Weed Control

Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.



“When did you come home?” asked the missus.

“Four hours ago.”

“Carry on drinking like that and you’ll be dead in a month.”

“Carry on talking like that and you won’t be around to see it. Anyway, you’ve always said I’ve brought no satisfaction to your life, why should I start in a month’s time?”

I looked at her breakfast. “What’s that?”

“A Cumberland sausage,” she replied.

“You sure?”

“Of course!”

“It moved.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Look, it moved again.”

I left for a shower. Behind me I heard the lid of the kitchen waste bin being lifted.


Behind the bar, Gertie sat on a barstool. She looked like a sack of shite.

“Bloody hell, Gertie, how much did you ram down your throat last night?”

She looked at me.

“Ah, come on,” I said, “you know what I meant.”

“I can’t remember how much I drank, eez. I haven’t even been home.”

“Take the day off, Gertie. I’ll do the bar. Have you got any bookings?”

“I can’t do that, eez. Anyway, I’m a bit short of cash this week.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you.”

“What about my stockroom punters, though?”

“I’ll tell them you’ve gone to the dentist for remedial work and will be back tomorrow, better than ever.”

“What are you up to? You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“What? I’m just doing you a favour. If you’re going to talk like my wife, you can go fuck yourself and stay here ‘til midnight.”

“Sorry, eez. I’m tired. I’ll grab my coat. Thanks.”

I put a sign on the door that read, ‘Pub Closed For Refurbishment’.


A van pulled into the car park.

Blinky and Biffy stepped from the van.

“So,” I asked them, “what’s all the fuss about? I’m losing money as we speak.”

Biffy opened the rear doors of the van.

“Hoooooly shit!”

“Exactly,” said Biffy.

“Hoooooly shit!”

“What am I going to do?” cried Blinky. “They’ll put me in prison!”

“Hoooooly fucking shit!”

The van was crammed full with weed. Never, had I imagined so much cannabis in one place.

“Blinky, how did you come by a van containing half a million quid’s worth of ganja?”

“I won it in a competition.”

“Blinky,” I said, ”in competitions, people win holidays in Benidorm. People win free sun bed sessions in competitions, they don’t win enough fucking bush to supply a university for a bleeding year!”

Blinky looked close to tears.

“Come on you two,” I said, “let’s get a drink and think about it.”


We all sat drinking large whiskys.

“I could probably get rid of, maybe, half a bag a year; most of my colleagues are pretty big users,” suggested Biffy, the doctor.

“And there’s a private school near me. I could do the school gates,” said Blinky.

“Blinky, if you did that, you’d not only get done for possessing the stuff, but also for selling it.”

“eez, I wouldn’t charge them for it!”

“Shut up and let me think,” I told him.


Ten minutes later, Corky, in his uniform, walked in. There was another guy, in a suit, with him.

Biffy jumped up.

“It’s nothing to do with me! It’s his van!” he shouted, pointing at Blinky. “He made me do it!”

“Sit down Biffy. I asked Corky to come here.” I said.

I asked Corky if his mate could be trusted.

“Yeah, he’s head of the regional drugs squad. He’s taken more bungs than a test tube. We call him Gearbox; he’s always got a box of something stashed away in his office for the boys.”

“Where’s the gear?” asked Gearbox.

We showed him.

With an air of nonchalance, he picked up some of it. He smelt it, rolled it, judged its weight and said, “good bud structure, nicely weighted for its size, but all this means nothing. Is the heating on inside?”

“You’re cold?”

He ignored me and walked inside, went to the toilet, returned with a tissue, wrapped a bud in it and placed it on a radiator.

In a few minutes, the pub began to smell of cannabis.

As we waited, he asked if he could have a drink.

“Help yourself.”

He filled a pint glass with port and brandy and stuck a drinking straw in it.

Half an hour later, he’d ground up some of the dried weed and rolled the largest joint I’d ever seen. He lit it and sat back to carry on with his investigations.

I felt obliged to say something: “as Landlord of this establishment, I’m concerned that you’re smoking an illegal substance on the premises.”

After he’d stopped laughing, Gearbox handed me several sheets of paper and said, “there’s so much Charlie being snorted in this gaff, the window sills in your toilet look more like a tart’s talcum store, and that,” he said pointing at the sheets of paper, “is just a small selection of the activities that take place in the Dog and Donkey for which you, as landlord, could get nicked.”

I kept quiet.

Barty walked in. I’d forgotten about Barty.

The drugs officer said, “hello Barty.”

“You know Barty?” I asked.

“Yeah. About nine years ago, me and the boys were ordered to arrest him.”

It was my turn to laugh.


“So,” I asked Gearbox, “what are we doing with all this weed?”

Barty started giggling.

Biffy looked at Barty and said, “eez, he’s stoned. Actually, he’s totally monged. I think he’s eaten some of the van’s contents.”

Gearbox got up, went outside, returned shortly after and offered us ten thousand pounds for the lot.

“You thieving bastard! It’s worth a damn site more than ten grand!”

“I agree, your livelihoods and a future not spent behind bars is worth a lot more than ten grand, which is why my offer is so generous.”

Barty jumped up, announced himself as head of security and fell into a table and four chairs.

“We’ll take it,” I moaned.

“What about my van?” asked Blinky.


Biffy broke Blinky’s nose.