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Got a light, officer?

The Guardian

Tuesday 03 Jul 2001

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For the next six months, anyone caught with cannabis in Lambeth will be
given no more than a stiff telling off. Armed with two joints, Merope
Mills headed down to south London yesterday to put this lenient new
policy to the test

There is no room for smack and crack in Brixton. It says so on a banner
hung loosely above the entrance to Lambeth Town Hall. But on this
particular posting, that is as far as the specifics go. Which is one of
the reasons I find myself sitting on the building's steps, smoking a
joint, to the apparent bother of nobody at all.
It is the first week of new police plans to issue no more than a warning
to those caught in possession of cannabis in the London borough of
Lambeth, and locals appear disarmingly unfazed by their unique new
regulation. When asked, visitors to the town hall proffer a light and
pass through the haze that surrounds me without a second glance. Only
when a good half an hour has gone by do I get some words of
encouragement from a passerby. "You're doing well," says a kindly, gold-
toothed man - though, nervously, he declines my offer for him to join
in.

Having selflessly put myself forward as a guinea pig in this David
Blunkett-approved "experiment", I can confirm there is little evidence
that these south Londoners see my blatancy as much of a departure from
the norm. It is business as usual down the market where, spliff in hand,
I buy a pound of cherries from a local fruit stall. At a nearby cafe, I
polish off a fruit juice and the rest of my reefer without incident
(though later, when I settle the bill, I ask the manager whether he is
happy to have dope-smokers on the premises and he gives me a decisive
"no"). I can also confirm that the Prince of Wales pub is less than
welcoming to the odd marijuana-fan, having asked a barman whether it's
OK for me to skin-up on site. "No way," he says, disgusted, before
walking away with a disapproving shake of the head.

Outside the pub, the driver of a police car stuck in traffic eyes me
suspiciously. When I look straight at her I'm sure she spies the
substance, but I take it from her bullet-proof vest that she has more
pressing things to attend to.

As the day wears on I join other dope-smokers on the grass outside the
Ritzy cinema. A 61-year-old pensioner, who'd like to be known as Mr
Blair, explains that he smokes marijuana because he doesn't drink
alcohol - bypassing an explanation for the near-empty bottle of Heineken
in his left hand. "I'm a tax-payer, so I'm allowed," he reasons. A woman
pushing a pram tells me: "Never mind about the weed - you need to be
doing something about Lambeth housing instead."

Then suddenly, a man in a stripy shirt and bandanna is making an
unsteady bee line for me from across the park. "Is that ganga?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, "do you want some?" "I do," he beams, "and do you know
why? It's because I believe it is not a crime." This is the first of
many explanations that Principal, a song-writer and poet ("although I
don't show it"), gives for why it's OK for me and him to be sharing this
weed on Brixton high road. "Did you know you can eat too much, and you
can drink too much but you can't smoke too much," he drools, before
quickly disproving his own point with an impressive level of
incoherence. "I'm glad I've met you because now I know at least somebody
understands me. What's wrong with having a spliff?" When I get up to
leave he asks where I'm going. "To the police station with the gear," I
say. "Heavy," he replies, "good luck."

As of this week, though, luck is not essential if you want to smoke
cannabis outside Brixton police station. I know because I've done it.
There were twitching blinds as a number of the inhabitants clocked me
from the inside - but none of them rose to the bait. Instead I had to
hunt down a pedestrian police officer to practise my flagrancy on. And
for the record I can confirm that the Brixton bobbies - though
consistently courteous when asked - are not at all forthcoming with a
light.


 

 

 

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