Everyone talks about it, everyone thinks about it and everyone – eventually – complains about it!  Weed!  Weed is a topic that can never be exhausted, and it is the most controversial when it comes to conversations.  OK, so the discussion of weed can cause some people a little discomfort, especially when you’re all fucked up on it around the “Norms”!  Norms are those people who have either smoked more mind-blowing strong weed than you, or they’re dreading trying the mind-blowing shit that your smoking for fear of having a D.E.A live exam come Monday morning.

The number one rule of “The House of Jack” is “Know your Hasher’s”, and the second rule is “Act like a Norm when you’re high”.  Neighbours!  Neighbours are the most likely of people to make you cautious and suspicious, even when you’ve known them forever, its scary shit!

“Are you sure that was sugar you gave my wife the other night?”

Straight away its: “What do you mean, Dude?”

Those who Savvy with the Javvy, as I like to call it, often display traits!  Now I have a neighbour who is well into his 70′s, and I have no idea why I’ve become a philosopher all of a sudden but I think it’s kind of weird that he is a retired Prison Officer, god bless him.  Irony in the making I believe they call it.  One afternoon he waved me over and asked if I detected a strange scent in the air?  Obviously, I was stoned and me being me having moved out into the countryside replied in one major fucked up way.

“You mean the cow shit!  They must be spreading the fields, I think!”

With not even the slightest smile across his face at that time he pulled at my arm and leant forward, after checking around for eavesdroppers.

“I smelt Marijuana in the air!”

“Marijuana,” I gulped, “You mean, like drugs?”

“Yeah, really strong it was, too.”

Believe me, when you have a conversation like this with a Norm Neighbour when you’re totally wasted, you will walk away “Mind-Fucked”.  Mr Paranoia pays you a visit after this moment, because let’s face it, once you’ve learnt that your neighbour now knows exactly what your good shit smells like, the process of “Covert Hashing” are carried out with military precision.  If you haven’t got a basement – make one!

I don’t know about you, but when I smoke weed I like to know that the Norms are way, way out-of-the-way.  The scariest thing for me when I know there are no Norms about, is the thought or impending moment when there’s a visit by one.  The worst being a neighbour or the police, I guess the police definitely being the worst of the two.

“Good morning, Sir, we’re just asking the people in the area about a strange smell over the village!”

Well, what can I say?


The Constable then gives a hushed giggle to tell you that it’s not the spreading of the fields, but some renegade “Un-PC” person desperately trying to spoil the peaceful serenity of the beautiful locale.  Luckily, with the £1200 pounds I just paid out for the extraction fans and filtering system, there is no safer, fresher or more enjoying stench than Lilacs coming from my house.  Some say I’m a lucky fucker, while I say that I just prefer to stay aware.

Why is it that when we’re on weed we dread going out to some bodies house when we know that other people are going to be there?  When we’re on X, it’s different, we can’t wait to get there and burn up the dance floor.  Acid although, people and other organic life is just another example of Technicolor!  We look at visitors like they’re the D.E.A in a very convincing disguise, and neighbours as though they know something, but they’re just not telling.

Do you ever get the feeling that every time you go to light up a Dubey, which you have to check the road is clear of visitors, Norms and any other obstruction first?  Before I light up a joint I have this ancient tradition – ancient because I’ve done it for so long that it’s no longer a psychological jolt of paranoia, but an act that is now second nature to me.  And it makes me feel assured, safe and secure.  What I do is build my Dubey, you know, one of those “I’ll just put a little bit of weed in it” and then wait for thirty seconds or so.  After this I go to the front door and check outside, for when there’s unexpected visitor’s walking down the garden path.  When I’m sure there’s nobody around I turn on the electric fencing that came with my two girls’ Ben 10 Fry ‘em Up Proximity Defence Sensor  and settle down to a good toke on that well made Dubey.

There are times in a man’s life when the system of function at times of hashing Marijuana fall to one side, and what you get is that rich flow of a stoning, but the fun, physical and movements of good shit weed have gone.  Obviously, and with all sincerity I am of course referring to Mr Sad, Mr Grumpy, Mr Huff, and all those fucking Mr Nuts!  When you’re young and acting like a complete and utter twat!  People adore you, and if anything else they can’t get enough of you.  Then you become an adult and the process slows, but you’re still getting the pussy, right?  The last phase after reaching an adult is the “Black Zone”, and this little bitch is the Ground Zero of Vampirism on the life-force – especially when it’s your life force its taking.  I gave up going out to nightclubs and bars when I was just twenty-three, and at twenty-four, many people started to understand why!  First, as I was progressing through the Midnight Massive, to my friends and associates horror I refused a Toke from a Dubey, or a bong, or a bucket bomb.

Now I don’t really want to be going too deep into the realms of psychology here, but, the downside of any true detection of sadness is the reality facing the saddened themselves.  Now, my philosophy is simple, when one of the sad is saddened and the fucked up depressed, it is vital for the psychologically stable minds around them to be rid of the dreaded virus that starts the epidemic.

A friend of mine called round the other night to visit.  He had called to ask me for a “Friday Night Jaxx”, a festively traditional time of the week that Toker’s look forward to and await with great anticipation.  The first round of bubbly pipes were built with that ultimate conviction in my heart, but then as realisation came a knocking on my brain the voice in my head called out to me – He’s got no fucking weed!

True as a donut has a hole, he turns to me and shrugs his shoulders in a “Stoner” kind of way and whispers courageously “Could you give me a little nip to do the next round?”

What the fuck!

In my world, as I’m sure exists in all other Hashers’s worlds, too, there are three golden rules that in my belief should be made into some kind of “Hash Express Law”, or something to that effect.  Rule number one should definitely be, if you’re a Hasher or Toker, Hardcore smoker or Pussy Wimp Part-Timer, you should at least buy your own fucking weed!  Or at the very least try to score some before you go on your rounds.  Rule number two is without doubt, make sure your doors a knocking in times of a dry spell and not just when fellow Tokers are flush with the cash and hash!  Rule number three, and I know many Hasher’s aren’t going to agree with this one, but, when a Hasher is on one of those psychedelic Tripped Out states and there’s no way to calm the bitches down, I totally agree with giving them a slap to bring them out of it.  If in doubt, Knock them out!

A true Hasher knows that the balance of equality does include “Carrying a fellow Toker.”  When you go round to the nice old ladies house next door and politely ask for a loan of sugar or milk, she isn’t going to turn around and say “Fuck you!”  But you know that if you go round to a Hasher’s home, nine times out of ten, they’ll say “Fuck you.”

“Can I crash here tonight?”

“Fuck you, man!”

Or, “Hey, great CD, can I…”

“Fuck you, man!”

So, what makes it so different a Hasher going up to another Hasher and saying “Hey that smells like good shit!  Can you lay me a bag on till I get paid?”

Nine times out of ten, the answer will be “Fuck no! Fuck you, man!”

But on very rare occasions you’ll get that one Hasher – A virgin to the system – who will say “Sure I can, what do you want and how much weight?”  Now I don’t know about you, but the guys around here who actually agree to this are almost certainly cops!  Don’t do it!  Don’t ask people to lay you weed on unless you can pay cash up front, it’s often a good idea at the time to get “Lay On’s” but you’ll be sorry you did when at the end of the day something goes wrong and that knock isn’t some fellow Hasher wanting to share their weed with you.

One piece of advice I can give, never get a lay on of weed from a Crack Head, it’s bad for business and they always forget you paid them.

A long time ago I lived in a high-rise block of flats on the outskirts of Seacroft, Leeds, and it was here that I kept a fantastic physique of just seven and a half stone in body weight.  As soon as I reached twenty-eight, my life was over where the Adonis body was concerned.  Yeah, people poked fun at me with quips like “Oh my god, man, you’re growing titties bigger than my mother!”  And, of course, “Hey!  That arse sure looks like your Mam’s!”

I tried everything…or so I say I tried everything, but in the end, I tried nothing that would shift the pounds.

“You need some speed!”  I was told.

So I bought some speed, about a pound in weight of the stuff.  It did nothing except make my nose bleed and shrivels my dick for the next month.  At one point I was actually going to my GP and asking if this kind of thing was normal, to which the GP asked if I was taking anything for it?  Like, yeah, I’m trying to lose the weight first silly bastard!  I can’t concentrate on both at once.

“No, not speed, what you need is some gold old finger licking, jaw clicking, Billy Ray Whizz, mate!”

So I tried this Billy Ray Whizz, he was so awesome I ended up in Rehab on a license.  After Rehab I tried one more illicit vice that most believe adds weight, while others insist it can help you diet…Weed.

“But weed gives you the munchies!”  I cried.

“Are you outta ya fucking mind?  Weed is the Crème De La Crème, man, it doesn’t give you the munchies.  It’s the effects of smoking weed that gives you the munchies, man.”

So I bought some weed.  Three months on and people were talking about my weight.

“Look at that posing fucker!”

“Watch out, man, if you walk sideways you’ll fall between the cracks!”

It doesn’t matter what weight, shape or size you are in this world, because coffins can be made to fit all these days.  OK, you might be fat, tall, a pain in the arse sometimes when it comes to getting away from the scene of a crime, but the asshole who tells you your fat, tall or even a pain in the arse will always be an arse…and plus, you can guarantee they’ll never be as high as what you are when they say it to you.

My name is MKDS, I’m a temporary fill for the normal act that’s here on a Friday night.  They just phoned me about two hours ago, and started going on about the recent talent being off-set, whatever the fuck that means!  So I got in my car and drove down to the local Computer shop for some more ram hoping that the pile of shite that I have doesn’t grind to a complete halt, which seems to annoy the shit out of me when I’ve had a Dubey.  Every time I sit down to the monitor it’s as though it’s created its very own life form with an attitude problem.  I don’t think it’s anti-weed, you though, because when I click on Marijuana Heaven, The Hash Express, Cannabis Times, or even Most Wanted, it works without a problem.  The Appliance of Science!  That’s right, The Appliance of Science is what they told on umpteen television commercials selling us the new concept in Washing Machines and Fridge Freezer’s.  The Health Care Technical Support Guy from PC World, or Twat, as I like to call him, he swears on his job that if my computer grew two new legs it would become a killing machine!  Fuck, man, which would be really great.

So, the original act for tonight, ah well, they were apparently stopped, searched and then arrested by the police for possessing twelve grams of a Class A strain of Marijuana.  As soon as I’d heard I sighed with relief, because where I come from all strains of Marijuana we smoke carries a Class A notification with it, so where these cops came from, only the lonely little fucker in a faraway place with no outside communication at all knows – and he isn’t saying shit!  Twelve grams of top grade Marijuana was found in the guy’s possession while travelling in an escorted limousine to write out the funniest gig you’ll hear in a long time, and now they’re in a cell waiting to appear in court tomorrow morning.  I guess they should have been more careful!

I do feel a little cheeky coming on here tonight after that poor guy has been arrested and held in jail, not that I’m actually thanking my lucky stars for it not being me, especially as I have two reasons to be cheerful.  Imagine a scene of paint peeling walls, damp concrete floor, an unstuffed two-inch blue mattress and a hole in the wall they expect you to call a toilet!  Now imagine a better place, like your very own kitchen, living room, bedroom, garden or conservatory!  Out of those two places that you’ve just been imagining in your minds, which one would you rather be in, right now?  To help you decide all the quicker, one thing that I forgot to mention was the full strip search and probe that they do every time you are found to have more than five grams of Marijuana or Solid.  Cavity searches in my mind only refers to my house wall, not that shit they call a “Necessary Breach of the Anus”.  I’m sure we all wish that guy luck?

One of the other reasons I feel so cheeky coming here tonight, is the fact that I drove here with my foot to the floor all the way with twenty-nine grams of G13 Hybrid Marijuana on the back seat of my car.  How the hell that guy got stopped in the first place we’ll never know, unless he manages to get over the trauma of having his asshole plugged with an officer of the law!  This can actually happen, it still does happen, it’s just people it happens to don’t want to share that kind of information.

I have a friend!  Get fucking real, just say it’s you for the sake of the argument, don’t be ashamed, or at least give a little bit more away when you say it.  A true man would say something like this: “A mate and me were walking home with a big bag of G13 Hybrid, and out of fucking nowhere SO19 Officers ambushed us and caught my mate.  He ran in the completely wrong direction and they shot him with a Tazor, the mad fuckers nearly got me but I was too fast for them and got away.”

Now that sounds realistic, except for one thing!  If you did a runner only a couple of hours ago and your friend had been caught then, how the fuck do you know he had a full cavity search at the police station?  Make it sound a lot better, like the male population is depending on the answer being perfect.  So then the conversation goes something like this: “My friend and I got ambushed by SO19, I got away, thank Christ!  My mate didn’t make it, he was tazored like five times before his body even hit the floor.  Tough break, he had twelve grams of weed on him, I wonder what they’ll do to him now?”