Taking the cannabiscuit

Something is awry in the cannabis world. The recent “down-grading” of cannabis from class B to class C (making possession no longer an arrestable offence, but perversely accompanied by increased penalties for trafficking) has barely been given a moment to get bedded in before a clamour has arisen. Cannabis, we are told, and especially a new potent, vigorous strain known as “skunk” is addling the minds of our youth, sending some mad and damaging the development of the brains of others. This sort of thing has been appearing in obvious places (the Daily Mail), less obvious (Trevor McDonald’s Tonight) and surprising (the New Statesmen), but it certainly suggests a co-ordinated campaign.

The relaxing of the cannabis laws was a typical New Labour fudge. It pleased absolutely no-one, with the possible exception of the police who got, in one fell swoop, both less work and more power. It left the government open to the charge of being soft on drugs without showing any signs of understanding the problems. In short they did the thing that was the least of all the things they could do, as though that would make any difference. All it has done is encourage the rabid anti-cannabis lobby to dust down any number of dubious scientific studies to get out the idea that cannabis is a deadly poison mind-mangling spirit – which it may be.

Some of what is being said has a grain of truth – there certainly are stronger strains of marijuana widely available nowadays and these strains are certainly implicated in mental distress for some people. Of course it has been known for many years that cannabis can complicate mental illness and should be, but often is not, avoided by sufferers. There is, however, a lot of hysteria being generated about “skunk weed” at present with some people even suggesting that crack addiction is preferable to habitual skunk consumption. But if anybody would seriously prefer their child to consume crack instead of skunk, then they need to learn more about crack.

The name “skunk” is a generic term for certain strains of marijuana with general but not essential characteristics in common. In actual fact “skunk” was one of the original hybrid strains successfully bred by growers in California but it is now an umbrella term for all marijuana engineered in this way. These hybrids differ somewhat from “traditional” cannabis. Firstly they are stronger in their effects, with the active chemical THC (tetrahydrocannabinol) present in higher proportions. Secondly they have frequently been bred to be ideal for indoor growing, under lights and often hydroponically – with water and chemicals instead of earth.

It is this indoor growing which has transformed the UK cannabis market. In the eighties UK-grown cannabis was poor quality and the market was dominated by North African hashish and African marijuana, alongside the better quality Indian hashish and Caribbean marijuana. The quality was variable and droughts were sporadic. Most of the marijuana which arrived here had been compressed into blocks to facilitate smuggling. Unless it was very high quality (known in the Caribbean as “sensimilla”) it would generally have been fertilised by the male cannabis plant and contain unsmokable seeds, which would have to be removed by hand. The hashish would frequently have been pressed and pressed again, allowing smugglers to add all manner of material to their produce to make it go further. This traditionally would include vast quantities of henna, the plant dye, but also even the less palatable motor oil could find its way into the bars. Quality marijuana and hashish were available, of course, but unreliably so.

At the start of the nineties developments in indoor growing technology allowed both huge warehouses and bedroom closets to be turned over to cannabis production. The cannabis produced – “skunk weed” – was not only reliably potent but more importantly reliably fresh and (due to the ease of the male plants being removed from the grow-chambers) unfertilised. For this reason almost all “skunk weed” is sensimilla.

Thus, the attraction of skunk was obvious and it rapidly over-ran the market. The staple poor quality Moroccan hash (“Rocky”) and African bush weed are still available but at absurdly low prices. In 1990 an ounce of Rocky would cost £80-£90. Nowadays it would be unlikely to fetch much more than £40. That there is still a market is in a large part due to the reluctance of many smokers to regularly use skunk, because although it has its attractions, it also has its problems.

When skunk was still very new I was told that some Jamaicans had taken to calling it “obeah weed”. “Obeah” is a term for the Jamaican occult, similar to Voodoo and was not being used as a compliment. Jamaicans could already access fresh sensimilla of traditional strains and were wary of this new-fangled variety. There was an important difference between the marijuana they were smoking and the marijuana produced by the skunk strains.

Cannabis is divided into two major varieties – sativa and indica. These varieties have different types of THC. Sativa has more THC and Indica more CBD (cannabidiol) and produce noticeably different types of cannabis. Indica strains generally produce cannabis with a heavier, physical effect compared with sativa’s lighter, more cerebral high. Cannabis indica also produces a more resinous plant and is the source of almost all the world’s hashish, grown in a swathe from southern India across Afghanistan, Pakistan, across the Middle East and into North Africa. Cannabis sativa does not produce enough resin to make large-scale hashish production feasible and so generally is processed as marijuana buds. Sativa grows across central and southern Africa, continental America, the Caribbean and also some parts of south-east Asia, notably Thailand.

Skunk weed, however, although grown, processed and sold like sativa, is never a 100% sativa strain. This is because only indica strains grow large enough and mature quickly enough to make indoor growing worthwhile. Over the years many strains have been developed with more sativa in their genes, because it is widely understood that sativa produces a more mellow high compared with indica, but almost never is a skunk strain less than 50% indica.

Over the years I have heard many cannabis smokers complain about the skunk weed which they consume. They say that it “mongs them out” and that, even in small doses, its strength is of a different order to ordinary marijuana. Often they also enjoy that increased strength. But they are forced into choosing skunk because high quality sensimilla is so hard to obtain in this country. Time and time again they have only a choice of skunk weed, poor quality “bush weed” or adulterated hashish. This skunk has frequently been grown in poor conditions, using fertiliser chemicals under unnatural lighting. The different effects all of this causes in the final product is very difficult to assess and differentiate from the increased potency of the indica strains. Street skunk weed is frequently known as “punk”, rhyming slang but also perhaps a comment on its quality.

Drug laws are not renowned for their rationality but the irony of anti-cannabis campaigners complaining about the potency of skunk is telling. It is the very drug laws they seek to reinforce which create the circumstances in which skunk weed is so prevalent.

Yet another irony is the call for more research into cannabis. Research is, of course, always welcome but there is evidence of the use of cannabis as an intoxicant stretching back at least 2000 years and countless research papers have been prepared on its effects – many suppressed after failing to come up with the desired negative results. Compare that with the widely prescribed Ritalin and consider whose youth are having their brain development damaged.

Mortal Luvbat

The sooner we recognise that we are all mortal, the better. I don't think one has to put a skull on one's desk as a memento mori as they did in the Middle Ages. But I've always felt there is no such thing as darkness: only the absence of light. There is no such thing as evil: only the absence of goodness. And one can accept death more easily if one doesn't think of it as an equal opposite but simply as no life.
Peter Brook

Abdullah Ibrahim, RFH

The 70-year-old South African pianist comes to grace the RFH with his sublime playing. And grace is the right word, because everything he does is imbued with a permeating peacefulness. A true jazz master, only very occasionally did anything as base as a tune sully proceedings. But somehow I felt I could listen to his playing and understand precisely what the song was about. The drummer and young bass player provided excellent support, although at times I felt the drummer was a little too busy, almost flashy, for the auspicious atmosphere.

The problem for the critic, when reviewing such an established great, is that any criticisms he may have more about him than the criticised. Once an artist has been playing at this level for over 50 years, they become, more or less, beyond criticism – it’s a take it or leave it situation. But if I was to be honest, I’d say that it was perhaps too peaceful, and I may have dozed off towards the end. Luckily any residue of stillness I might have reserved was rapidly wiped away by a quick visit to the late showing of Star Wars : Revenge of the Utter Shite.

Writing

The beautiful thing about writing is that you don’t need anything. In order to write, all you need is to write.

The writer continuously needs to say everything twice, to repeat himself, but say it differently the second time. This means he needs to have two phrases for everything he wishes to say, which is a pain, but it at least doubles the chance that he’ll be understood.

Writing, like most things, is an escape. Momentarily engaged with putting mind to pen to paper the writer loses touch with those torments which bedevil his ordinary existence, his doubts, worries, fears, pains and, for a brief moment of forgetfulness – of lost attention – he becomes as he is.

Of course worries and concerns are not imaginary and will therefore reinstitute themselves in due course, if they can. The writer gains relief from them, a moment to breathe fresh air, a reminder that the most pressing of problems has its limits, although he is not able to transcend them.

At least writing fills his time, gives him at least the illusion of a purpose. Aha, he looks up from the page – a few more minutes have been spent fitfully. Despite the fact that even the finest fruit will wither and rot, it is still considered better to be fruitful than to be barren. Fruit, of course, never outlives a tree – only the stone, the hard unyielding nut, has that chance. But just like a tree can be strangled by weeds, so can a writer choke on his own over-grown metaphor and resign to start afresh.

Degradiation Sickness

The "happy slapz" craze had barely scathed my consciousness until I came across this (zipped files of .3gp files - open them from QuickTime player) assortment of downloaded films which show that "happy slapz" are neither slaps, nor particularly happy. There is an odd fascination is watching them, but mostly it is incredibly depressing and quite a few border on the unwell, to my obviously ageing temperament. Be warned, the youth of today are by turns violent, sick, nasty and only occasionally very funny. And definitely not as funny as they think they are. Mostly it is run-of-the-mill teenager-on-teenager bullying and degredation but the mobile phone also takes us into a council estate world where drug dealers tie up and slap up their indebted customers and teenagers film their mates having sex on the stairwell.

On a related, and slightly more amusing theme armed police arrested a load of A Level media studies students filming a mock gun fight in Barkingside.

Semantics #2

Idiosyncronicity - when being wrong is too much of a coincidence.

Family

"The great thing about family life is that it introduces you to people you'd otherwise never meet."
Christopher Hitchens

18 Stones of Idiot, Channel 4

aka 60 Minutes of Shite.

Johnny Vegas' new show, a Chris Evans-produced rehash of "Don't Forget Your Toothbrush" (other possible names may have included "Don't Forget Why You Left TV") is hopeful but suffers on too many levels. Although sporadically funny, Johnny's new found TV confidence finds him in hectoring, arrogant mood - but if I wanted to see 18 Stones of Yelling Alcoholic I could pop down to any number of pubs. It strikes me that a morbidly obese Northerner, no matter how quick-witted, is always going to have a problem cast as an obnoxious cunt, but Johnny perseveres, casting off his previous sympathetic, somewhat downtrodden persona for a character modelled roughly on a cross between Julie Burchill and Vyvian out the Young Ones' with a massive pile of cocaine. At this point I'd tend to seek solace in the Bible, where I'm sure it says "let he who is without man-tits cast the first stone", but the trendy young do-as-they're-told audience lap it up. In fact, considering the diabolical stste of TV nowadays, the show was more than passable. Ray Winstone made a fairly uninspiring guest and getting some doofus off the shopping channel to act as foil for JV's rapier spittle was also uninspiring - so much so that I couldnt think of another word. "Celebrity Lock-in", where 80's b-list slebs - Rusty Lee (!), Roland out of Grange Hill - sat in 90s-uber-pub the Good Mixer showed that TV is the best at parodying itself, but also failed to live up even to its own half-arsed joke. And letting Neil Hamilton on was just cruel.

Overall, 50/50. Meaning I wouldn't turn it on, but I wouldn't turn it off.

First Wanking, Now This

Viagra makes you blind

Whats next? Doggy Style? Blow jobs? Blindfolds?

Theatre of Blood, National Theatre

Lavish romp, based on seventies cult film, in which a deranged old ham murders a gaggle of critics after they murder his season of Shakespeare. Each murder is a twist on a famous Shakespearean death scene - Shylock gets his pound of flesh, Joan of Arc gets frizzled alive in a hairdressing salon, to mention just two. The subject matter obviously makes it hard for an uninhibited judgement, but luckily the play, and especially the performances, are spot on. Jim Broadbent, as the murderer is fantastic, spouting amateur-dramatic Shakespeare endlessly but still garnering sympathy. The critics are nicely judged in their seventies get up, each one's character faintly representing the paper they work for. The set, the proscenium arch of a delapidated theatre, sited in the austere Lyttleton, is a nice touch. Overall, its great fun and the added self-referential element - how the about-to-open National Theatre will ruin/save theatre - made it more involving than a straight black farce. That the point they may have been making was lost to those of us lacking theatrical pedigree, didnt matter.

Cannabis March

Surprised myself by stumbling upon this demo, gearing up in leafy Russell Square for a short trod to that concrete sun box, Trafalgar Square. The turnout wasn’t great and no-one I knew had heard about it either. The poor advertising was explained to me to be due to problems getting a licence to march from the authorities. Apparently the organisers had to stump up £1800 for the ‘security’ (presumably plod) and the licence wasn’t awarded until three weeks ago. The march was ostensibly about medical cannabis, presumably being the best route for the grievances to get a hearing and there were a few wheel-chaired bods about the place but it was mostly that studenty crowd that you’d expect. The march itself was OK, quite a bit of media around and samba drummers and pretty girls. Then everybody congregated in sunstroke hell under Nelson to listen to a variety of speakers including Caroline Coon, the lady who started Release. She started badly - "The campaign for the end of prohibition is often pejoratively stigmatised as silly, hippie, white and 'middle-class'" - and then got worse - choice out of context quotes include "Most dealers of cannabis are black" and "Black youth is drawn into the criminal gang culture because cannabis is a sellers market". You can read her somewhat controversial speech here. It is of course actually well-meaning and, listening closely, she may even have a point. But it somehow didnt seem right. Luckily the wind blew the sound all over the place.

I was thinking about how the government keeps drugs illegal because they can make more money out of them that way. The criminalisation of weed is such bad grace that only conspiracy theories really do it justice.

Ong Bak

Much hyped Thai contribution to the martial arts revival of late, involving extraordinary stunt-work from the lead Tony Jaa reminiscent of Jackie Chan in his heyday. He leaps over, under, around, between moving cars, vats of boiling oil, panes of glass and countless other people - in one shot he escapes a legion of baddies by jumping up and running from shoulder to shoulder over them. Tbe opening scene, featuring 20 Thai schoolkids fighting to be first to the top of a tree - up and down the tree - was fantastic and original. The fight scenes, where he employs Muay Thai against a variety of western and oriental opponents, were dramatic and believable. Unfortunately the film commits the common error of using up all its big fights too early, so that the finale is just more of the same. Also the realism of the Muay Thai is at the expense of the delight and variation seen in the Hong Kong flicks. By the final fights it had almost lost my unforgivably jaded attention.

The just

He said to me, “you’ll sleep like a baby”
I said, “yeah I will. Wake up every two hours and cry.”

Henry IV Part 2

Shakespeare, according to popular wisdom, invented countless words we still use today. One word he should have invented is "superfluous", because it comes in handy summing up the dialogue in this drawn-out parade of insignifica. This play could well have been Kafka's inspiration for a labourious bureaucratic nightmare. It seems to me that if you are going to have to listen to three hours of esoteric verbal gerrymandering, you should at least get a few murders and a ghost, like in Scooby Doo. Watching this, in some vain attempt to up my cultural capacity, meant I turned down a ticket to see Arsenal. Luckily, they only won 7-0. Culture has not come out showered in glory.

Too Good To Be True

If something's too good to be true, they often say, it is. Alternatively, I have come to realise, it may just not be that good.

Love

Bill : He was murdered by a spurned lover
Nige : It could happen. Not to me, but it could happen.

Pope Idol

The new pope will be elected by votes from the cardinals. All the wannabes will have to do a turn or two. Could they televise it and call it "Pope Idol"? or maybe "The Cross Factor"

Dave Allen RIP

A great comedian whose enduring gags were those pointing up unnoticed absurdities in ordinary life. My personal favourite, which I remember watching as a very small boy, was one about a sign he had seen saying "Are you Illiterate? If you have trouble reading and writing, contact this address!" Others are here

In memorium, I'll offer my own. On the back of a credit card I saw a small notice saying "If your card is lost or stolen phone 0898xxxxxxxx". Handy, I suppose, if you've just stolen one.

Raison d'être

Within this life I find
that I'm craven
I could have been wine
but instead of that I'm
a raison

All of the time
I find I need a haven
I should have been wine
but I'm
a raison

The good doctor

"In America, childhood is a disease. Spontaneity is a symptom."
Oliver Sacks