Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 14 March 2017
Yesterday I said that I never drank instant coffee, but that was not always the case. Around 1970 I found that the most economical way of ingesting canabis resin was to melt about an eighth of an ounce in a small cup of sweetened Nescafe then drink it down quickly. It was an ideal method of getting stoned when embarking on a train journey, or some other public thing where smoking it would lead to arrest.
During my last year at art school, I became the coordinator (not dealer) for the monthly dope purchace for a handful of my friends and fellow students. At the time, there was a Monty Python sketch which involved an advert for a product called 'Snibbo', and despite the many different presentations in the form of T.V. advertising, it was never actually specified what 'Snibbo' was, so it became the code word for our consignment of canabis.
I would recieve a parcel containing about half a pound of resin, and would announce its arrival by walking through the studios shouting "SNIBBO!" at the top of my voice. The teachers were completely ignorant of its meaning, as they only had Monty Python's adverts to go on.
I had been put in touch with a middle-aged woman in London who dealt in the stuff when she wasn't writing children's story books. She accepted cheques in the post, and the first one I sent her was returned with a note saying she did not understand what it was for. After she had checked me out, she would send large quantities of the drug by ordinary parcel post, and I would divide it out amongst my mates.
One day, I ordered half a pound of good African grass, and on the day it was due to arrive I heard our postman whistling to himself as he walked up the garden path.
The doorbell rang and I went to it and opened the door. To my horror, my London lady had simply put half a pound of grass into a flimsy shoebox and wrapped a bit of Selotape around it. There were bits of grass and seeds under the clear Selotape, and the postman was holding out a bit of paper for me to sign.
"This parcel fell apart in transit and we had to re-pack it. Please sign here to say you have received it in good order and there is nothing missing," he said with a friendly smile on his face.
For what seemed like an age, I stared at the evidence of my criminality, wondering what I should do and if I should say that there must be some mistake and this parcel was not for me. There was a lot of money involved, so I took the paper and signed it with a trembling hand, took the box into the kitchen and waited for the next ring on the doorbell. It never came.
Once again I am reminded of the good old days, when grass was proper grass and not the psychosis-inducing, genetically modified stuff that the next generation take for granted.