“Well,” he scoffed, as I rustled a crumpled Rizla with my thumbs, “I have mine hand rolled in Amsterdam. Father ships then over. Of course, it’s not strictly legitimate, but Father and his friends all smoked it way back when so they really are quite understanding. But then, you, err, roll your own?” I simply glanced up at him quizzically as I licked the corner of the Rizla. The strip of gum had folded itself over in the pack (which I had probably sat on at some point). I flipped it over and smoothed it down. The thin young man I had found myself sitting with looked on, half awestruck, half wildly amused. “You know, I’ve never met anyone who smokes imported, hand rolled joints,” I said as I tapped my spliff on the polished wooden surface of an expensive coffee table, “everyone I have ever smoked grass with has either made their own spliff or smoked a pipe or bong.”
“You must ride in some really high circles,” he said with pure sarcasm. He laughed and pulled a black cigarette case from his pocket; he lay it on the table in a slow and deliberate fashion, as if to emphasise his distain for my rolling. “See, I’ve never seen somebody make a joint themselves. Of course, I had heard of it. And my God, have you seen, some people even roll their own cigarettes? How bad do times have to be?” He laughed heartily, opening the case on the coffee table. Inside were sixteen perfectly coned joints; each paper was perfectly smooth, without a crease in sight. They were all a uniform sized, with large roaches made of white card. There was even two initials emblazoned on the paper, printed, not written. I wondered what kind of world this young man lived in. He pulled a joint from his box as I quickly torched the twisted tip of mine with a Zippo. I relaxed into my heavy leather armchair as he spread himself over a similar sofa opposite me. Reclining, his smoke poised between his thin lips, he seemed not to be at ease, but more that he was trying to project the image of a man at ease. “I grew up around people who smoked roll ups. A lot of those people put rolling tobacco in their joints,” I said slowly, sensing that this could be a very long and tense conversation.
“Really? They do that? People put tobacco with grass? That’s bloody priceless!”
“Why is it priceless?” I asked him, my tone becoming suddenly serious.
“What? Oh, well they must so poor. I know that it’s bad and everything, but their ways are just funny to me. Why bother unless it’s the best I say!” He reached into the pocket of his Brioni suit and produced a lighter. Black and silver, with the wheel on the side. It looked very expensive; a Dunhill maybe. He noticed me looking at it through as I puffed. “It’s nice isn’t it? St. Dupont, must have been a few grand I reckon.”
“Really? You reckon? As it happens it is a very elegant device, but damn, my lighter only cost thirteen odd pounds,” I retorted, shocked at his forced, blasé manner.
“Thirteen pounds? That scratched up thing. It’s a Zippo, isn’t it?” He picked it up and closely examined the numerous marks of the chrome casing.
“Yeah, it’s a Zippo,” I replied wearily, before adding, “A real design icon; they never give up on you.”
“Yes, yes… But it’s very American, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, aesthetically speaking it has all the hallmarks of Hollywood heavy handedness.” The upper class idiot tittered; he looked exactly what you would expect a half grown up public school boy to look like. He flicked my lighter open and used it to light his spliff. The damn thing looked clinical. The spliff, like its smoker, lacked even a fleeting hint of character. I was, of course, a novelty to see. But this man child was putting me on edge Since the ‘Act for the Tolerance of Cannabis Usage’ had been passed I had meet a lot of interesting types with slightly jaded views in the numerous upmarket Smoking Rooms that had opened. As the years had passed I had observed more and more of the younger, moneyed smokers started buying packs of processed pre-rolled joints. The young man in front of me now was from another world, I thought. I crushed my roach into the crystal ashtray between us.
“So, I’m guessing you roll your own because you’ve fallen on hard times. By the look of your overcoat I’d say it’s a good few years old. Much like your scarred lighter,” he scoffed again. I didn’t understand how it was only the English upper classes that could make that noise, but his penchant for it was really pissing me off. It was late, maybe two in the morning. I had come into The Kingston Club to have a smoke and a drink after what had proved a long and totally pointless day. This jumped up designer clothes pony’s summation of me should have been my cue to get rid of him. But as it had been such a bad day I decided to entertain his conversation for a little longer to see the look on his face. “You know, my coat is old. I brought it a long time ago, but it still does its job perfectly. I have no desire for a new one even though there is a small hole in the right pocket. You’re right about the lighter too, it’s much the same story. When I purchased those two items, you couldn’t smoke green in the street and these wonderful clubs didn’t exist. We used to buy weed from shady dealers in ridiculously conspicuous cars; we’d buy a pack of king skins and ten Marlboro Lights
and skin up in student flats. I doubt you could even imagine that.” I paused, seeing he was getting a little pissed himself. I let him speak.
“When my father used to smoke, he did the same thing. I’ve heard all the stories. I can imagine these things, but I’m just lucky we I’ve grown up in a time when the human race has realised how uncivilized it really has been,” he shot he a contemptuous glare and strange, crooked sort of smile.
“That wasn’t quite what happened; at least not like you think mate. When the Tolerance act was passed it was because most people were smoking, and it seemed pointless to try and deny it and prosecute. Initially it was wonderful, we paraded around the streets of Camden with massive spliffs in our mouths. A load of independent hash cafes popped up, you got the odd herbal emporium, but everything was still fairly hippie. I guess in retrospect they were the golden years really. But then I realised that you could turn weed into a luxury item in the same way you could with tobacco. I pursued the idea ruthlessly and tapped into a market of middle class smokers. I started opening places like this one, though The Kingston Club has outlasted any of my Smoking Rooms,” I stopped as he looked on disbelievingly.
“You were the one who started opening Gentleman’s Smoking Rooms? I think you’re talking utter bollocks. For a start you look so shabby and wrong in here. I mean you’re wearing jeans for God’s sakes!” I ignored his ignorant insult and laughed before carrying on my tale. I was enjoying drawing it out.
“Man, the Rooms open now are nothing like they used to be. See, we sold weed that was totally natural, the highest of high grade home grown basically. We sold it as part of the high life. The Smoking Rooms were where we based our operations; but we made millions selling in Harrods, Selfridges, and most of London’s five star hotels. We made our own papers, and sold premium rolling equipment. When we branched into packs of pre rolled it was a novelty item really. But sure enough that became our biggest seller. The cheapest item in our catalogue; a pack of ten machine made ‘Dutch Pride Mellow Blend’. To be honest, at first I was delighted. It never occurred to me that people would stop rolling. None of the cigarette companies had started selling pre-rolled when the laws changed. I though that a hand rolled joint was so much a part of the culture that you could never change it. So, when I began seeing empty packets of Dutch Pride on tables outside bars or on the pavement I just saw it as a very profitable joke that everyone seemed to enjoy. Which, of course, everyone did. Rolling went out of fashion as more and more people started buying our joints as a status symbol. I know that was the point of our brand, but in my eyes that product line had some nasty cultural implications as it blew up. Other companies realised and jumped on the band wagon, selling cheaper, dirtier weed in boxes of pre-rolled at about half the price we were. Well, the way marijuana was consumed changed dramatically at that point. With about ten other manufacturers putting out so much advertising, the norm became pre-rolled. But what got to me is that people weren’t smoking to get high, expand their mind and giggle their tits off. Nah, it seemed more as if the market was buying for the sake of that packet. I hated it, and a whole lot of people hated me, blamed me for putting a premium on nature. But hey, until Dutch Pride the premium was no worse than any dodgy bastard selling it on the street. But like I say, you’d know nothing of those days.” I sat back, lighting the joint my fingers had busied themselves rolling while I spoke. (The physical act of skinning up was never meant to enforce my tale, but in retrospect it probably did). The young man was at an apparent loss for words. He didn’t really understand why I had told him what I had. The way the art of rolling had disappeared so quickly meant that his generation would never really see what the big deal was.
As I wandered away from the Kingston Club in the early hours of the morning, long after the idiotic young snob had retired, a thought flashed through my cloudy mind. ‘Hmm… I wonder, is it time yet to introduce loose grass as a novelty, premium product?’ Judging by the conversation earlier, I figured the market was probably ready to shell out cash for another ‘trend’. Maybe, just maybe, it was time that ‘Erb ‘An Culture reopened for business.
