On the 2nd of May, 2002, Emmett and Erwan were distracted from their world-changing programme by a certain combination of objects. The first was their stomachs. The second was tetrahydrocannibinol (THC).
About two months before this, the infamous Willy Stroker had perpetrated his despicable book scam. This is pertinent to what follows on the 2nd of May, 2002. The book scam was organised as follows. Levin and Hamish had been reading a Monday edition of The Guardian newspaper and come across the following advertisement:
ANY FIVE BOOKS FOR FIVE POUNDS! JOIN OUR BOOK CLUB TODAY. SIMPLY FILL IN THE FOLLOWING FORM WITH FIVE BOOKS OF YOUR CHOICE FROM THE LIST PROVIDED. JOIN TODAY! GREAT BOOKS FOR GREAT VALUE.
Apart from excruciating déjà-vu, both Levin and Hamish hatched the same extraordinary idea simultaneously.
‘Why don’t we fill in the form and post it?’
‘Aye.’
They did. The craftiest part of their idea was to avoid using either of their real names. They took inspiration from a classic episode of Rodge and Podge and named their avatar: “Willy Stroker.”
Willy Stroker asked for several books, including a copy of the Oxford edition of the complete works of William Shakespeare. The form was filled in in pencil, with ‘4 Eglantine Avenue’ clearly printed upon it. Then they forgot about it. Two weeks later Hamish found the scrap of paper again, lying on the floor of the livingroom. He kept it in his pocket until, the next day, he and Levin were passing a letter box.
‘D’you think they’ll get it if I just chuck it in the letter box like this?’
‘What, no envelope, no stamp?’
‘Aye.’
‘Why not.’
The scrap of paper was duly dispatched. Miraculously, three weeks later, the books arrived.
‘I can’t believe this worked!’ said Levin as he and the other denizens of the Livingroom appraised their new-gotten riches.
‘Fantastic,’ all agreed.
A year later the same scam was perpetrated, this time by Robin Books, who successfully obtained copies of ‘The Salmon of Doubt’ by the late Douglas Adams, as well as volumes 1 and 3 of ‘A History of Britain’ by a famous TV historian.
A year after that Wilhelm von Stroikenov repeated the attempt with equal return; and a year after that Ludwig van Beethoven applied for a free hearing aid and was asked to attend a test. But that lies outside the remit of our present work. Suffice to say that the only unsuccessful scam was that of Nick Diamonds, who applied by mail for the purchase of certain high-quality gems. They never arrived.
Now the scam paid for itself – and beyond – by providing a moment of the highest culture of all.
As mentioned it was the 2nd May, 2002. Not only were Emmett and Erwan getting stoned, but so too Neil, James, Levin, and Levin MacHill. It was a rather large brew of which they shared. They became totally bogsnorkelled, in other words. Not only could they each not understand what the other was saying, but they couldn’t even understand the content of their own thoughts. It was as if the active agent (THC) had scattered their thoughts like confetti to the highest-level winds.
Since these highest-level winds are circular and regular, on a global scale, the thoughts of the young men were circular and global also. They always returned to the same point they began. But they did not as the same people. They had seen things along the way that made their point of origin appear different.
And yet: was the point of origin really where they’d been before? Or was that a false memory?
Before these blitzed citizens could decipher the mysteries, they were heralded by a long-dead voice, whose voice, though dead, was yet living and vibrant. What mystery of mysteries is that!
‘What handkerchief?’
‘What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona, that which so often you did bid me steal.’
‘Hast stol’n it from her?’
‘No, faith. She let it drop by negligence. And, to the advantage, I being here took’t up. Look, here it is.’
‘Ah good wench, give it me!’
Oh mystery of mysteries! That voice down the ages, alive, yet dead, yet speaking in his rich voice resounding.
No-one knew about the handkerchief. But they did know about the good wench. Ah, good wench, give it me. This phrase became the alpha romero and the octopus of their generation. Ah, good wench; give it me.
Ah good wench! The greed in Iago’s voice was as palpable as a tonguing from a thirsty dog. Good wench indeed! Give me that handkerchief. No, Iago. I will not. Ah, But you will. Yes. Give it me! Nay, Iago, nay; I found it, and ‘tis not yours to return it to.
Good – but what is the good? What is right and wrong? These kinds of abstract question always send a dope fiend into frenzy of inner debate. Inside some of their minds, but not all, the word ‘good’ formed a tree-like structure, with each connotation branching off and forming its own branching structure of connotations, in a dizzying bush of invisible extent. Inside other minds a gloomy swamp of sinister aspect smothered the least distinction between one object and another.
Later on Hamish, Levin and Neil posed for a photo by the kitchen window. Hamish and Neil looked at the camera with some sort of dumbfounded happiness. Levin looked smilingly violent, like he was enjoying himself. Ol’ Stankey had become Nice rather than Nasty. ‘IRA’ was written in backwards letters on the window so that it would cast a shadow on the outside wall.
On the 3rd of May 2002 the police came to the Big Pink house.
Emmett, Barry, Hamish, Levin and Neil were in the Livingroom – Levin, Emmett and Neil certainly a little the worse for wear. Or the worse for having eaten a big chunk of cannabis and motor oil mix. Or the better for it. In any case they were stricken with fear by the arrival of the peelers during their private sobriquet to the gods of the mind. It all happened so quickly: a knock at the door. Followed by Emmett foolishly rising (after a minute or two) and opening the door, without checking who was there. Imagine his surprise, and shock and fear, when two heavily suited peelers with tazer guns were standing, broody and mean, on the other side. Emmett tried not to glance at the cannabis plants sprouting happily from the pot plant at the door and smiled with terror.
‘Hello …’ said Emmett.
‘Hello. We would like to ask you a few questions. Are there others here in the house? Can we come in?’
Emmett nodded and led them in, resigned to his awful fate.
On the floor of the Livingroom, Emmett knew, was a large bong, in prominent display, and on every available surface were the instruments of drug overuse. It would be a blind peeler indeed who failed to make the connection between the inebriated state of the inhabitants and the ubiquitous machinery of intoxication. He smiled uncertainly as he introduced the peelers to the Livingroom.
‘Well, chaps, these police have come round just to ask us a few questions.’
Levin slouched into his seat and gave the police a malevolent stare. Neil and Barry sat up and attempted to look like forthright citizens, with great success. Hamish looked nonplussed. Emmett shuffled over to the bong and stood in front of it, blocking it from view.
The aura of fear must have been evident, for the police hastened to reassure them.
‘We’re just here to ask a few questions about an incident some nights ago. Did any of you observe anything strange on Tuesday last?’
That was such an indecorous question that nobody answered.
‘There was a reported break-in some doors down this street. Did any of you notice anything or hear anything that might now seem worth mentioning to us, to aid our investigation?’
There was an audible sigh of relief from several quarters. They now hurried to assist the peelers in their inquiries.
‘No, didn’t hear anything.’
‘Can’t think of anything strange.’
‘Heard a barking dog.’
‘Last Tuesday? No. Nothing.’
The peelers nodded and thanked them for their help anyway. They allowed Emmett to show them the door and thanked him
. They were fairly gracious about it. Emmett gave them an endearing smile, waved them goodbye, and gently shut the door. Then he scurried back into the Livingroom, his eyes to windward, and his hands over his face in a gesture of relinquished relief.
‘Holeee shit,’ he said; and the others agreed.
‘Those peelers. Think they can walk into anyone’s house and ask them questions.’
‘At least they didn’t see the bong.’
‘I was standing in front of it and I thought they were going to see it. Motherfucker.’
‘We’ve got to check before we answer the door from now on.’
‘Illegally obtained books on the mantelpiece too.’ (This referred to the Oxford Complete Works of Shakespeare, amongst others.)
‘Man, there’s nothing in this room that isn’t illegal. Maybe the orange juice and the sofa, that’s it. Thank fuck they weren’t looking to bust us.’
‘Ah, we’d have bust them first. I could take ‘em on.’
‘That’s right.’
‘No it isn’t. If those peelers had wanted to bust us, they could have.’
‘Well thank fuck they didn’t.’
‘Thank fuck indeed. Good thing they didn’t go into the kitchen either. We’ve still got IRA written on the window.’
‘Yeah. Somebody should clean that off.’
Nobody cleaned it off until two months later when the landlady came to look at the house at the end of the year’s lease. And then only with great apathy.
On Saturday 4th May, 2002, Chris separated his male plants from the female ones, based on flower type. He had a good hydroponics system set up in his room, with a powerful lamp, circulating water, and an enclosed tin-foil lined cardboard surround. The female plants are the only ones worth cultivating for resin, which is mostly concentrated in beads around and just beneath the female flower. The males you just chuck, to stop them seeding the female flowers prematurely. And to make a bit of space for the real goods.
He gave them to Levin, at Levin’s request. Levin stuck two of them in a plant pot, gave a third to Neil, and with some thought decided to dismember the forth and dry it. Neil grew his for a while before pressing it into a large Times atlas of the world; in the Mediterranean basin, to be precise.
Chris’ interest in growing his own wasn’t motivated by saving money. Unless grown on a large scale growing your own isn’t really any cheaper; in fact it can be a great deal more expensive. Rather, the joy came from having a large and plentiful five-leaved wonder literally dripping clear white globules of THC from its greenish-white flowers. The smell alone was enough to explode your tits.
When Chris smoked his first joint of it, he thought he entered orbit around an alien universe.
Then he really did enter an alien universe.
There were trees growing out of alien minds. He could see a big albatross swooping out of the sunset to peck his eyes –
He made cabbage soup.
There were yellow chickens eating purple monkeynuts. Two fish swam in a goldfish bowl. He sighed, like a wonder of the world eating a pigeon. A silver rock took the shine from his shoe-shine boy. He knew he shouldn’t have cooked that rabbit. The drop of water from the sky was an empty cylinder. Softly two cuckoos purred in thought. Private reflections made rainbows of the ventral part of the cosmic body. Rotating airhorns blasted fields of noise into his digital encompass. Eight major types of satellite crashed into the present he was saving for his undead nephew.
Chris looked at the end of the joint that he seemed to be smoking. His face was like a sheet of aluminium. He hadn’t a clue what to do with it.
‘Somebody take this thing off me,’ he muttered.
Levin happily obliged. Within ninety seconds Levin could sense there was something odd –
Crrsshhh–
… some thing to check out – nematode …
-chssshhhshh-crk –
…calling Charlie, do you read … airplane reading fivehundredrpm … six minutes until take off. All clear. Charlie, your bird is covered in water. Repeat, do not take off the ground. Charlie?
Birdman ignored them. Didn’t they see he was smoking a spliff? Man, it was good.
…Charlie, you are enervating too many neurons … repeat, cancel outward journey and return home, birdman.
I’m getting it!
Getting what, Charlie? Chchchchchcsssss–
…Put something else on. Over.
Like what?
Like Sabbath.
We don’t like that song. Chsssschhhshh–
Do you want me to fly or not?
…Chhsssshh… Ok. You got it, pinko– Over –
Good.
Levin’s mind played Sabbath for him, and he was very happy. When he came to Earth some several hours later, he was still holding the joint and Chris was still of deathly pallor, staring at his own fingernails blankly.
***
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