Bombs. Terrorism. Bio-chemical warfare. The threat of nuclear conflagration. Not since the rise of prog-rock has the world been in such a parlous state but just when we thought that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the Feds in Britain go ahead and decide that Jimmy Cliff ought to be available on the National Health. Just as night follows day, our own Feds are bound to follow suit, some time in the next 30 years or so, and then, mark my words, we’ll all be rightly fucked.

Has David Blunkett any idea at all of the nature of the genie that he is intent on letting out of the bottle? Making the weed compulsory for everyone over 15 is like inviting Osama Bin Laden to be your houseguest, and then leaving a loaded Kalashnikov and a defiled copy of the Koran in every room.

Okay, okay, I know the Feds say that they haven’t decriminalised dope, much less legalised it in such a way as to make my old buddy Peter Tosh skank blissfully in his grave – but do you think, for one moment, that such legal niceties will make a whit of difference to the new generation of consumers?

Whether the wacky baccy is deemed to fall under Class A, B, C or Z is neither here nor there; it’s what the class of 2001 will make of the new dispensation that worries Sam. Frankly, I can see the whole business of getting out of your head being brought into total disrepute.

Burning Chalice

Like all the important things in life, dope is best left in the hands of the professionals – musicians, writers, roadies, groupies and men who fly small planes 500 feet above the waters of the Gulf Of Mexico on moonless nights. Everybody else should stick to Bacardi Breezers.

This is the world as the good Jah designed it and you fuck with the main man at your peril. Now, with a simple stroke of the pen, the Feds have upended the natural order by deciding that every Tom, Dick and Harriet can burn a chalice without running the risk of having their front door kicked in and being beaten soundly about the kidneys by large country men with rubber batons.

The end of civilisation as we know it is inevitable. We all knew where we stood when we had zero tolerance; now we’re going to have to learn how to tolerate the zeroes.

A pleasant summer’s day in the city will become a nightmare. At every turn, your passage will be blocked by groups of spotty gits choking on badly rolled joints. In Stephen’s Green, big-eyed youth will spend hours staring at the “psychedelic” ducks. (“I never realised there were so many colours in their feathers, dude”). Bongo playing and mime will reach epidemic proportions. Pubs will turn off the football and start playing Tubular Bells. And, after that, it’s only a matter of time before you switch on Open House some afternoon and Mary Kennedy is saying, “…and now we’re joined by Quentin, a second year communications student at DCU, who is going to show us how easy it is to roll a Mallow Marrow”. (Pasty-faced nerd with terrible dreadlocks): “Thanks, Mary. Yes, first you need 13 papers, or ‘skins’, as we call them…”

Ah jaysus, this shit doesn’t bear thinking about. And I haven’t even begun to address the long-term nightmare implications, nor do I want to. But let me just lay this one terrifying concept on you - the “chill-out room” at the Fianna Fail Ard Fheis.

Concerned Dopers

See where all this is going? Someone has to shout stop. Which is why I, Samuel J. Snort Esq, am pleased to announce today the launch of a new pressure group – Concerned Dopers Against Dope. We intend to march on every home, school or business where we think that people may be smoking dope who have no right to so do. And how would you know if you qualify or not? Simple, if you haven’t toured the midwest of the United States with a southern fried boogie band called Foghat, you will be deemed unworthy of communion with the sacred herb. And we are quite prepared to take the law into our own in order to enforce this edict. It may be a bit of a turn-up for the books to have the Feds protecting a fume-filled student bedsit in Rathmines from the massed ranks of Sam and his people chanting “Give us back our dope” but such is the kind of topsy-turvy world that will inevitably follow on from this latest half-arsed attempt by politicians to win the war on drugs.

Hang on a second… forget everything you’ve just read. I’ve changed my mind completely about this issue. It has suddenly dawned on me that there is one shining, transcendent advantage to the softening up of the law on the availability of jazz woodbines.

And it is this: Howard Marks may finally be forced to shut the fuck up.

So that’s alright then.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq