23 rd. February.

23/02/2007
Have been up an hour, am nicely stoned after having two joints instead of the usual half dozen rollies which usually accompany the first few cups of tea.
Today I’m handicapped, I’m unwilling to move, hence the almost empty cup of cold tea and the fact that the fire isn’t on.
I can’t be arsed to get up and rectify the situation.
I take a sip of the precious small amount of tea, hold it in my mouth and slowly circulate a wet tongue to all parts of my mouth in an effort to bring my mouth back to normal;
the background sounds are playing a medieval type tune on guitars and my tongue dances to the tune as it brushes over teeth, around gums and along the roof of my mouth.
Got a lot of mouth, haven’t I?
A beautiful bass guitar takes over and my mind is forced to take notice of the tune.
My feet circle slowly to the lilting beat,
I make a note to try and relax neck at some point in the not too distant future.
I decide to do it now and my head falls backwards as the tension is released in my neck.

Sometimes this tension can creep up and take hold without me knowing at all, the first I know is when I realise, usually after 20 minutes or more, that my neck is actually solid.
Sometimes it simply collapses, either forwards or backwards, other times it has to be manipulated, muscle by muscle to coax it to relinquish its hold.
It often resembles a steel cable, any movement, however small is accompanied by the sound of strands grating, stretching and creaking, sometimes frighteningly realistic as to foster thoughts of something having indeed snapped and become damaged.
I take a few moments out to listen to the sounds and wonder how longer I’ll be able to last without the fire being on, the sun reappears and thoughts disappear, as shafts of sunlight fall upon me,
I breathe deeply and relax.
I look down at my hands, look at the scars and re-live the events that caused same. Tendons damaged, two useless thumbs. And two damaged fingers. My hands feel cold, my fingers aching and stiff.
First damage was caused from a street fight,
I took on a guy armed with a carving knife and he managed to slice a tendon.
I then had a stiletto into the back of my hand.
The other major incident was when the rotovator threw me through a green house and I cut artery and tendons once again.

The hospital staff would patch me up and whilst doing so would ask,
“what do like doing?”, I tell them I’m an organist,
usually got a laugh!

I close my eyes and listen to guitar sounds, (plenty of plugs for 777 radio), may not be the quickest in terms of streaming but does me.
Have been a bit pissed off since downloading the latest media player; takes ages to access radio tuner, I’m not at present bothered with on line stores, services and downloads, just require a wide selection of sounds played continuously.

I notice the window is slightly open as I feel the effects of the little amount of breeze which is entering the room.
I find a room heated by gas fire is sometimes uncomfortable to work in, dry heat.

I take another sip of tea and retrace my steps;
I got up, walked to kitchen, bathroom, returned to chair sat down and got stoned.
Not one of my more energetic days then,

Would have been a nice day for a walk I think as I move my eyes to look at the sunlit window.
Notice I say move my eyes,
I am unable to move my head it has gone rock solid and very heavy!
Time for exercise, I rise.
Fire on, kettle filled, trip to loo, lovely milky cup of coffee made and return to seat having re-started circulation in legs.

I realise that if Raquel Welsh was laid naked on the rug in front of me, I would have to consider carefully the effort involved to partake in any delights she may have to offer.
My body is present but is not always fully functional.
The grids in the gas fire begin to warm through and make a clicking sound as they get hotter, annoys me because I can hear it over the sounds.
How quiet am l listening?
I listen to the sounds and realise my mind is both open and empty, at peace.
I invite thoughts, suggestions, ideas to come forward and make themselves known,
I widen the field to include worries and problems, but still non appear.
My mind remains still and empty, no confrontation whatsoever.

Just over 12 months ago my mind was in turmoil, never still, overflowing with confrontation and hassle, pressures, fears;
in short full of snippets of every emotion.
Surely a sign of progress away from mental problems; or possibly a testament to power of the weed.
I light another one up and imagine I get a faint hint of mint;
a throwback thought back to the days of cutting.
I remember once being threatened with a conviction, another one!
For possession of a three ounce bag of…
Mint!
The drug squad had searched the house, found the bag and insisted it was dope,
I stood facing them, eyes fixed on the cannabis plant sat oh so quaintly on a doyley in the centre of the dining table.
I kept a straight face when I told them it was indeed only mint,
adding I was a big fan of mint sauce.
Some people have roses or climbers on their porches,
I had a nine foot cannabis plant on the back yard porch, wired to an opened up nursery fire guard.
I at first trimmed the height and later removed the plant, with a little help from my mother! when I realised the hat worn by the son of the neighbours was carrying the badge of the Custom and Excise service.
I had a brand new 8 by 6 greenhouse put up in the allotment, inside were the usual hot house plants, tomatoes, sweetcorn and cucumbers, they were soon intermingled and eventually replaced by eight cannabis plants which grew ever so quickly to reach the roof and arch towards each other.
As fine a sight as any fancy walkthrough lined avenue.
Each day the routine would be the same, into the garden with bag and scissors.
Each plant was carefully checked for new growth, signs of red spider mite or any other invaders.
Discoloured leaves were trimmed and added to the day’s harvest.
Return home, flash cure till smoke and rolled up in advance.
Ready for the night’s session.
Huge coal fire burning, logs placed against the two plastic tubs of scrumpy nestling against the warmth of the stone fireplace.
Bottles of beer, lager, stout, barley wine all neatly arranged on top of the sideboard in the back room, cooler!
First guests arrive two hours before allotted time, it’s Col, his wife and a friend.
We are all same age and indeed me and Col together with an ex busker from London got a band together.
We used to practise every Sunday morning in a pigeon hut in the gardens opposite, drinking brown ale, smoking and generally annoying the southerner.
He was a prick with an ego the size of a football pitch!
True he could sing and had experience of audiences but me and Col were just there for the laugh, to get pissed, stoned and screw,
we were married after all.
Their arrival was the signal for the joints mug to come out, a dozen or so joints I had “prepared earlier”.
Usually we got the guitars out for half hour or so, joints dancing from strings like Muppets on speed.
The women would go and check on the food.
Hell we didn’t have bowls of crisps and nuts, there was often a full range of foods, salmon pate,( poached from local river), hare stew, (hares shot by local farmer), venison, ( from a local poacher), fruit pies, cakes, the obligatory quiche etc. all home made.
The stone was beginning to come on and we put down the guitars,
Col fixed me with a stare which almost frightened me, I asked what’s up?
There’s something I had to remember he muttered while rolling his eyes,
“What the fuck, was it?
He questioned himself for a further few minutes and then wide eyed, flushed with success he spluttered out.
“You better shift those two pot plants off the front window sill, my old mans been doing some research through his books, he had set himself the challenge of identifying the plants on display.
I thanked him for the warning and promised to remove them to the garden the next day.
We dipped two empty half pint glasses into the scrumpy barrels, each using the nearest bin.
It was thick, lumpy, cloudy and warm, we drank it down, took a moment to appreciate the aftertaste and agreed,
“it wasn’t ready yet!”.
You could taste the strength though!
Old English traditional scrumpy cider, that’s what the brewing label said and that’s exactly what you got.
A cloudy, lumpy drink which knocked many a drinker onto his back.
By now I’m feeling in the mood to appreciate the beauty of my mates wife and spend time examining her.
Col was a skilled carpenter, does a good job, window, door frames, gates anything;
pity he never envisaged the impact P.V.C. was to have on his trade.
Neil, (the Londoner) would usually be the next to arrive, he’s the prick who fronted the band, he would immediately get out the acoustic and show us what he’s been working on all week.
We would listen, but by now Col and I were more into the Pink Floyd section and disliked turning the centre’s volume down to listen to Neil do his party pieces.
Another thing about him was his ability to hit high notes, probably not that high but definitely out of the range of Col and myself,
many arrangements fell flat because of our, Col and I’s lack of ability to sing high notes.
Hearing the guitar and voice of Neil,
Billy, my next door neighbour knows its time to make his entrance.
Billy comes in complete with guitar and we sing a few of his middle of the road country and western songs.
Billy doesn’t smoke so he never quite reaches the levels of us three, he was however a good beer drinker, never any trouble, always a happy drinker, even when I sought to wind him up on purpose.
The other neighbours would arrive, Sue and her husband john, he was a lorry driver, a gentleman who always shared his huge bag of misshapen sweets with us!
A perk of doing a certain run,
as was the bottles of Glenfiddich he would bring to each get together.
John sits, usually as quiet as a mouse, drinks steadily and gets drunk to the point of being paralytic.
His wife, sue, is a big woman, who has got married, house, children, husband and job;
but inside her is a slim rebel who tries to get out at every available chance.
She is also an organiser so any food problems become her responsibility.
She decides we need wine and the neighbour synonymous with wine is Howard,
Chief executive of north east development council,
a thinker, a smoker of a pipe, a sage, someone respected for their intelligence and personality.
His house had the back room converted to house up to 50 gallon of wine at any one time, my house held the same quantity in a range of beers etc.
I mentioned his age and the respect we held for same he also had a bone disease which meant his bones were crumbling and he would end up crippled.
It seemed so strange this guy complete with suit and tie could provide such entertainment to us. He really was a card, responsible and sensible for a while, loosens up with a couple of glasses, and delights in telling you the origins of his brew.
He would then sit back relaxed in the chair puffing contentedly on his pipe, the same pipe we dropped cannabis into at every possible opportunity.
He would eventually realise he was getting stoned and tell us we had succeeded in getting him again.
From then on he would take a few draws off the joints being passed around.
Sometimes, if the fancy took me I would crank up the old Wurlitzer dual keyboards, foot pedals all working away until the neighbour called the police and we are asked to keep it down.
I explain; the neighbours would have their tea, change into dressing gowns, watch Crossroads and prepare for bed.
By this time, sue has organised several forays to Howard’s and we have sufficient wine for the session.
We realise that there is someone missing and sue volunteers to go and fetch the missing party.
Sam and Anne were two other neighbours, he liked to put it about at dances so I usually organised these get togethers on known dance nights,
resulting in Anne coming on her own and enjoying herself whilst providing an unattached female into the group.
The time would come to chill and the appropriate sounds were placed on the deck and most of the bodies in the chairs and on the floor would listen along.
Sometimes we had to give Howard a bowl of dope to shut him up.
Sporadic conversation would break the silence but nothing too heavy would be accepted.
John will not take no for an answer and tries three glasses of the scrumpy, five minutes later we take him home and lay him on his sofa. We return and sure enough some 15 minutes later so does John, keen to try some more,
hell how can I argue he brought a bottle of scotch, which remains unopened until John decides whisky and scrumpy would be fun to try.
We took John home six times before he finally settled in his own house.
Free from her husband sue becomes different person, flirty and vociferous, will never go as far as smoking weed but gets the drink down her.
In truth you didn’t have to actively smoke, the air was often heavy with smoke, we would blame the old man’s pipe.
Everyone would eat, drink and smoke as much as they wanted to, conversationalists were banished to the back room and relaxed bodies would inhabit the warm front room.
I remember eventually asking Col’s female friend the corny question
“ what do you do for a living?”, while skinning up,
“I’M a policewoman”, she replied, and then obviously worried about the impact upon me her words had had, she added,
“ but I’m off duty tonight!”
“So I needn’t worry about you having invited some of your colleagues?”.
She assured me no and I went on to tell her of the recent spate of busts in the area and on my house in particular,
weekly harassment by clumsy local drug squad, eager to get results.
I told the story of the most recent bust a few days ago when I sat and played whispering grass on the Wurlitzer continuously while the drug squad searched the house,
having a three ounce bag under the foot volume.
Always tickles me remembering that day.
“Can’t you play something else?”, asked a distraught detective,
“Yes”, I replied and continued with yet another rendition of…..
“Why do you whisper green grass”,
“Thought you were going to play something different”, he quipped.
“Changed my mind,” I said as another repeat began.
Funny enough she was the first one to leave,(this was a mid week session), she was on early shift.
Neil would be next, his excuse would be his wife has a job.
Howard would think of work and tell us he was leading a party of foreigners, Japanese, around an area of land hoping they will build a car plant.
“Sounds interesting,” I tell him, “best of luck”.
So Howard would decide the next drink would be his last,
He never once tried to take the wife home,
he would ask if she was ready but often as not the reply would be she would stay a little longer, as soon as he closed the door she would be back into the wine with vengeance, usually quite merry and obviously flirtatious by now.
Col and his wife would leave because their parents would be baby sitting.
Anne would be the next to consider her options;
If she didn’t go home he would come looking for her, “would I mind?”,
The prospect of her husbands company didn’t thrill me to say the least.
He would stagger, shout and ball that he’d found her and she was pissed up again!
he would be almost unable to stand up yet he belittled his wife immediately upon his arrival.
He has a loud voice which is in truth, painful to listen to,
no lyrical accent just rough raw delivery of speech. Almost Neanderthal.
He would ask very loudly,” how are ya?” Sit and drink.
If he had consumed enough previously to arriving he could lapse in and out of consciousness, we tolerated that,
Other times he would be in the mood to talk and moan.
We were often forced to take drastic action and prepare a joint sufficiently loaded to put him out or similarly render him inert.
I knew one thing for sure he would never leave without his wife even if that meant threatening to give her a slap and drag her down the street.
He was that type of guy.
I’m ever so glad I met him, his wife and children.
A few years later I found myself in exactly the same position, wife, child and meaningless marriage.
I got out.
My source of inspiration would of course come from the other two neighbours, married, children,(plural), own home, job.
Separate the sexes and truths will come out in both camps.
I saw lots of examples of so called married bliss and for the life of me couldn’t choose a suitable option.
I turned ferile, went back to being single, acting as such and living the dream of thinking thus.
That was my answer. I wasn’t marrying and child rearing material.
So by the early hours of the morning the sounds are turned low, the fire has amassed a pile of glowing embers and wine is still flowing and the women who outnumber me begin to talk among themselves, as if I wasn’t there almost.
I close my eyes and tune in to the sounds, listening to the frank topics of debate and discussion..
Eventually I wake up in my bed and that’s another night over.

Weekend parties were something else, a totally different animal!

His wife, Howard’s, had one leg, the other being a somewhat unrealistic replacement, which I later found out would begin to squeak if the foot joint got wet.
Just thought I’d slip that in.
I remember sitting in the local club having enjoyed a good night’s live entertainment,
I said to the guy next to me,
“I think I’ll have a party later, you’re invited after the club shuts.”
I waved him goodbye as he left through the concert room door.
I of course, being a committee man had to make sure everyone was out before adjourning to the bar to join several others, we all drank freely,
the only criteria for serving was the ability to stand.
I left the club sometime later, myself and a companion for support, literally.
We stood outside the club swaying and trying to focus on two figures on the other side of the road.
“They’re fucking crawling” I said.
“Must be a party on somewhere”, he answered.
We staggered up the street and I opened my front door to be greeted by a room full of people, of which I recognised one.
I took a seat on the stairs and shouted to my mate I needed a smoke,
Immediately this old lady sitting in my chair offered me her pack of Embassy, she must have been 70 if she was a day.
“Not quite what I had in mind,” I assured her as I got up and walked towards the chimney mirror.
A quick tickle and two ready rolled joints fall out, I return to the stairs and light up.
The guy I had invited from the club came over as he smelt the smoke.
“Hi”, I uttered,
“who the fucks this lot?” I enquired.
“That’s the family, we were all in the club celebrating gran’s birthday.”
And sure enough as I looked around the room there were unmistakably generations of her family.
My wife nearly killed me later that morning, it had took her by an even greater surprise but believing I’d invited them all she had done her best to make everyone welcome.
We then tried to phone for a taxi.
Of course the taxi firm wouldn’t believe the fare was for a drunken lady in her seventies but eventually some taxis did reply and they went home in convoy.

I used to spend most of my nights either drinking in the local club and pub or out in the car drinking over the moors.
I would drop invitations out to certain people who I thought may bring something to the gathering.
Often a weekend party would require little or no organising, basically anyone was welcome, and donations were gratefully received but not mandatory.
Often home brew was swapped at the agreed rate with shop bought bottles, thus the menu was rarely home brew only.
The back room became the main room for activity, dance and talk.
Front room was a heavier scene with music appreciation and serious drinking and smoking.
These events always attracted the attention of the police,
I’d open the door to them and struggle to keep a straight face as they are immediately engulfed in a cloud of cannabis smoke.
I mutter something about aromatic pipe tobacco and point to Howard sitting in his respectable suit and tie, pipe in hand.
“usual source?” I ask, they reply they are not at liberty to divulge that information,
both of them looking next-door to the culprits house.
I agree to keep it down, and indeed do for ten minutes till they get out of the area.
My daughter would sometimes make an appearance, she would be fussed and then given a drink of wine before I took her back to bed.
She would never grow up not knowing about alcohol.
I didn’t realise how much she picked up till one day she opened the front door and told the nice men from the drug squad to be quiet because daddy had been smoking his big cigarettes!
She was a bright child, living in a crazy household.
Most of these parties were left to run their course, the back room and the back alley were mostly occupied by couples in the dark.
In short it was an ideal place to screw around with other people’s wives and girlfriends.
Hell most women were married to a shift worker so how hard is it?
As the room thinned out there would be only the hardened drinkers or smokers left.
All the weak had been weeded out and we would start again.
Joints rolled, demijohns of wine complete with lengths of rubber hose, a few quid collected and the old faithful Polaroid camera in the middle.
The object being to drink, smoke and be the last one conscious to take a photo.
I often won of course, crippling any likely opposition by giving them a lethal concoction of grape and gooseberry while choosing a somewhat weaker wine one for myself.
Next morning wasn’t too bad, most people had replaced the bottles onto the top of the side board and I just had to wash and sterilise them in readiness for next batch which would be paid for out of the winnings.
Of course the party would be the source of village gossip for a few days or till the next one.

Twelfth page, must be enjoying it.
To return to my crop in the greenhouse.
Sometimes the dope would run out if there were more tokers than expected.
Candles, scissors and bag would be gathered and those able would accompany me into the allotment, into the greenhouse and marvel at the night time, candlelit beauty of the plants.
Before taking a harvest; enough to see us thorough the night after curing.
By now I had literally dozens of people getting seed and plants of me, all I asked was for them to make up a supply if I became short.
I removed two eight footers from the greenhouse and took then to another allotment to dry out.
I was just about to harvest the rest when I was raided and all the plants were transferred into the back of a transit van,
My friend and I watched blurry eyed as the plants waved a fond farewell to me over the shoulders of the officers.
For years there was a game between myself and the drug squad, I’d rent part of allotments, grow crops outside along railway lines, in fields, hedgerows and woods.
But eventually the harassment got too much and I had to give up cultivation.
It was then I began to explore my coloured contacts!
The strain was never given the chance to improve itself, true there were plenty of growers but few with the knowledge to understand the plant and its needs.
Which brings me nicely back to the present time.
I have enough for one more decent one so intend to empty all that remains into it.
I do so.
I found out a few days later that the drug squad had been quizzing some of the other gardeners as to who owned the greenhouse.
None of them had thought to tell me!

Such simple memories brought back so clearly by the familiar scent of someone’s’ attempt at home grown.
I reach the half way mark on the joint and get a taster of the orange bud.
Fractured random guitar sounds annoy me and I listen, waiting for the end and deliverance from this piece, the only piece which has ever come to my attention for its annoyance value.
I suddenly realise that all of the gange has gone, last joint finito.
I take a couple of deep breaths as if to draw in anything possibly present in the surrounding haze.
I think back to the years spent involved with the project prior to me being sectioned, the thousands of cannabis fuelled hours studying and working towards an idea.
I wondered then if pot smoking was my tool,
to be used to heighten concentration and perception,
allowing mind to be open and receptive to almost anything.
I went though times of trauma and stress, chest pains, paralysis of limbs, loss of function, spasms, fits, and to top it off hallucinations, mild as they were.
I wrote vast amounts of work, I could switch at the click of the mouse between several hundred directions, each one with pathways leading to numerous other options for direction.
I would sit and cram my head full of whatever I came across on my long travels around the sites.
I devoured pages as a locust would a crop, in seconds pages were scanned and onto next.
These sessions would continue till my head collapsed onto the desk top, if able I would slowly go my bed and crash almost immediately.
My body useless, curled up in submission.
My mind on the other hand would be still trying to make sense of all that is has been subjected to,
decisions had to be made,
what to remember and what to forget.
It was then I realised that there was an imbalance and not enough material was being rejected, previous ideas, once thought to be simple became more intricate and involved as further research is carried out.
You can pursue a subject to the Nth degree or you can investigate so far to give you enough knowledge for the present, i.e. you would learn more about a program is you wished to use it often.
But as you progress then often that level of knowledge thus gained is inadequate and stops further understanding,
I then have to go out in as many directions as I can to understand the relationship of the subject I’m on and its impact on the web.
Technical research is a pain but often only way to get an insight into a subject.

To take a simple question,
“What if..”
As soon as you consider the question it grows in stature,
“What if, What?
You are bound to ask eventually.
Think of something, I chose.
“What if I were to become famous”
I firstly thought of what I was doing, what I’d achieved in the past and realised it would have to be for something I was doing now,
which was basically musical or type written.
So I thought then what would happen if I became famous for either of these reasons,
say perhaps a musician who produces weird music because he’s been playing the same tunes for thirty years.
Or perhaps a writer with a laid back style who writes about anything and everything.
I also contemplated my options of writing something for TV or radio.
If you consider for a while the question,
Just let your mind run freely think of money, posh hotels, holidays and more money.
Then consider staff you will need, the meetings to attend, the publicity to sell, media attention to seek;
obviously staff will deal with most of this but they will want to be paid so a commitment to the lifestyle has to be made.
You then think of the life style and the amount of socialising required to keep one’s image successfully in the public eye.
The people you will have to meet and endure their company because they could be useful to you.
Legal representatives argue over contracts and obligations, contracts are poured over and accepted subject to offer.
Accountants move in on your finances and a group of people begin to manage your interests.
Newspapers dig around to find any shit on you, others hire photographers to try and belittle you when you make a mistake, often in public but increasingly when in private surroundings.
You become partially successful and you therefore move house.
Somewhere much larger than anything you’ve had previously, you soon realise that you have to walk a half fucking marathon to get anywhere.
The roaches are no longer on the table next to you like they were in the flat, they sit on top of some piece of oriental furniture some twenty feet or more away.
Life is a bitch.
With house and position comes security, personal and for property, for now you are an owner and will be subjected to all the latest selling techniques to get you to adopt a certain lifestyle picked out by your very own latest designer, designer.