Hundreds of millions of students a day are using hard drugs in London alone. Every month, The Cheese Grater will be asking a figure in youth culture what their views are on the matter. In month one, Prime Minister Theresa May argues that something needs to be done about this unparalleled depravity, and shares a cautionary tale from her own days as a student.
Weed. Skunk. Baccy. Skag. Charlie. Beak. Mary Jane. Miaow Miaow. Da ‘erb. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? That’s right. Marijuana.
You’re probably snorting some of it right now, aren’t you? Well? Unravel that five pound note at once, and listen to me. I could come down very heavily on criminal leeches like you if I wanted to, throw my book right at that pierced nose. Stop slouching! Are you trying to lick the rest of it from the floor? Show some decorum. I am Theresa May, and I’m going to educate you about the real dangers of recreational drug use.
I was a bit like you once. I too was young. There were several things that I was not, and they are things you should aim to emulate: I was not naïve, I was not young, I was not rude, I was not interested in casual sex, music, television or drugs. I knew people that were, though. It happened when we were at university.
First, the soft stuff – a half of lager here, a Double Decker there, a couple of fags on a night out round the back. It became normalised. Ten, before I knew it, my best friends had become deranged criminals, totally dependent on that euphoric cannabis rush that sent their jaws all Crocodile Dundee.
I am ashamed to say I let it happen. I sat there, too terrified to speak out lest they throttle me in the throes of their chemically induced rage. Often they would wallow in their Bacchanalian stupor, eat crisps and watch Only Fools and Horses. It made me tremble for the future of the free world. They thought they were inconspicuous, but you could spot the physical deterioration a mile-off. Marijuana abuse turned them into hollow husks of fine young adults.
One was hit harder than most. He had the fine, sexless body of a provincial accountant, but the willpower of a crab. Eventually I tired of his gluttonous two spliffs a week habit, and told him to sling his hook. He moved to the foothills of Afghanistan, where attitudes were more permissive, and spent his days tripping on radical Islam as well as cannabis leaves, which he ate raw. He didn’t have a bad trip, but the innocent victims of his drug-fuelled terrorism did when the planes hit the towers.
Could you tell a crying child that your cannabis sent their parents to an early grave? I didn’t think so. Theresa May’s conscience is clear. Hard drugs are evil. Marijuana is a plague on civilisation. This isn’t the fun we fought the Nazis for. Do it again, and I’ll send you to Belmarsh for 15 years, and Jamal, I’ll send you for 40. Say no to hard drugs, or the only weed you’ll know is the weed on your pauper’s grave.
A version of this article appeared in CG Issue 61.
