Queen of Green

by V E Rooney

  As the minutes passed, more festivalgoers were pouring into the field, and the empty spaces around us would gradually fill up to the point where, from above, it would look like a giant patchwork canvas quilt. By midnight, several thousand other mini-sound systems would also be in full effect, and by midnight tomorrow, those festivalgoers would be in need of some weed to wind down after consuming all the speed and whizz that had kept them dancing for 12 hours straight.

  We had already secured some sales, with a disparate straggle of individuals passing by our tents, catching a whiff of our spliffs and coyly asking if we had any spare. I knew that it was only a matter of time before word got around and interest would pick up.

  It’s true what they say in advertising – word of mouth really is the best form of business promotion. People trust their mates, and if their mates are talking up a business or its products, that’s a sure-fire way of attracting even more business. So before the festival had even kicked off, we were already making good on our business plan. But tomorrow was when the real work would begin. My salesforce would have to go out into the fields and use their powers of persuasion to attract new custom, and I would have to marshal them. But that was for tomorrow. One thing at a time, baby steps and all that.

  It got to around midnight and one by one, we all clambered back into our tents to get some rest for the days and nights ahead. With my head on my pillow, itself resting on a slab of homegrown weed, I drifted off to sleep. I had a good feeling about this trip. I knew we’d have competition, but I also knew we were the best. I wasn’t worried.

  I woke up at twat o’clock the next morning, as in wide awake before the sun had a chance to yawn and scratch its balls and stretch properly. I was sharing a tent with Ste who was snoring so loudly and so deep in sleep that I could’ve shat on his head and he wouldn’t have even stirred.

  I hadn’t even got round to opening my eyes and poking my head outside the tent, and the first thing that hit me as I unzipped the front of the tent was the smell. You have your regular rural farm smell, cow shit, mud, grass (the conventional kind) and dewdrop dampness. Add to that already pungent mixture the various strains of weed, hash, the spilled and dropped contents of beer cans and plastic cups, differing strengths of body odour, farts and impromptu and promptu turds outside tents by people too fucked to make it to the lavs, and you have the smell of urban Britain invading rural Britain’s territory. It’s quite something. And there’s something about being inside a tent that seems to magnify and amplify that aroma tenfold.

  I eased myself outside the tent to get some relatively fresher air just as the first sunrays began to stretch across the landscape, illuminating the kaleidoscope of fabrics, colours, sounds and shapes that had populated the field overnight as we slept. We were in the middle of a sea of humanity, at the centre of opportunity, at the hub of the universe we chose to inhabit.

  After surveying the scene, I closed my eyes, stretched my arms upwards and strained my muscles as much as I could, taking in the deepest morning breath I could manage, and willing the oxygen to penetrate every molecule and strengthen every blood cell inside my body. I would need as much energy as I could muster to get through the next few days. I needed to identify opportunities, shore up my defences and show off my strengths.

  These three days were most definitely about business and not pleasure. That’s not to say I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of the music and bands I loved in between selling– but it would be a brief and temporary respite from the job at hand, which was to sell my stock and get the fuck out of Dodge with as much wodge as I could grab.

  That first Glastonbury pretty much confirmed what I already suspected but had not fully realised. I had a major edge over my rival sellers even if I hadn’t fully grasped how important it was at the time. I had focus, a singular, laser-like focus that blinded me to distractions and diversions, and enabled me to concentrate all my efforts and willpower on any given objective in front of me. And that focus in turn generated determination – determination to do what I did well, to be consistent, to produce the best product I could possibly produce. And that determination gave birth to ruthlessness. A ruthlessness that was already within me due to earlier life experiences.

  With all those elements combined, my chances of success were maximised. But I’ll go into more about that later. Right now, it’s more important to give a flavour of how that summer of 1990 was a cornerstone in my career, in definitely more ways than one.

  15. MARKETING

  Well, for all the hype, for all the bullshit prose and sycophantic praise that has been spewed across the pages of NME and Melody Maker, the Happy Mondays have unfortunately taken their own life philosophy – getting fucked on Es, whizz, coke, whatever could be injected, ingested and inhaled – a bit too far, because their set at Glastonbury is fucking diabolical. But then, expecting the Happy Mondays to be present at the world’s biggest music festival, be stone-cold sober and give a pitch-perfect performance is probably setting yourself up for disappointment in the first place. Turns out there isn’t much difference between sober Bez and fucked Bez in terms of dancing at least.

  Seriously, they could’ve made a bit of a fucking effort at least for the first few songs. But no, two songs in, Shaun Ryder sounds like someone with a speech impediment on ketamine – and it’s clear to the watching crowd that the whole band is already completely fucked and probably had been before leaving Manchester. Even die-hard fans can be heard muttering about what a pile of wank they are. I doubt even the band themselves remember they were at Glastonbury today. Still, I personally make a few lucrative sales to disappointed fans who begin drifting away, telling them a bit of my homegrown will make them forget the calamity they’ve just witnessed.

  Elsewhere, John and David respectively make killings at their chosen tents – reggae fans are always willing to buy – and David in particular does a lot of trade at some of the dance tents, although it’s E that the punters most request. Ste prefers to hang around the hippy tents and new age areas and he also does well, even copping off with a few posh dippy hippy girls who fancy a bit of rough for the weekend. He’s having a fine time hoisting these girls onto his giant shoulders, much to the girls’ delight, while the rest of the lads look on and curse him for being such a big, jammy bastard.

  Me and Ste form something of a tag team, wandering around the myriad of stages and tents and food stalls and communal areas, and discreetly approaching likely-looking punters with offers, special offers and discounts. Little do they know they’re all paying the same price. But it’s effective. Even get a queue forming at one point behind one of the burger vans, with people tipping other festivalgoers off about the Scousers with the gear. Doing a roaring trade already.

  On the first day, in mid-afternoon, Ste and I are taking a quick coffee break near one of the burger vans when I spot this longhaired crunchy hippy type giving us looks. He looks about early 20s, this pasty-skinned wiry chinless twat with dreadlocks, wearing baggy surfer-style shorts and his bare chest daubed with some fluorescent dayglo shit. Fucking student, I think instinctively, before mentally telling myself off seeing as how students at home are some of my best customers.

  Ste is engaged in some chat with a lad about which acts are on where so he has his back to me while I’m sipping my coffee and scanning my surroundings. Next thing I know, crunchy hippy sidles over to me with this big stupid grin on his face but he seems nervous and edgy. I think, either he really is a dippy twat or he’s the worst (or best depending on how you want to view it) undercover busy ever. But I wait for the opening line regardless. I can choose whether I want to respond to it or not, but the opening line tells me a lot about a person.

  “Hey, lovely lady,” he drawls in a posh home counties accent, with full consonants and rounded vowels, dripping in that easy confidence that a middle class education fills you to the brim with.

  It always amazes me how men think that tossing out some fucking clichéd template phrase is enough to make women start oozi
ng fanny juice. It’s really kind of insulting to be viewed as someone that isn’t worth a bit of creativity and originality. It’s like a man on a mission to impress, who buys flowers for a woman without checking whether she actually likes flowers in the first place or isn’t allergic to them. OK, most likely she may not be allergic but it’s the act of not bothering to even check or research in the first place that tells me Mr Smooth is a lazy fucking bastard, and I’m staggered by how many women fall for it.

  But I give crunchy hippy time. I give him my best yeah mate, my self-esteem really isn’t that low look.

  “What makes you think I’m lovely?” I ask casually, my face like granite. He cocks his head sideways like a dog and looks to be completely stumped. He tries to say something but starts stammering. OK, I may have overestimated this one.

  “Hey, I’m not trying to be cheesy or anything,” he says, opening his arms in a Jesus-like I’m-just-a-regular-guy style. Still he seems nervous. He’s glancing sideways and his eyes dart left to right as if he’s ashamed to be talking to me and doesn’t want anyone to know. Hmmm. “It’s just I heard that you have got some good gear, yeah?”

  It’s at this point that Ste turns back to me, like a hound that’s just heard a fox scurrying by. Ste and I exchange raised eyebrows.

  “Depends on what you want,” I say before taking a bite out of my burger but never taking my eye off crunchy hippy for the whole time.

  “Well, could you do me an eighth?” he says quietly. I study my burger intently, making him wait. Meanwhile, Ste has dropped his eyes, pretending to be interested in his welly boots, trying to stifle a smirk. I slowly shake my head.

  “Nah, minimum deal is £50 for half an ounce. Wouldn’t be worth our while otherwise.” I’ve been doing smaller deals but I want my pound of flesh off this prick.

  Crunchy hippy hesitates for a moment and then decides to use a classic negotiation tool. “Come on, sweetheart, you know people are selling gear for much lower than that.“

  I take another bite of my burger, not quite believing he’s just called me sweetheart. “That’s true. You could go to any tent, any stage and waste your time trying to suss out who’s got gear for sale. Eventually you’ll make your way to Mr Cut-price. But you won’t know how good it is until you actually buy it. And because you want what he’s got, you’ll pay what he wants. Mr Cut-price has by then fucked off with your money, and you go back to your tent thinking you’ve got yourself some A-grade Jamaican, only to smoke the shit and find out it’s granddad’s flower cuttings. So you probably could get it cheaper from someone else. So go fucking buy off them. Sweetheart.”

  Another handy sales technique. My stuff is so good that I can afford not to give discounts. That tells the punter that my stuff really is the dog’s bollocks.

  Crunchy hippy is wrong-footed by this. He pauses. “OK, fine, £50.” He grudgingly hands over the money, Ste slips him a ready-made bundle, and we melt into the crowds, ignoring crunchy hippy’s plaintive cries for us to hang around.

  “The fuck is up with Stig of the Dump?” says Ste, mesmerised by the hippy’s tangle of blond dreadlocks, as we wander off.

  “That’s posh folk for you. All that inbreeding…does strange things to a person’s IQ,” I reply.

  Deals like this take place throughout the day and night, each of us gradually chipping away at our collective stock, taking chances and filling our pockets with profit. The common denominator for a concentrated mass of humanity at somewhere like Glastonbury is that no matter what chemicals you choose to have swirling round your body at any given time in order to propel yourself skywards, sooner or later, you’ll want to take the edge off them and float back down to earth on a little fluffy cloud. And if it’s good enough, you’ll want to do it again. I fulfil a need but I create the need at the same time. It’s a perpetual virtuous circle. Virtuous for me, anyway.

  It’s about 8.30pm on the Saturday evening and dusk is moving in. David and Brian are at their tent getting a couple of hours’ kip before gearing up for the evening’s selling session, although truth be told we’ve already sold enough to cover our costs and make a decent profit. Ste, John and I make our way to the area near the main stage. We’re people-watching, chatting shit and deciding which tent we should make our way to later when I spot crunchy hippy ambling over, and he’s definitely making his way to us.

  He’s pointing us out to the guy he’s with, who looks like an Oxbridge type, although older than a student. He’s wearing a baggy tie-dye top and baggy jeans, but I can tell it’s camouflage and that he’s trying to fit in. Crunchy hippy and Oxbridge boy are looking at me as they walk over, then looking at each other and murmuring something. Oxbridge boy has a slightly bemused look on his face. He’s scrutinising me. I don’t take my eyes off them as they come to a stop right in front of me.

  Crunchy hippy suddenly breaks into a big cheesy smile like he’s greeting an old friend, or trying to impress a new one. Either way, he wants something.

  “Hey, Scouse chick, how goes it?” says crunchy hippy, grinning and nodding enthusiastically. I look at him and then at Oxbridge boy, who has a tightly drawn half-smile on his face. I take my time answering. “Same as ever,” I say. Crunchy hippy nods even more enthusiastically at this. He puts an arm around Oxbridge boy.

  “So, this is my good friend Simon, yeah?”

  Simon nods in my direction, still with that half-smile on his face. Ste and John are just staring at the pair of them, faces like stone. “Simon, this is the main woman right here,” says crunchy hippy, gesturing in my direction. Very helpful of him. Simon goes to shake my hand. I look at his hand without moving. He gets the message and retracts his arm. Message received and understood. Good boy.

  Crunchy hippy is alarmed. “Woah, woah, I told you she was hardcore, didn’t I?” he says, with a nervous chuckle. I’m getting bored with this now.

  “So I was telling Simon that I was scouting around all day trying to score some decent shit, yeah? And that I bumped into this hardcore Scouse chick who sold me some really decent shit, I mean real spacey grade A shit, yeah? And I was looking around for you this afternoon because my man Simon wants to score, and here we all are!” says crunchy hippy with a relish as if he personally re-ordered the universe to make this event happen.

  I’m about to tell crunchy hippy to keep his fucking voice down when Simon leans in to me. He’s got an even plummier voice than crunchy hippy.

  “Actually, I was wondering if it was possible to discuss more of a wholesale order,” Simon says. I glance at Ste, who raises his right eyebrow and glances at me in return. John is still staring at crunchy hippy, who is still grinning and nodding at nothing in particular. Crunchy hippy obviously has his own soundtrack playing in his head. I look at Simon and cock my head behind me. “Let’s discuss then.” Simon follows my lead and we amble a few feet away, leaving John and Ste with crunchy hippy, who is trying to make small talk with them, and very unsuccessfully.

  I look at Simon. If there’s any ice to break then he can break it. “Don’t mind Loz, he’s a bit of a space cadet but he’s a good sort,” he says like he’s trying to reassure me. I’m silent.

  “So, I tried some of the stuff you sold Loz and I have to say I was really impressed. Really, really impressed. And I was wondering if you and I could do a deal.”

  Bearing in mind that Simon could easily be undercover plod, because it’s not like Loz is the most sharp-witted character, I remain non-committal and just raise my eyebrows at him. I need to suss Simon out. I just nod at him, not saying anything.

  “I’ve grown and sold my own stuff in the past, but it’s too much hassle for me to be honest, so I have a few suppliers who grow the stuff for me and I take care of sales,” Simon says, “you know, the student scene down south, the universities, but my last supplier really let me down by getting himself raided and banged up and so stocks are running low, if you know what I mean.”

  I look at him and then off to the side, considering his words. Sensing th
at I’m not convinced by his pitch, he says: “Do you grow your own?”

  “Look, sunshine,” I say. “What size of wholesale order are you talking about?”

  “I’m looking for about 20k,” Simon says. 20 kilos?

  “That’s a big order,” I say slowly.

  I have a problem here. My 12 mature plants, when they have flowered and budded well, will only produce a maximum harvest of 5oz a plant. In total, my 12 plants combined will only produce one kilo on average. I don’t have anywhere near the capacity he’s looking for. I tell him this, that I don’t have the logistics to give him what he needs. He actually looks disappointed.

  “That’s a damn shame,” he says, grimacing and sighing.

  “It is, it is.” I am actually disappointed myself, thinking about how much easier it would be if I was growing bulk orders and letting the buyers take care of the hassle of selling on the street. I may have to consider scaling up operations at some point.

  “I can’t help you out now,” I say in a somewhat soothing tone. “But maybe in future we could work something out. How about we swap contact details and I’ll let you know if the situation changes?”

  I can’t say fairer than that.

  At this, Simon looks briefly cheered. “Yeah, yeah, let’s do that. If you could ramp things up, keeping that kind of quality? I’d definitely be buying, put it that way.”