the_end?

At 11:45am I was in Floyd & settled into a few pipes of NL Skuff. I was working my first Ital into shape, sitting at the downstairs table, waiting for my breakfast. Making some notes. This was my last full day, and night. I had intended to finish taking some pictures of some of the coffeeshops I didn't yet have in my image library, including Dolphins, but the battery in my camera had died. At least it got me past the awards this year.

So, my plans for the day were sunk. My phone was on charge back at the Hotel. The world could find me again, almost. The morning burbon was giving me a warmth in my belly that I could now feel beginning to radiate through my system. Whiskey in the morning. How long had it been since I'd done this ? Last Cup/Festive Season ?

I took the little cup of hot black coffee in two swallows & felt its heat decend my osophogus, chasing the burbon & putting it in the run. My mind drifted back to Mai-Ty. It hadn't really been very far away from her. I'd gone on the session last night instead of putting myself in order in preparation of a good nights riding. What was the score with that ?

She was sweet, pretty, intelligent, quick whitted & she felt so good against me. She had even wanted, almost demanded, a re-match. This time with two substitues on her side. I was so tempted by that. So, very, tempted.

Picking the same girl two nights running left you vulnerable to a thousand other cons.

I still had to work out if my indulgence had already blown my 'house' budget anyway. After all, it wasn't like I was earning a living.

How the hell do some of these folks stay in business ? They are all so busy trying to rip each other off. The tricks & stunts they play on each other & the punters is confounding. Is this how they go about fighting for legalisation ? Because if it is the opossition has no worries.

Consider; The Cannabis Cup is meant to represent a celebration of unity within the cannabis community. It is meant to celebrate the achievements of all cannabis users across the world. It is supose to be an example for others to be insipred by. What we get is a bunch of American hippie's, mounting a colonisation of another land, displacing the local population, rakin' in a sack of cash and drugs to party hard on, giving their mates the awards in a bogus display of democracy, complete with a rigged & irrelevant voting system. Joe Punter, just like Joe Public sees nothing of the fine foods on the big table, but he gets to watch from outside as the important folks chow down. He'll get to read about it in the 'official' press later too, & after paying his 'contribution' to his society, Joe Punter like Joe Public still finds he has to pay extra for his goods & services. He gets lied to, he gets cheated, he finds the talk of 'we're all in it together' is just talk, because everybodys a mercenary, a pirate, or would be gangster.

These days , instead of getting off his outraged arse to kick this bag of shite out into the gutter where it belongs and the local dogs can piss on it till it disapears like a turd stain in the rain, & starting up his own thing, Joe Punter moans a bit. Through the proper channels of course. Self censoring his own outraged comments.

I contemplated the Cup sample from Rookies. It was wet. Another of Amsterdam's little tricks. Sell the punter wet weed, it weighs more. I tried mixing it with some Shiva but it ruined an otherwise great smoke. I wasn't impressed with it at all & just left it in the table's ashtray when I left.

While I'd been in Rookies I'd got talking to a couple of 19yr olds from England out on their first big adventure. They couldn't even skin up & were asking the barman if he would be so kind, which was where I came in. They had scored some White Widow & that too was wet.

I contemplated using the new computer internet terminals upstairs, but opted for mental relaxation instead of mental frustration. There would be plenty computer on my return.

So, I'd been here a week & I didn't mind not being in a certain bar listening to the gossip. I may not have been there physically but I know my presence was felt there just the same. This year, like enough, I was the gossip. Why not ? I'd done a lot to stir the air in a lot of quarters. There was the Mr Nice thing for a start.

Oh yeah, I was waiting for my cataract operation & I needed a good distraction.

What was the point of making me a Moderater without giving me any moderation tools ? You might as well ask a firefighter put the house fire out by pissing on it. It was really funny to hear that the Editor of Heads had offered the MrNice Trading Logo & Forums to a Merseyside business for £25, 000-00.

Then there was the thing with the seeds. Semtex they were called. £12, 000-00 they wanted for them. Word on the wind had it they were snide. Aledgedly they were the proceedes of a rip off. Test germinations were unimpressive as were the plants that resulted. They appeared to be suffering from some sort of virus. They got given away on the Mr Nice site as a draw for new punters.

Another fucking rip off for the punters is snide seeds. Seeds come in two sexes; male & female. Everything else is 'queer' by any other name. Feminised seeds are a con. They are seeds made from queers which produce queer seeds, & queer plants, with queer fruits.

Its really that simple, but don't take my word for it. Go read up on this shit like I did. Find out for yourself.

One last thing about seeds, you can't tell what sex they are by looking at them. The only way to find out is grow the buggers & flower them.

I left Floyd & went back to my room to pick up my now charged & 'on' phone. As soon as I switched it on it started to ring. I answered & a machine voice in Dutch informed me, I think, that I had a voicemail. I tried to work out the directions & got something informing me I had no credit on my phone.

I put €50-00 on the bastard last time I was in town & hadn't used it since.

The lad in the shop had done it for me because I don't speak Dutch. The little fucker had stung me.

I contemplated slinging it in the canal, then thought about swapping it for a shag or drugs instead. If I had voicemail, I reasoned, then whoever had sent it would try & phone me again. I put it in my pocket & headed out on a coffeeshop cruise.

At 2-55pm I was sitting upstairs in Rick's Cafe looking across the canal at the Greenhouse Centrum with a pint of cider in one hand & an Ital in the other. I'd just had another Thai. I'd been strolling through the main Red Light Area thinking about Mai-Ty & if I'd succumb & break my own rule later that night.

Also Thai, but tall & clearly used to domination games, she kept trying to draw me out with a variety of teasing temptations including putting herself in a dog collar & lead, but I wasn't in the mood for all that nonsense. I wanted Mai-Ty but I couldn't have her until after 9:00pm.

I was unwinding & that was good. As I let myself drift mentally I made a number of decisions, then snapped myself back to where I sat & moved on to the Bluebird. I was still rheuminating as I lazily crossed the bridge absent mindedly pulling the little bottle of homeopathic tabs I use to control my sinus out of my pocket, unscrewing the cap & shaking them into the lid as I walked. Some street trash sidled up to me out of the great blue sky & thought he'd found a kindred speed freak to pal up with. I dodged him crossing the road. He followed gibbering something about not making freinds, upsetting people, ending up dead.

I had a flashback to my trip Wednesday night. While I'd been in Dolphin's & the Manc was working my ear to death he'd suddenly reached across the public counter to the staff counter & took hold of a sharp fruit slicing knife. He had started to manically work at a piece of fruit Ginger had put in the top of his drink with it. Somehow he'd pushed it into the bottle & was now trying to get it out in pieces. He kept muttering stuff about people giving him ideas & started dropping in some very weird talk about religious gang bangs. I took the knife off him swiftly & threw it onto the staff counter out of his reach.

This street trash was talking the same shit now. A version of it anyway. This time I wasn't sure I'd be lucky with the knife if it appeared. There wasn't enough working behind the eyes there to distract with something else while the business got done. This guy was strung out. He was in the unreasonably dangerous catagory. I went into the first shop I came to, explained the situation to the guy working the till, & waited five minutes.

I sat in Bluebird long enough to enjoy another coffee & an Ital before leaving. I had seen Larry earlier. Actually he'd seen me & near run me over with his scooter for a laugh. I did't recognise him with his lid & shades & just kept going not wishing to get into a street fight with what I had assumed was just another nutter on drugs with an attitude problem.

Larry told me about a party that night to be held over by Afrika house, a building with a bridge going through it. He apologised for not getting me interviewed for the John Sinclair Radio Show,

" ........ but your close enough to be considered living here anyway, you come often enough. I still want to do some stuff with you. I can call you up & you can be on the next plane, right ?"

If only life were that simple, but yes Larry, I'm happy to do some stuff for you. I'm sure we can work something out.

That night I did the Manchurian in Leidseplein & thourghly enjoyed my crispy duck & pancakes. I dropped another speed cap thinking it would kick in around the time I was anticipating needing it. There was a party to go to & I was shattered & beginning to feel somewhat frayed at the edges. The party was happening somewhere behind Central Station. I wasn't too familiar with that part of town. On the bike I went first one way then another going along a gantry that led past the Botel & the posh Chinese before realising I was in the wrong area. I turned about, found the right road but started pedling up the wrong part of it. The cars only part. I didn't know this until a concerned motorist slowed enough for her daughter to open the door while she shouted something at me. I clicked. Oops.

Eventually I found Afrika House but could see no 'party boat'& of course, I had no credit on my phone. I scanned about a bit & took in the views before calling it a day & heading back into town & over to Rookies & Dolphins for the last time. In Dolphins Rene bought me a last cider & Ginger gave me a fond farewell. Big up, the pair of you.

It was 11:30pm, I wanted to pack my bags ready for the morning so I headed back to my base & took care of that, leaving out only clothes for the next day & my wash things. I took a couple of burbons while I did it. I sat down a moment thinking about something & woke up at 2:30am. Well so much for speed. I kicked off my shoes & took advantage of the sleeping time. It would be time enough to move again come daylight.

I woke up a little after 8:30 am & put myself through the shower one burbon up. I dressed & finished packing & took my gear downstairs to the breakfast room. I paid my bill & took a taxi over to Central Station, stashing my bags in one of the lockers & scoring a train ticket before leaving for my last few hours in town.

My big problem was my bike. I had to go back to the hotel & get it so I could take it back to the hire shop, & the shop didn't open until 12:00pm noon. I walked up single & recovered my iron steed for the last time. the gentle ride back along the canal left me in a pleasant mood & more than ready for my breakfast at Floyd.

By 10:55am I was settled in at Floyd & stock taking my supplys. I had a fair piece of NL Skuff left, about 3.5g of Shiva, & a special 1g or so of a particularly fine quality moroccan I'd been given by a fellow Minister. I also still had a quantity of Philosopher Stones. I hit up some of the NL Skuff in my screenless pipe but got a bit frustrated with it as the bloody thing got very hot after short use. I kept having to put it down to let it cool a while between hits. I drifted, thinking of Larry & wondering how close I'd probaly stood from the party. Ah well, it was good to say goodbye to the folks over at Dolphins instead. Rene gave me a last cider on the house.

I thought about Mai-Ty. It would have been nice to have gone a second round.

Some caffine based things. I must have needed the sleep though, I was pretty far shot I had to admit. Still, I was disapointed in myself falling to sleep like that on my last night in town. However, I was greatful for the sleep. Today was likely to be a long one.

I finished breakfast & left Floyd to take back the bike. I took my time, there was no hurry, the shop wasn't yet open, but the Herring stall at the top of the road would be. There's something wonderful about eating fresh fish. Fresh raw fish with a little pickle & onion. There's still the taste of the fish's spirit in the flesh. A trace sense of the waters & companions it swam with. Flesh un-processed, un-seasoned, preserve free. Like everything used to be when I grew up. Everybody use to look down on you if you were so poor you were using something made of plastic. 'Ah shame, they can't afford real wood, real cups, ect ...........'. Now everything is fake.

People talk about things becoming Orwellian. Orwell's world is already here. It snook up on us from behind disguised in a clown suit baring gifts to the multitude it began to feed. The fucking cameras are everywhere. You even carry one with you on your phone now. Your own personal triangulatible bug. Your on their map, & you don't even know it.

There's no direction from up top because they don't know where they are going. They only know they are in control, or think they are. There's no plan to improve or change anything or start something new. Just a desire to leap backwards to the early industrial age of Victoria. To re-create the maid service industry with nanny, cook, domestic, gardener & tradesman re-instated into their rightful places as servants to the rich & middle class, knocking at the back door, & feeling greatful for getting to eat the left overs from the big table.

That's not what our Grand parents fought for. They fought for a better world for everyone. So those days of the Workhouse would be over forever. The days of people starving to death in the street would be gone. Not a world in the control of the kinky masters & servants, the fear mongers, & war mongers, where cheats & liars prevail over the ordinary & decent. The Dutch may be going through their own political crisis at the moment, & the coffeeshops are right in the front of the firing line, but at least they are able to agree that the system of tollerence they have in operation is far better than anything elsewhere in Europe, & probably the world. At least they treat their adult citizens like adults instead of children that need protecting from the Bogie Man.

I finished my fish & dumped the little paper tray thing it came on in a handy bin & took the bike back. I jumped a tram & got off at Dam Square& for a last walk through the uplifting sight of pretty ladies. A Macy Gray look-a-like took my eye.

Back inside Floyd I went through all my pockets thourghly & laid out what remained of my medicine chest. I still had 3.5g of Shiva, the NL Skuff, the Morroccan, the Phil Stones & I found a last speed tab. Time was ticking, I had just under two hours left in town. I scored a coffee & went upstairs to get to work. I built up a combination Ital of Shiva & NL Skuff & put an amount of Phil Stones into a makeshift paper wrap made from my notebook.

I sat back & inhaled & melted. Wow that was great stuff. I slid in my seat & was slewed like a candle left in the summer sun. I let my mind wander where it liked & came back in time to realise I had fifty minutes left to finish my stash. I knocked up a kingsize two skinner loading all the remaining weed & NL Skuff into the huge Ital. A crowd of travelling stoners came in & filled the room as I worked. I got the thing blazing & the room quickly began filling with smoke. It started to get dense & it occured to me that any sniffer dog worth its salt would have a feild day if it caught my scent. Too late to worry now I was impregnated with smoke. I could always be honest & say I smoked a joint to calm my nerves before flying. It wasn't unusual for Amsterdam. Besides I wasn't planning on taking back a bag full of drugs or anything. There wasn't any point. I could score when I got home easily enough. By the time I checked in my bag I'd be clean.

My blood might not be, but that was another matter wasn't it. My piss was probably worth bottling, like raindeer piss, & selling to ravers £3-00 a shot.

Just as I was coming to the end of my Ital I got talking to the bar staff, trading a few tales. They wished me safe journey & swift return as I left.

I'd intended to swallow the Stones & speed tab with a beer in the airport but I'd got my times wrong somehow & was running late so I dry swallowed the tab & chewed the last stone as I was checking in. I was a bit unsure about doing Phil Stones in this environment but reasoned that I had calculated the correct dose for a mild hit, something strong enough to excentuate the cannabis high so I wouldn't notice coming down on the way home from the airport, & I wouldn't give a shit what the taxi driver said on the way home to my trusty, waiting, pipe.

Back in the U.K. I cleared customs without a problem. Security seemed 'normal'. No fuss or nonsense with guns. The taxi wasn't there. I got on the dog & discovered that they had forget to come for me & I had a fifty minute wait before they got there.

I had indeed calculated perfectly. The Phil stones & speed had come on gradually together somewhere halfway into the flight. All was just peachy in my world while I sat & drank cider chuckling at the Simpsons on the bar telly, my gums buzzing slightly in an osmosis like effect from a piece of Moroccan that had got stuck in my teeth, reflecting.

High Times were finished as a force to be reckoned with as far as I could see. I hadn't seen more than five copies sell on Merseyside in a year. That was down to the format change & the loss of the buds mostly. I heard that the new staff had been shown the door & that a new bunch had taken control, bringing back the buds. Where was Hagar ? What was his connection now ? Who were these nobody white kids from middle America with their perfect dental smiles ?

The 17th Cannabis Cup was a wash out. A combination of inadequate exhibition space, poor vender turnout, late start times & fucked up organisation. Quite a number of regular exhibitors were missing. Homegrown Fantaseeds, Flying Dutchman, The Pollinator Co. are just the ones that come to mind. Most punters I spoke to were disgusted. The night time entertainment also left a lot to be desired. The High Times Crew had invited bands to come play at the Cup. All well and good until you realised that the band had to fork out for their own travel, hotel & expenses. As a result few bands of any note responded & there was no headline act.

After four Cups & fourteen years of touring Amsterdam coffeeshops I can tell you that the Americans are, like cannabis, tollerated in Holland. Everybody though, & I mean everybody, hates High Times, including a lot of the Americans now living in Amsterdam. This is principally because they do now, & have in the past, treated people like Mila from the Pollinator Co. like some sort of second class citizen in her own home town. I've seen it for myself.

Now these hippies that tell us that they invented counter culture, forgetting all about Shelly, Byron, Godwin, Mary Wollstonecraft & the like, have the ordacity to go around telling anyone who will listen to thier bullshit that they invented Midwives & Midwifry. My Ma would have a lot to say about that. She was in the nursing profession from the age of seventeen & she was a Midwife on call when I was a baby. She finished up a Cenior Nursing Officer, I grade, in charge of Midwives. It was her that brought about the U.K. innovation of Midwives having walkie talkies so they could remain in constant contact with the office & each other, before the days of the mobile phone.

So please, will you fuckin' gobshite hippies pack in your bullshit about inventing Midwifry & stop insulting all of us that actually know better. The Royal College of Midwives, of which my mother was a member, opened in 1881, in the U.K., not in some hippie's steaming and stinking tent in a muddy feild in 1970's America.

You know its really funny. These hippies, they go around full of their own importance wearing their neo-ethnic ghetto chic 100% recycled hemp potatoe sacks preaching peaceful protest & bullshit on about how they would do it different if they were in the right positions, & up the revolution man. But what have they done, really ?

Mandela attended the second one himself. When he got up to speak there was the longest standing ovation ever broadcast in television history.

The first Generation-X. The 'punk' generation. That's what we did, & we're setting about doing it again because we have to. We arn't waiting, we arn't asking permission, we are just doing it. Live with it, help, or get out the fucking way.

That is the sort of attitude that needs putting back into the legalisation movement. If it was ever there in the first place. We don't need to ask permission & say please, its our basic human right to administer and aquire relief of suffering. It is the state that is at fault in denying us that right. It is not us that need to defend or justify ourselves & our positions, for we have right on our side. The state has only the brute force of law on its side. It is the state that must defend its position, for the state is dependant upon the people for its life, as all parasites are.

The state was created to serve the people. People are not here to serve the state.

Better educated through my own endevour for a start, but as far as the cannabis business was concerned, I was retired. I'd found out all I wanted to know. I wasn't interested in involving myself in criminal activity to make money. I had found no one & nothing I could place my trust or faith in. In all my searching for like spirits on common ground I had come to realise that I really wasn't that mad-crackers after all. Not measured up against this lot.

It seems its time for me to move on along my own path & pioneer my own way forward.

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The 17th Cup, After Thoughts & Comment

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Any un-authorized publication of texts, parts of texts, or images, will result in legal action. Publishing permission can be obtained from Viperslair.co.uk by written request only.

First Published 7/12/2004 by Viperslair.co.uk

Re-published 1/1/2006

Re-formatted for Disc 16/10/2006