannabis Culture
Your Cannabis Culture Magazine
By Thomas Corser
Lately there have been a number of articles in the media about teenagers developing mental problems because of their habit of smoking too much Cannabis. One of note was when Independent of Sunday revealed its hotly debated 'Cannabis, an apology' front page. Basically the paper saw fit to retract its campaign to decriminalise the Herb, because of the recent alleged upsurge in both strength of the weed available (super skunk and the like), and in the increase in young people receiving treatment for varying degrees of psychoses.
Of all of the problems blamed on Weed in the feature, be it mental teens, people-trafficking Vietnamese gangs or increasing cases of lung cancer (though there is contrary evidence emerging suggesting THC prompts the cells that might become cancerous to die off and be replaced, even mitigating the effects of mixing nicotine with y're weed), prohibition only serves to make each worse. Before Indian Hemp was outlawed (only seventy nine years ago remember, a mouse fart of time compared to the eons the human species has spent living and evolving with this plant), they reported 'no injurious effect to the mind'. Our predecessors may have had funny ideas about a lot of things, but I am sure they were capable of recognising psychosis for what it was.
I'm not refuting the claims that the noble weed can cause early onset of schizophrenia in those already predisposed, frankly I find the idea that it couldn't to be completely ridiculous. Cannabis does mess with your head - for better or worse that's what getting stoned is all about. Bear in mind of course, that nowadays battery-farmed chicken can have the same effect. since the poor little critters don't get a proper runaround, you find an imbalance of certain essential fatty acids in the tissues. These fats help lubricate our brains or something, so an imbalance in the chicken can see an imbalance in the chicken eater and possibly adversely affect the brain's workings.
Of course anything taken to sufficient extremes can cause a change in mental state, too much of anything will be bad, too much of a good thing can be the worst. Arguably stress is the biggest health risk any of us will face, and nowt else medicates against stress like a good spliff. It's all give and take.
The world is no more than what its parts make it. Cannabis has always been a part of it, like everything else that evolved on this sphere, we share at least seventy percent of our genome with it. Weed is part of the whole, to ignore that truth throws the rest out of kilter. While this may not affect the grand scheme too much, it certainly knocks our perceptions and our relationship with it our of whack. It is also foolish to imagine that everything would be hunky dory if not for one factor or another. Its thousands of parts and factors, big, small and middling, working at odds or in parallel, which makes the world what it is. If you don't like it, ask nicely maybe it will stop and let you get off.
That doesn't mean there is nothing to be done, unfortunately the best idea I've had is to stand on busy streets handing out leaflets. A hit and miss strategy at the best of time, although the big flag I've got myself now is helping a great deal. If you feel passionate about promoting the case for legalisation, the best advice is to discuss it with your friends, family and colleagues. find out what their opinions are and learn more about your own.
Our thanks to Tom. Keep fighting the fight ma son!
to a Stoner
Considerations of Psychosis
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