Drugs are bad, m'kay?

If you’ve read either of my books you’ll already know what great impact illegal drugs have on the police’s time, resourcing and budgeting. Apparently 70% of all crime is drug related – either directly, or committed to generate revenue for the procurement of drugs to satisfy a habit.

The most common drug to be found on the streets of the UK is produced from a pungent, flowering plant indigenous to central and south Asia. Call it what you like – grass, pot, hash, skunk, weed, marijuana – cannabis use and growth is rife in the UK. Anyone can legally buy seeds and products off the internet purposely designed to aid the production of cannabis. The police are increasingly seeing ‘cannabis factories’ literally sprouting everywhere (by the way, I think this is a stupid term – after all, if I have a dozen King Edward plants growing in my back garden you wouldn’t say I have a ‘potato factory). These ‘factories’ range from a simple UV light and a plant or two in compost under the stairs, to DIY hydroponic setups in spare bedrooms or lofts, to thousands of plants growing secretly in industrial units ‘employing’ a full-time gardener – who is often being exploited and/or has an illegal immigration status. And it’s not just drug dealers and hippies growing it either – in my experience I have seen middle-class business people trying an alternative secondary income scheme!

In 2009 the government of the time decided to reclassify cannabis from Class C to Class B. I assume if you’re reading this blog you are most probably pro-police and anti-crime so would welcome this change. So, the government and police are getting tough and cracking down on this dangerous drug that studies have proved to cause paranoia and psychosis, not to mention being a motive for crime and a drain on the National Health Service? Erm… no, as it happens.

It might surprise you to hear that in 2012 a Home Office Affairs Select Committee actually recommended degrading it to Class C again; but to date this change has fortunately not been implemented. Despite the drub being Class B – so in line with amphetamines (like Speed) and Mephedrone (the previously ‘legal high’ you would have heard of in the media) – if caught with an amount considered small enough to be personal use (which can actually be quite a lot), in recent years the police have been instructed to be more lenient with those who possess it; plus there has been a decline in police resourcing committed to finding those who manufacture and distribute it – there’s only so much money in the pot so we now go after Class A dealers (or turn a blind-eye all together). Rather than arresting people found in possession of the drug, officers are now encouraged to issue ‘street cautions’ (a brief interview under Caution whereby the offender will have to admit possessing the drug for personal use) and Penalty Notices (fines). This means it can be a minimum of a third repeat offence (often more) before a person is arrested and placed into the judicial system. Fortunately people under 18 are still arrested on site for possession of the drug. Please allow me to give an example of how a ‘Cannabis Street Caution’ might unfold (this is an edited excerpt from one of my books):

   “Okay, are you ready?”

   “Uh, yeah.”
   “Good. So what’s this?”
   The male delves into his smoky mind, opens his mouth to answer, but the words just won’t come. Instead confusion is all his expression can say, so I try to simplify.
   “Let’s start again. What am I holding in my hand?”
   “Erm...I dunno.”
   Astounding.
   “C’mon, this isn’t hard. Tell me what it is, in my hand?”
   This is painful. Plate tectonics have more dynamism than this male. He’s concentrating hard and, despite knowing the answer, is suspicious of my questioning.
   “It’s not a trick question,” I endeavor to assure. “I’ll give you a clue: remember, we’re doing a cannabis street caution. Yeah?” to emphasize my point I jiggle the little plastic bag of green herbal matter right in front of his nose to waft that strong, unmistakable aroma towards his twitching nostrils. His droopy eyes track the packet as he craves the sweet, green nectar within. “So what do I have in my hand, in the little bag?”
   “Skunk,” the male replies cautiously, hoping he’s given the right response.
   “That’s good!” I enthuse at the answer despite the glacial progress we’re making. “And what’s another name for Skunk - remember, this is a cannabis caution...”
   “Weed?”
   I let out a despondent sigh.
   “Is it cannabis?” I ask bluntly.
   “Yeah, yeah.”
   We’re back on track.
   I note my question and a close approximation of his reply in my PNB. Keen not to interrupt the flow of this stimulating dialogue I move on quickly to the next question:
   “And who does the cannabis belong to?”
   “Dunno.”
   We grind to a halt.
   “Well I just found it in your pocket!” I give him a distinct clue, patience waning.
   “Erm… okay,” but that puzzled look returns.
   Apparently I need to explain again what the stoner and I are working towards:
   “Look, because I could smell what I believed to be prohibited, controlled drugs, I had sufficient grounds to search you under Section 23 of the Misuse of Drugs Act and...,” but the male still looks like his tiny, bamboozled mind might implode any second, so I start again and explain as plainly as I can. “You stink of marijuana, so I turned you over and found this little bag of weed in your pocket. Now I could arrest you for that-”
   “No, dude, don’t do that,” he interrupts, most bewildered.
   “Let me finish. I could arrest you, but because you’ve not been in trouble with the police before, instead I can do a cannabis street caution right here, right now,” I try my best to explain as straight forward as my eloquence allows, “and as long as you agree that’s the end of it and you go on your way. Sounds good?”
   “Yeah, man. Whatever, as long as I don’t get nicked,” he’s smiling gormlessly again as the idea is sold to him.
   “So - remembering I found it in your pocket - who does it belong to?" I smile encouragingly and nod to illicit the appropriate response, much like a junior school teacher might gesture to the slow one in class.
   “Erm, you?”
   Unbelievable.
   “Good try, you’re half right,” I carry on undeterred, “the weed is mine now, but who did it belong to before?”
   The male’s face contorts in thought as the creaky cogs start to turn once more and the wheels lurch into motion. The train’s running, but I think the engineer is asleep at the controls.
   “Me?” he offers up hesitantly.
   “Yes!”
   Bingo!
   “But it’s only a ten-bag,” the little pothead protests. “That’s not illegal to have that in public, yeah. It’s for personal consumption.”
   “Who told you that?”
   “Everyone knows that: if it’s for personal use then it’s alright, yeah,” he shrugs.
   “I don’t know how to break this to you, but it’s illegal to possess any weed, any time.”
   “What, even a single joint?" he looks at me in disbelief, like a child who just found out the truth about the tooth fairy. If this guys was anymore stupid, he’d photosynthesize in the sun.
   “Yep, even half a joint.”
   He hesitates, pondering this.
   “You sure?”
   “Yes!”
   Again he contemplates over the burst bubble.
   “Shut up,” he laughs, still not convinced.
   “You’re just going to have to trust me on this,” I shake my head and my eyes loop-de-loop in disbelief. “Anyway, moving on to the next question, what were you going to do with it?” this one always catches a few out.
   “Give it to my mate.”
   “Was it going to be smoked?" I quickly gloss over his admission of possession with intent to supply and just give him the answer I’m looking for.
   “Well, yeah. What else could you do with it?” but before I can answer, “Although I did make cannabis cupcakes once in Home Economics! That was the trippiest Geography lesson ever afterwards," he chuckles as he reminisces.
   Getting back on track: “How much did it cost?”
   “Ten quid, I told you that already.”
   “And where did you buy it?”
   “Can’t tell you that, man. He’d kill me.”
   I wasn’t expecting a definitive answer to that one and, although I should probably probe a little further, I move on as we’re nearing the end.
   “Have you used cannabis or any other drugs before?”
   “First time.”
   If this is the first time he’s smoked cannabis then I’m a crystal-meth addict.
   “That is bad luck!” I scoff. “Perhaps take this as a sign that drugs aren’t for you then.”
   You may have noticed, dear reader, a common theme throughout this blog. So much valuable police time is squandered dealing with incidents that have - legal or otherwise - intoxicants and stimuli at the origin, or at least running as an imperious subplot throughout. I am not exaggerating at all.
   Reading over the scrawling of the interview in my PNB (pocket note book) I explain that this cannabis caution will be recorded against his name and go on to mention the ramifications of that.
   “If you get caught with drugs again then next time you might get arrested. Understand?”
   “Yeah, man,” but in truth he’s still more likely to get a fine, or even another caution, rather than spend an iota of time in police custody.
   “Just read through this and sign at the bottom,” I hand over the biro. It seems some time since the relieved male saw such a writing instrument, but he does manage to make a mark that I’m prepared to accept as a signature.
   “So, is that it?”
   “Yes.”
   “I can go?”
   “Yes.”
   “No going into a cell? Fingerprints?”
   “No.”
   “Cool!” this is by far the most animated I have seen the youth as he almost breaks into a jig of joy. He turns, feints to walk away, before turning back towards me with the now familiar confused look, “So Can I have my weed back then?”
   “No!”
   He skulks off, shoulders slumped, probably in the direction of his dealer to get another ten-bag…

So that’s how much cannabis cautions go. The irony is that it will take me well over an hour to do the paperwork back at the station – far more convenience for me and the tax-paying public than for the little stoner!

Remember kids: just say no...


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