» Smoking beef
This week Katie outlines her problems with Brighton’s cannabis culture
If Brighton ever wanted to develop a signature scent to promote the city, perfume designers wouldn’t have to go far for olfactory inspiration.
While bottled Eau de London should (in the words of perfume PR-speak) feature top notes of booze undercut by the reek of sweat and ambition, Parfum De Brighton would mainly smell like someone smoking a really, really big joint.
“Skunk-fanciers routinely fail to get anything useful done”
As Skint Records’ head honcho Damian Harris memorably noted back in the 90s, Brighton is a smoker’s city. Whether you blame the students, the clubbers, or the nice way the sea looks to someone sat stoned on the beach, the fact is that Brighton just loves to skin up. A pair of undercover narcs, teleported in from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, would have a field day ticking off their ‘dangerous substances’ checklist.
“Massive array of dopesmoking paraphernalia openly for sale, mostly incorporating dubious Rasta imagery?”
That’s affirmative.
“Shops not opening until the crack of noon?”
Correct, sir.
“Over abundance of Bob Marley posters?”
I’ll prepare the warrants, our work here is done.
All of which is fine by me. I’d much rather have the population stoned and somnambulant than drunk, angry and attacking each other with Magners bottles. But, in among all of this happy toking there are aspects of the local dope culture which I just can’t stand.
My problem starts when the pro-pot lobby puts down the Rizlas and attempts to get political. Why, in an age when campaigners are actively trying to Drop the Debt and Make Trade Fair should I expend precious time and energy trying to (ahem) Free the Weed? Free it from who exactly – joint-hogging drug bores banging on about the inner intricacies of A Clockwork Orange?
In reality the laws on dope smoking are some of the most cunning in this county’s (admittedly pretty dreadful) legal repertoire. Keeping dope illegal makes it all the more attractive to middle-class teenagers looking to rebel against their parents. So, students get to feel all rebellious with a sixteenth stashed next to their copies of Razzle, while the Powers That Be are safe in the knowledge that the nation’s youth aren’t going to be dabbling with anything harder before they’ve finished their GCSEs.
My second problem is that skunk-fanciers routinely fail to get anything useful done. Brighton is a fantastic location to buy kitschy knick-knacks, drink and watch the sun set. Yet, it’s truly the worst place in the world to say, start a magazine, get a political movement going or make a film. Sure, there’s plenty of smoky chat about Brighton film-makers, authors and artists. But anyone who really wants to make a mark on the real world still has to straighten out and take that train to London at least some of the time.
Why do you think that Brighton has no real famous bands to speak of? Between the beach, the dealers and the bars there’s too much opportunity to talk up a record rather than actually knuckle down and make it.
And, while I’m not suggesting that the council ever comes within a whiff of sensimilla (God forbid), you have to admit that their most recent proposals have a certain stoner’s logic. Sensiblehouse prices and better schools? Nah, sorry mate. They’re too busy building wobbly towers over the King Alfred’s Leisure Centre and wondering if they can get a Krispy Kreme franchise sorted while they’re at it.
Still, it would be a shame if Brighton was ever to lose its comforting hippy-dippy haze. Without perma-stoned students and bong-buying foreign exchange types The Lanes’ thriving tie-dye stores would close, immediately wiping out half of the city’s economy. And, to be honest, maybe it would be better for the general ambience if someone could finally get to build an Amsterdam-style coffee shop rather than just another boring Costa’s clone.
