Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  Fast forward to the present day and you could mistakenly think I’ve been very fortunate – after all I seem to have got away with making all those withdrawals from the Bank of Fenton plc, relatively unscathed. Looking down to inspect the fleshy part of my thumbs there are no scars, no evidence of the many blisters once there. I don’t slur my words or have the jitters. There is no erratic behaviour or impaired motor functioning. I’m not undernourished like someone on the mend from an all-consuming narcotic addiction. Nor have I experienced financial devastation or homelessness as a result of letting myself slip. Work has even picked up again. At first glance, I appear to be the little lad who stole toys from the village store and never got caught.

  However closer inspection reveals there have been consequences.

  The onset of middle age means you inevitably slow down, but I suspect my appetite for indulgence has contributed to a far steeper decline- both in energy levels and willingness to grab life by the horns and wrestle it to the ground. It remains harder to focus on anything for long periods of time and, as a result, ambitions for the future have become considerably less stretching. While it is true many of these impairments have improved since I stopped smoking, there is a lasting impression which loiters. It is as if the enduring toll on my body and mind, the blocking of my natural emotional responses combined with the isolation which cannabis fostered, ultimately all needed accounting for.

  The most damaging physiological effect of the cannabis years has been on my short term memory, which is now about as effective as a multi-punctured balloon. It is not unknown, for example, for something mentioned in an important conversation to evaporate from my addled mind within minutes. Annie and the kids make light-hearted jokes about my inability to remember the simplest instruction. Facts and figures, words and phrases, melt away like butter on a toasted crumpet. Sometimes it seems that while the rest of the world searches earnestly for a cure for Alzheimer’s, I alone have uncovered a guaranteed method to speed up the effects of this degenerative disease. ‘A Pennie for your thoughts’ turns out to be a very apt expression. How could something so worthless have been so willingly exchanged for something so valuable?

  It isn’t all bad news though. I’d always hoped by getting trashed out of my mind I would eventually stumble upon some gigantic discovery which would bring about an entirely new way of looking at the world. Of course this never happened. While I continue to struggle with my memory, I do see that cannabis has provided me with a few little nuggets of wisdom along the way. I’ve learned you have to accept who you are and to be grateful for what you have. It’s apparent I’ll never become an instructor for the Advanced School of British Motor Drivers, nor will I ever be transformed into a leading authority on the lure and appeal of Premier League football clubs. Essentially cannabis has taught me people don’t change that much, even if some of my aspirations have been adjusted.

  My original concerns about living in Scunthorpe have completely evaporated. Like Annie, I love the place and its people and now find myself defending the region with the same steely resolve which I was confronted with on my arrival in the eighties. The plethora of the bad publicity levied at the town has created a kind of survival ethic in its people which I respect. The local residents are uncommonly proud of their roots and once they take you in to their beating hearts (which I admit does take a while), you have their loyalty and they have your back - for a lifetime. I wasn’t born here but I have bred aplenty and as a result I am now proud to be an ambassador for the place where ‘the heavens reflect our labours’. A rich vein of humour runs through almost every aspect of life in the town. Where else but in Scunthorpe would the evening papers’ front page lead with a headline like ‘Psychic was unable to foresee her own own downfall’. I laughed for ages at this (less than) sensational tale about a woman who’d falsely claimed tens of thousands of pounds in benefits. The big news story of the day went on to explain how she had claimed benefit payments while duping unsuspecting fools out their cash, masquerading as a psychic at a local hotel. The so-called psychic had been disgraced and branded a charlatan. At the bottom of the article I was flabbergasted to find out the clairvoyant in question was actually the same one I’d visited twice and paid far too much attention to. Hearing how she’d been discredited was strangely pleasing. It was like reading one of Pennie’s foot soldiers had been shot down while on duty.

  These days, removed from the pressure of having to avoid temptation, I’ve even begun to feel a sense of compassion towards Miss Fenton. Soon after watching Supermarket Sweep, it dawned on me I’d spent far too many years blaming her for my unhappiness. As soon as I accepted that it was of course only me who was responsible for the position I was in, all of my anger towards her evaporated. Today, I am actually indebted to my cruel and addictive shadow for showing me that rock bottom can sometimes offer a solid foundation from which to move forwards. However diabolical things may appear, it is always possible to turn your life around - sometimes literally at the press of a (gigantic red) button. I accept that cannabis brought out the worst of me and probably represented all the repressed feelings and insecurities which I was too cowardly to square up to. However, I am no longer fearful of it. Instead I thank cannabis, for helping me see that while my own foibles are a natural part of who I am, they are not all of it. I’ve grown to understand this drug, in all its many forms, can be extremely dangerous and regardless of numerous national campaigns suggesting otherwise, it remains – for me at least, remarkably addictive. Similarly, I can now understand the dangers associated with an obsessive vice of any kind and suspect most of my own inclinations towards dependency were brought about by a combination of genetics and an inability to grieve effectively.

  More significantly, I’m now able to celebrate the fact that despite undermining myself by giving in to this destructive desire; I did still somehow manage to retain my relationships with the most important people in my life - my incredible wife and our four little apples. By keeping them at a distance for so many years, Pennie Fenton has only served to remind me of the importance of being there for my family and has made sure I never forget that my primary function as a parent is to set an example to my children and teach them well. Fundamentally, I realise that Annie, Hattie, Toby, Travis and Holly mean the world to me. I am thankful for time we now spend together, entertained by the simplest of pleasures. All of this represents a maturity I wouldn’t change for anything.

  Hattie went on to experience her own ‘red button’ moment shortly after Sweep was broadcast. As soon as she’d given birth to a healthy baby girl, her attitude and temperament changed. The lightening turnaround from defiant and embittered youth into a delighted and loving mother was literally transformational. In the months that followed little baby Freya’s arrival, Hattie was more selective about who she was hanging around with, saved her money, put down a deposit on a flat and enrolled on a part-time A levels course at the local college. Determined that she didn’t want the lifestyle she’d previously created for her own daughter, she reinvented herself. This change didn’t come about as a result of horoscopes, tarot readings or even divine intervention; it was simply an outcome of her own decision to make positive choices and commit to being the best possible mother she could be. Thank heavens for little girls.

  No longer wasting energy either running towards or away from Pennie, progress is also being made with long-term friends Stuart and Faye. We’ve begun to spend much more time together, rebuilding our relationships - reacquainting ourselves with our own shared histories. Many other relationships have been rekindled in the last couple of years. I have even managed to track down old school friend Joe Morrit through the wonders of a popular social networking site. We still see a lot of Kirsty, who recently married her long-term partner in a rather moving civil ceremony. On the day of the service, I was delighted to hear that her ‘secret’ wedding gift to her new spouse was an agreement to pack in cannabis for good.

  We also continue to spend time with Natasha and Ni
gel. Interestingly, Nigel has in the last couple of years done a complete U-turn regarding his appearance on Supermarket Sweep. His initial sweetness for our glimmer of fame gradually turned sour. While I have begrudgingly made peace with my many regrets about appearing on the show; Nigel has begun to distance himself from it, worried prospective employers may take a dim view of such trivial entertainment. These concerns ended up being well founded. In 2012, the same year Annie realised her own career ambitions to become a nursery teacher, Nigel accepted a job working as promotions officer for one of the most celebrated professional rugby clubs in the country. Following a long period of unemployment, this looked like the ideal role for him, combining his love of sports with an opportunity to rub shoulders with well-connected media types. Imagine the uproar one day during his probationary period, when some of the First Team stumbled across a re-run of our Supermarket Sweep episode in the clubhouse after training. The verbal abuse he received from his new colleagues was merciless. The gibes made a tough job virtually impossible for him and within a month Nigel had handed in his notice, stating it had become ‘too difficult for him to feel sufficiently safe’ in the new role. It turns out our decision to go on Supermarket Sweep was pivotal for both of us.

  Unfortunately, not all relationships have improved since I extinguished the burning bush. The majority of the people I came into contact with because of my illicit affair with cannabis drifted away soon after Supermarket Sweep. This was partly down to me choosing to distance myself from them in an attempt to prevent temptation; but also because I could see I had less in common with them than I originally thought. For the majority of Pennie’s more enduring fans, the only bond we actually shared was a hedonistic thrill of getting absolutely battered each night.

  Out of all my former smoking buddies, only Allan Hewitt continues to puff on the demon weed. Not to the extent he used to; but my old sensei is nonetheless still rolling, still taking the tokes, still keeping it a secret from others as he approaches his half century. These days he is far more discreet and conscious of the need to manage the middle-aged message he sends out. Tell-tale signs of his involvement do, however, still linger. The lifeless eyes immediately after a session, the discomfort with the topic if it is raised even in jest, the general mistrust of other’s motives and just every so often… the sight of the odd little blister on one of his thumbs. Ahh, how it all comes flooding back. In some ways his commitment to the cause is quite an achievement – a raised index finger (never the thumb) to the people who think you should behave in a particular way by this age. In another way, it is a little sad that Allan continues to search for that elusive midnight kiss.

  I am disappointed the long friendship with Allan has faltered. Maybe it reflects the fact that beyond all the smokey-joes, we too had less in common than we first imagined. A relationship supported only by the wafer thin king sized Rizlas which we fastidiously fastened all those joints together with. The unholy alliance between Allan and myself was originally propped up by our shared passion for indie veterans Echo & the Bunnymen. While the two of us have retained a nostalgic regard for the band, there is an unspoken recognition between us that the musical landscape they once dominated, has forever changed. Together, we’d bought into the bands promise of untouchable possibilities; both equally excited about stretching for something we couldn’t quite grasp. Unfortunately, too long getting stoned and neither of us were in the slightest bit bothered about what was right in front of us, never mind in the stars above.

  Don’t get me wrong, my old buddy could never be regarded as a bad bloke, far from it and I will always cherish the fantastic times we spent off our faces together. However, today he reminds me too much about those unrealised opportunities, the un-grasped potential which was once within our reach. Nowadays, I find his cynical asides rather irritating, his belligerent retorts somewhat hostile and his tainted observations increasingly judgemental. I feel uncomfortable as I watch him jumping too quickly to conclusions, defining people based on the smallest of insights. While it was once very funny to hear him constructing a social stereotype about someone based on the flimsiest of evidence; it now grates. Now and again there are still glimpses of the Allan of old, the charming, affable chap who balances his assertive style with an ability to engage everyone in a room, but invariably these aspects of his personality are being progressively eclipsed by what appears to be a repressed bitterness eating away inside him.

  I am sure he is equally frustrated with my own unwillingness to ‘chillax’ with him once in a while. Allan no doubt feels I’ve sold-out and become more conservative in my ways.

  Perhaps our new found intolerance for each other goes even deeper and represents unresolved parts of ourselves. More legacies from the Fenton fascination. Maybe when he’s around I am too worried about being haunted by the memories of what I was becoming up until my ‘Date with Dale’. Maybe Allan too has concerns of his own. Previously, with me at his side as his trusty first officer, he was never required to question his own inclinations. These days as a solo flyer, wing commander Hewitt has become the solo-stoner and as a result may feel more scrutinised. I’m convinced he unknowingly resents my newfound freedom and while he still proclaims a zealous enthusiasm for cannabis, I sometimes catch a look of regret in his glazed eyes. While he may be too proud to admit it, my instinct tells me Allan is frustrated he hasn’t encountered his own Supermarket Sweep moment. I do hope this is actually the case and his tipping point arrives soon.

  Piecing it all back together I can understand why I took so long to overcome the diabolical situation I was in. It would take a sister I had no recollection of to reveal the truth about Pennie Fenton; Stuart Jackson to instil a desire to leave her; Hattie to provide the spark to do so and Dale Winton to give me the courage to part-company with my greatest failing. Climbing out from the slippery pool I’d fallen into wasn’t easy. To succeed and reach the side, I needed Annie to resuscitate my parental instinct to protect and safeguard our children. Armed with the gift of 20-20 hindsight, it is clear to me the thing which eventually galvanised me into action was the frozen spike of panic that they too may one day slip into a similar, unmarked hazard with no one around to help them. That history would once again repeat itself as it had done so often in my own past and they would end up as unhappy as I had been. This would be unthinkable.

  By revealing all the places where I got it horribly wrong, I hope to highlight some of the lessons learned from a life less lived. Ideally, these will provide an injunction against fate, so that no-one close ever has to suffer the same (self-imposed) ordeal as I did. A safety-net for those who follow, designed to stop others tripping and falling into the same shallow waters. Each confessional paragraph expressed, is intended to nudge readers of this book towards my only tangible conclusion: we are all architects of our own destiny. Whatever devices we use to avoid facing up to reality, to avoid those unsavoury truths, it is evident that sooner or later they all catch up with us. Out of breath and too tired to tread water any longer I have decided to turn around and face up to what happened by constructing a long overdue account of cannabis’s influence on my life.

  It is clear to me we all have a potential to encounter versions of Pennie Fenton. Maybe she will be dressed in a different guise, but be warned, she is always just around the corner. Hell in high heels. For some she may appear as alcohol, for others crack cocaine or even compulsive gambling. I guarantee she will be just as alluring to you, just as fun to be around in the early stages of your infatuation. She is invariably invited in by the dark recesses which your own unexpressed emotions occupy. The two go together; magnetic poles, each one unstoppably attracted to the other.

  For decades I wondered what name could be applied to a community where everyone is predisposed to underplay their strengths and capabilities. Here in conclusion, I am able to confirm the name of this fictional town. It is a settlement I’ve been residing in for far too long, a place where the inhabitants are all prone to pessimism about their personal potent
ial. The name of this desolate town is of course Fentonville. A neglected little place situated well off the beaten track, where admission is free but you pay dearly to get out. Your version of this town may have a different name, but all its characteristics will be the same. Most people never even think to look for this place, but for some it presents a curious appeal. If you are among this unfortunate minority, I urge you to face forwards and walk swiftly by.

  I’ve travelled some distance since my final stay there, and while I don’t think I’ll ever be wanting to spend my days looking wistfully through a rose tinted visor towards the imaginary shores of Lake Wobegon; I do dare to consider the possibility I have simply been suffering with delusions of inadequacy. Bless Pennie Fenton, for her intervention has taught me so much. Dwelling for the very last time on all those wasted years, I can truthfully say I’m pleased I spent them with her, but at the same time I’m incredibly thankful this relationship is over. It has taken right up until these closing words to recognise I am stronger than my past and am able to conquer all the imagined portents which have haunted me for so long. Secrets weigh us down. It is only by nearly drowning, that I see I am in fact able to swim. Armed with this new sense of perspective, means I know the idolatry is over and I’m finally ready to say farewell to my unhealthy infatuation.

  Hallelujah.

  Acknowledgements

  [1] Kay Gornick (contracts and permissions), at Prairie House Companion for permission to quote from the show.

  [2] Musician and artist Will Sergeant, for sharing his memories about touring with Echo and the Bunnymen.

  [3] Filmmaker Woody Allen, for kindly providing his permission to quote from Annie Hall (1977, United Artists).

  [4], [6], Lucasfilm Ltd, for providing non-exclusive use of three quotes from the Star Wars motion pictures. © and TM Lucasfilm Ltd. All rights reserved. Used under authorization.