Long ago, if you wanted to roll up a big old spliff for yourself, you went to your local proto-hippy. He’d normally be called Dave, and he’d call you Man.
Uh, hi, Man. Cool threads, Man. Cool. Yeah, like rilly cool, Man.
Ah, right, Dave. Listen, I was wondering if maybe you’d have –
Yeah, Man. Love that Afghan, Man. Reminds me of the time I hitched to Nepal, y’know? There was this amaaazing sunset, y’know, and it looked like someone had actually spilt a huuuge bowl of porridge all over the Himalayas, Man. Yeah. Amaaazing!!
Ah. Grand, Dave. Look, me and the lads got a tenner together between us. Could you do us a ten-spot?
Uh, right, Man. Well, like, I have to, like, look after myself too, Man, so here’s, like an eight-quid deal, but you can, like, have it for a tenner. It’s good shit, Man. It’s a Moroccan-Paki-Leb hybrid, with opium, magic mushrooms and whiskey in it. And peyote! Peyote too, Man, and some sensemilla mixed in too, Man. In Brandy. You’ll be completely paralysed for a week. Amaaazing shit, Man.
Well, that was then, and this is now. Today’s young people tell me that if you want an illegal smile, you have to ask some fat knacker in a hoodie. Which means that all the profit from illegally smiling goes into the pockets of the knacker thug scum who have dragged the name of our town through the mud.
I asked my researchers at the Bockschloss to look into this. Specifically, I instructed them to find a way of getting fat knacker thug scum out of the ganja business, and I now have their recommendation on my desk.
It’s short. In fact, it’s a one-liner.