Rather than deal with all the hassle of rolling joints in an unknown town, Allan usually brought a stack of ready-rolled smokes which had been cut down in length and hidden inside a conventional cigarette box. This way as soon as we’d landed, we could share a few beers in a hotel room; open the window for ventilation and spliff-up while the girls were getting changed.
Natasha managed to convince a reticent Nigel to come along to the gig and we all checked in together at a generic hotel in the city centre. With the six of us arriving without an advance booking, the hotel insisted we accept three non-smoking rooms situated on the third floor of an annex at the rear of the building. Allan was never the most skilled at hiding his emotions and the receptionist, picking up on his obvious frustration about the rooms we’d been allocated, warned us smoking would not be tolerated. She emphasised a new high tech smoke detection system had recently been installed in this part of the hotel at considerable cost.
Once we’d all dumped our stuff in our respective melamine drawers we met in Allan’s room, perching precariously on the bed while we cracked open a few cans of lager. Ignoring Nigel’s lone voice of concern about the hotel‘s smoking policy on this floor; we wasted no time investigating how we could introduce Pennie to the limited charms of the dated little room. Because of the air conditioning system, all windows were sealed, which prevented us from expelling our malodorous fumes out towards the uninspiring car park. The only reasonable solution was therefore, to try to disassemble the smoke alarm. Tampering with the device immediately set off a trip-switch in the hotel reception area which itself resulted in us receiving a brusque phone call from one of their vigilant staff. The thing you need most after an agitated discussion with a surly hotel receptionist, is of course, a little time being caressed by the velveteen Miss Fenton, so by now Allan and I were determined to strike up as many of our pre-packed little beauties as we possibly could. Stupidly, we decided to try and seal the vent holes of the hastily reconstructed alarm mounting, by stuffing masses of dampened Rizla papers into the housing. Two enjoyable spliffs after initiating this idiotic plan, a second terse phone call was received – this time from the hotel shift-manager who was kindly calling to announce he was on his way up to Room 383 to find out exactly what was going on. Our Rizla defence barrier had failed, the central smoke alarm had been activated and he was duty-bound to identify the responsible party. Nigel and the girls went apeshit.
Aware we were already a little rowdy, the next rather perverse decision taken in response to this ‘two minute warning’ was to find the most boring programme on TV we could and then crank the volume up really loud. Our hope was this would somehow confirm our status as reliable, sensible citizens. Flicking through the various channels the girls found a mindless show which, according to Natasha, was a big hit with students everywhere. Half stoned, the notion that six adults would of course willingly cram themselves into the middle of a hot airless room (not much bigger than the bed it contained) in order to watch daytime television seemed to be a splendid smokescreen. Even more so, when it turned out the programme in question was a game show featuring middle aged housewives running around a fake superstore with a large trolley, grabbing as much produce as they could. Absolutely ideal!
Conscious the hotel’s officious manager could still rumble precisely what we’d been smoking and evict us, it was decided ‘Garrulous Charlie’ should wait outside and intercept him before he was able to enter the airless room. This would buy us a bit more time and, with the room door firmly closed, make it harder for him to differentiate between the screams of the television game show contestants and the muffled giggling of his half-stoned guests.
Accepting my fate, I stood in the corridor, apprehensively awaiting his arrival. By now I was feeling the full effects of those potent early afternoon joints as my heart pounded, palms sweated and pupils shrunk to the size of two grains of sand. I started to get a little paranoid, thinking he would undoubtedly have informed the police, who were naturally going to arrest me (and inform both the local press and my clients at work about the incident). With seconds to spare I concocted an unconvincing alibi about not receiving the smoking rooms we’d emphatically been promised and then braced myself for our high octane showdown. To my amazement, the shift manager hadn’t come to eject us. Instead he sheepishly informed me they’d managed to isolate our smoke alarm and as a one-off would temporarily deactivate the unit to prevent any further problems. He seemed more resigned than annoyed and had even brought a branded ashtray with him for our use. What a top bloke! Relieved by this unexpected result, I shook his hand, slapped the side of his forearm, bowed my head a little and then bid him farewell in a far too gushing way, before re-entering the rented room where I was greeted like a returning war hero. Clutching my victory cigarette ash receptacle, I was in no mind to tell everyone about how conciliatory he’d actually been. After all, it was me who’d put the trumped-up jobs-worth in his place, me who’d made him eat humble pie and then cower to every single one of my inflexible demands.
Slipping into a more relaxed mode, everyone except Nigel got really drunk that afternoon, distracted only by the endless episodes of the dodgy game show. We ended up having such a laugh taking the piss out of the programme that we didn’t manage to get to any of the Sheffield pubs we’d arranged to go to before the concert started. Free to inhale whatever we wanted in our non-smoking room, Allan and I considered ourselves subversives. We were pushing against the system – just like in the old days and this made our unseen drug taking even more entertaining. Recently, the two of us had been so used to lighting-up spliffs whenever we fancied one, that our habit had become almost normalised. Mainly smoking in the safety of our own houses, had removed some of the magic because we never had to think about the possibility of getting caught. This trip away brought it all flooding back and instead of making smoking less attractive; the thrill of the illicit reminded us of all the fun we’d once had.
That afternoon, behaving like Holiday Inn vigilantes, was the last time I can remember having fun with Pennie Fenton.
18. Sins of the Father
There was little doubt, the use of what I had once regarded a ‘harmless natural drug’ was making me increasingly impulsive, more drawn towards instantaneous rewards and much less likely to focus on longer term goals. It was as if a reliance on cannabis had swelled the pleasure zone in my brain to such an extent, that it now needed regular pampering. Just before we bought our first house, Annie and I had decided that whenever possible we would think long-term in an attempt to dismiss instant satisfaction in favour of deferred benefits. These days I seemed far more inclined to seek immediate gratification in virtually every aspect of life and was much less willing to take the longer, more difficult route.
Thinking about this turnabout reminded me of an experiment we studied as students. In The Marshmallow Test, a number of children were left in a room with only a bell and a marshmallow for company. Each of them was told that if they decided to ring the bell they’d be allowed to eat the marshmallow in front of them. Alternatively, if they delayed ringing the bell and waited for a researcher to return to the room; then they would receive a second marshmallow. By deferring gratification, the more patient children were provided with a substantially greater reward. The experiment has been repeated numerous times over the years, always with the same results. Every time it has been run, the impulsive children who rang the bell early, enjoyed their one marshmallow, but also tended to be the ones, who in later life struggled in stressful situations, were less hardy as grown-ups, had fewer friends and performed less well in academic tests. Conversely, those who exhibited greater self-control in the simple test were invariably the same ones who became more socially engaged and went on to accomplish more as adults.
Damn, was I becoming someone who was inclined to open their sweets too early on a long car journey? Was I undermining my own chances of success in life by turning into a single marshmallow man?
Ignoring the benefits of defer
red gratification had been a relatively recent adjustment. As far as I could calculate, the origins of this particular change in behaviour coincided with the spectacular display of bad judgement which led to Pennie moving in. Acknowledging this fact made me wonder just how many other issues relating to my physical and psychological well-being I could attribute to her.
As my forty-third birthday came and went, I dismissed friends’ light-hearted, but derisory references to being the oldest codger in the group. Yet, deep inside I knew there was no disputing that I was now approaching middle age. Looking at my older self even more closely, it was clear that years of hedonistic indulgence had taken its toll. I looked spent and felt the same. Conscious that by mid-life ‘every man has the face he deserves’, I wondered what proportion of my deterioration was down to Pennie and how much of it was simply because of my age. Maybe I had already left it too late to start thinking about looking after myself.
In an attempt to define the effects Pennie Fenton was having on my body and mind, I decided to compose a list of the down-sides to having her around. I filled over three A4 pages scribbling down this ‘list of inconveniences’ which I’d always accepted but never questioned. I started with general clumsiness and muddled thinking. Then, how easily distracted I was and the frustration I felt when undertaking the simplest of tasks. I wrote how I hated having to throw away so many of my clothes because of small resin burns. Underneath this, how I was sick of the sweet musty smell of lingering smoke which filled the house and stained the playroom curtains and wallpaper. Similarly, the painful blisters on my index finger and thumbs caused by crumbling the hot resin too quickly onto the Rizla papers were now beyond a joke. I jotted down how friends had commented about the inevitable weight gain caused by the onset of the munchies four or five nights a week; how conscious I was becoming about the ache in my lower back where my kidneys were situated. The more I recorded, the easier it became. I noted how my pulse ran faster after a few smokes, how my hair had turned lank, my skin much greasier and my general verve diminished.
Energy level was a big one. It was hard to feel especially perky, lying under the weight of the multi-layered eiderdown of cannabis leaves I’d so carefully sewn. Also, it was impossible to ignore the fact that when I was really trashed, I could hardly move a muscle. Apparently vibrant physical activity is capable of improving your self-esteem. Unfortunately a few brief encounters with Miss Fenton and you were fooled into thinking that lifelessness was actually an enjoyable way to be. Pennie therefore perpetuated the very physiological conditions you needed to avoid. Living with her was like being forced to drive a small underpowered car on the busiest of motorways, sandwiched between two herculean articulated lorries. You constantly wanted to overtake the one in front, but were aware you didn’t have the acceleration to do so.
Stuart, who had a knack of distilling any complicated idea into its essential points, helped me appreciate the effect that cannabis was having on my energy. After our infamous Greek holiday he’d mentioned he could always tell when I’d been distracted by Pennie, because of the way I moved.
“Whatever you think you get from smoking that stuff, it isn’t doing you any good mate,” he said
“Many reports say it’s less harmful to you than alcohol or tobacco, and you smoke cigarettes all the time,” I replied, defensively
“Maybe, but at least I can function afterwards. I walk into a room and can tell immediately if you’ve been on the weed. Don’t even need to see your glassy eyes. It’s as if you’re moving in slow motion, like some really old fella, just before he pops his clogs.”
“Hey, there’s life in the old dog yet!”
“Well from what I see, there’s not much of it. What’s good about being lazy -slouching around, doing nothing except laughing at things that aren’t funny? You need to get out, see people, enjoy life by getting involved. It’s like all your energy is being robbed and you’re helping to make it happen.”
Once again, I knew he was right, Pennie was enervating and my personal vigour did diminish after a few smokes.
It wasn’t just my outward energy which was affected. For a number of years Annie and I had been trying for another baby. We’d always wanted four kids, but hadn’t had any success conceiving after Travis was born in 2000. I didn’t know it at the time, but a recognised side effect of the THC in the spliffs is that it disrupts the way the sperm swim, making them much less able to fertilise an egg. All those mini-me’s were effectively, like their host, burnt out before they even had chance to get started.
Writing down all the adverse effects was easy. I liked the way the document provided visible evidence of the detrimental effects of my epic infatuation and was shocked to see just how many of them there were. It was like a balance sheet: I already knew all the so-called benefits of smoking dope, but now here in front of me, was the flipside for due consideration. The exercise sensitised me to the multitude of issues I was prepared to tolerate, but seeing just how far I’d fallen ended up making me more petrified I’d never be able to give up.
Instead of doing something about this list of negative consequences; I tried in vain to mask the warning signs I’d recently defined, terrified others may discover my guilty (dis)pleasures. I became more self-conscious and less inclined to go out into town at weekends – just in case colleagues and customers might bump into me and realise I was worse for wear. If I was ever lured away from the reassuring surroundings of home, I would inevitably encounter people I’d not seen for ages and convince myself there was a flicker of concern in their eyes as we exchanged false pleasantries. Whether it was there or not, I could see their look of disbelief at the extent I’d let myself go since we last met.
A couple of times out shopping I recognised I wasn’t being afforded the same respect by shop assistants which others were. Over in Hull looking at a new suite in a furniture store renowned for its customer service, I was practically ignored by their staff. When I did manage to attract someone’s attention, I received the most functional of responses to questions which any junior apprentice would have known were strong buying signals. Similarly a few months later, willing and able to purchase a top of the range digital projector at an electrical store in York, I was treated with contempt by a sales assistant when asking for assistance to purchase kit worth over a thousand pounds. In my mind, in both situations the fault lay with them, the diabolical service standards, the lack of insight by their staff, the downright rudeness of these retail assistants with no more than a handful of GCSEs between them. Or so I told myself. The truth (which I knew deep down, but would never admit to the shamefulness of it) was on both occasions I’d got well and truly walloped the night before, felt grotty and probably looked like shit. Their responses to what they thought was ‘a sickly looking waster with a fallen face who probably didn’t have twenty pence to his name and was doubtlessly eyeing up what he could nick from their stores’, I’m sure made perfect sense to them.
Desperate to mask any symptoms of physical deterioration, I started to shower twice a day and became fastidious about my dental health after reading how smoking can cause gum disease. Stoned one evening, I tried to save time combining both personal hygiene tasks by flossing my teeth while simultaneously taking a shower (like you do). Taking a long piece of dental string, I threaded it across both sets of my back molars and began to pull back and forth in a furious fashion. As the water from the shower head thundered down on my head, I tugged faster and faster on the thin dental floss until it actually sliced into both sides of my mouth, widening it by at least a centimetre. Still buzzed-up from my recent spliffs I had no idea that I could now pass as a doppelganger for Jack Nicholson’s Joker in Batman. Worse still, since these two matching wounds took ages to heal, bits of food were invariably attracted to the cuts which became infected, making it look like I’d contracted some super strain of oral herpes. Other foolish attempts to obscure the damage Pennie was causing to my physical appearance yielded similar results. For example, after I discovered
the benefits of using eye drops to alleviate bloodshot eyes, I became so reliant on the various brands of eye-whiteners that I ended up developing weeping sores on the insides of my eye lids.
Physically and mentally I was deteriorating and the situation was becoming intolerable.
Hanging around with Allan and Kirsty had always stopped me dwelling on the downsides of life with Pennie. As far as I was aware, neither of my fellow disciples had suffered any noticeable damage as a result of prolonged exposure to Miss Fenton. Take my mentor, Allan who’d probably known Pennie the longest and who remained utterly loyal to her. He always had things sussed and was healthy and happy. I’d never once known him to question his obsessive compulsion or mention any negative effects - other than the odd ‘whitey’, so why should I worry? Surely, if our Fenton Foible was causing any long term problems he’d have told me by now.
The real picture was very different to the one I was conveniently painting for myself. For a start I was completely ignoring the fact Allan was nearly twice my size, had a stronger constitution and still played competitive sports. I was also kidding myself he was mentally durable; that he had coped well after his parents’ death and was in control of his habit. The unfortunate reality was that he was beginning to display an alarming number of the same behavioural traits that I was determined to ignore. What changed my mind about his levels of self-discipline was an impromptu visit when he showed me a monstrous block of resin he’d just bought. I was sworn to secrecy before he would reveal it to me and then immediately understood why he’d asked for my silence on the matter. The block he’d hidden in the back of his car under the spare wheel wasn’t much smaller than a household brick. At least ten times the size of the lump I’d collected from Leeds Poly for him. Leaning over the inside of his boot, it took all that remained of my self-control to stop myself shouting out, “Witness the power of this fully operational battle station[6],” at the top of my voice. Star Wars quotes aside, I’d never seen anything like it before or since. There must have been enough there to keep a small planet of enthusiastic pot-smokers going a year.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 23