The Spectator - The changing smell of Britain’s streets

 

(personal underlines)

https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/the-changing-smell-of-britains-streets/?status=Active&utm_medium=email&utm_source=CampaignMonitor_Editorial&utm_campaign=BLND%20%2020250226%20%20HOUSE%20ADS%20%20IH+CID_eafd0d2815db7a88f56c45bb95168325

The changing smell of Britain’s streets

When did the weed smokers take over?

26 February 2025, 5:01am

(iStock)

The other day, while on my lunchtime walk, I passed a woman on a mobility scooter holding an impressive-looking doobie. Later, on my bus home, a bloke got on having just extinguished a joint, bringing the overpowering stench with him. Some commuters don’t even bother to put them out. All you can do is sit and tut passive-aggressively, hoping they’re only going a few stops.

While cannabis use has slowly declined over the past 25 years, it seems that you can’t escape it in public. Perhaps part of the reason is that so few people now smoke at all, even tobacco. It makes weed far more noticeable. The other reason is that the police don’t bother punishing those caught. Most are either let off with a verbal warning or a fine. In many parts of the UK, smoking weed in public is no different from parking on a double yellow.

The other day, I saw a delivery driver in his stationary van rolling a joint on top of his clipboard. Quite apart from the fact that it’s illegal to drive under the influence of drugs, I couldn’t help wondering what effect his impending befuddlement would have on the parcel drops. I’ve even seen someone outside the local Wetherspoons enjoying a spliff with their coffee, while the schoolkids in my nearest park in Bristol smoke weed quite openly.

For dog walkers, drug paraphernalia is a hazard. Willow once had to be rushed to the vet after ingesting something left at the park by a careless reveller. Our new puppy could barely stand, and we feared the worst. Fortunately, the vet cheerfully announced that she was merely stoned. Ours wasn’t the first dog he’d seen that day in the same condition.

Despite my current aversion to cannabis, I was once a partaker. I was introduced to wacky baccy by a boy at school nicknamed Maroo. We’d slip off to Clifton Downs for a crafty joint when we were supposed to be at games (unlike today’s kids, we did at least go and hide ourselves in some bushes). It was the 1980s, and the world’s most famous toker, Bob Marley, had recently died. Smiley Culture sang about being busted in ‘Police Officer’, and Musical Youth encouraged us to ‘Pass the Dutchie ’pon the left-hand side’.

At university in London, my next-door neighbour, a huge cockney called Noggins, was already a prolific dope smoker. It was Noggins who first showed me how to construct a reefer and with whom I spent many happy hours getting off my box when I was supposed to be at lectures. Plainclothes police would circulate our college digs hoping to bust us while we flailed around, spliff in one hand, pint in the other. Fortunately, a fellow student was the girlfriend of one of the officers and would alert us to their presence.

Having graduated, I attempted to leave my dissolute ways behind and took up yoga. But then I joined Noggins on a pilgrimage to India. High up in the Kullu Valley lies a town called Manali, which back then was full of stoned backpackers. Cannabis grows in abundance there. We’d spend our days drinking bhang lassi (a yoghurt drink blended with marijuana) and smoking chillums packed with charas (a cannabis resin concentrate).

In the evenings, we’d sit on the verandah of our guest house enjoying the view and smoking while the manager ran up and down the stairs with our orders. Eventually, Noggins’s behaviour became so erratic – standing outside in subtropical storms, laughing manically, eyes wide as saucers – that we parted company.

I don’t think I smoked more than a dozen times after returning from India, and I haven’t used recreational drugs in decades. However, I could still roll a joint if needed. One could see it as a life skill – like riding a bike. Once learned, never forgotten.

But now, old and square, I find the prevalence of dope smoking setting off my inner Victor Meldrew. Cannabis is a Class B controlled drug under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971, yet overstretched police forces have taken a more tolerant approach to possession for personal use. This has been a green light to some, who behave as if smoking it in public is no different from sipping a takeaway cappuccino.

I fume as I watch drug dealers arrive on my road and pass over the goods in what’s known locally as the ‘stoner handshake’. And if I see anyone smoking dope in front of their kids, I’m almost apoplectic. It was reported the other day that a foreign drug dealer – who fought a deportation order on the basis that it would negatively impact his family – was allowed to stay in the UK after promising only to smoke cannabis and not sell it.

Maybe I shouldn’t get quite so uptight. After all, there’s nothing more tiresome than a reformed smoker. But I’d like to suggest that, out of politeness, people consider the effect on others before sparking up in public. In an interview, Emily Post, author of Higher Etiquette, said: ‘Smoke is not a comfortable thing for everyone. I’d venture that you really want to pay attention to where your smoke is drifting.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself.