The Ethnology of British Weed
Rashid smokes bad weed. For 35 years he’s been on this earth and he still permits himself to smoke such rubbish. Ironically, he knows how to tell the difference better than anyone.
Rashid works two part-time jobs and studies part-time too and after all that work he rewards himself by smoking exceptionally terrible pot. I think it stems from laziness and poor planning. When Rashid gets home he asks everyone in the house if they want some.
“That depends” I say, “on who you’re getting it from.” Rashid says that today he will get it from the Chinese, so I immediately agree to buy a tenner.
Usually Rashid buys from what he calls the Black. Apparently Rashid likes to keep things very simple from an ethnographical viewpoint. Both the Black and the Chinese come to our house to deliver the goods. What an amazing city, we have home delivered narcotics!
Once I was bragging to Giovanni, my doctor about this fact and he claimed that he got his stuff delivered too. Then we began to compare suppliers to see who had the more impressive dealer. My doctor said that his dealer came from Pakistan and drove a BMW. Trying to disguise my admiration, I quickly fired back that my dealer comes from Malaysia and that he rides his bike to my house so as to be less conspicuous than Giovanni's bourgeois, nouveau riche, BMW driving Pakistani and, in addition, my dealer leaves a smaller carbon footprint. Giovanni was left speechless.
Rashid is usually too unorganised to call the Chinese, who is my dealer of choice. When Rashid calls the Chinese, he needs at least a day to prepare for the phone call and he also needs to know the quantities in advance. This is far too difficult a task for Rashid, who usually waits until the last minute and calls the Black at 2:00 AM. The Black consistently brings us the most terrible weed imaginable and, even though he arrives by bike, I won’t even let him in the house.
“Don’t let him in here with that shitty weed of his!” I mutter to Rashid as he goes outside to conclude the deal. When the Chinese comes I offer him drinks, give him biscuits and sometimes even smoke with him (this often proves difficult because although he speaks with a perfect English accent, he only knows ten words… in fact I thought he was British until I smoked with him and tried to embark on a conversation that quickly exhausted his meagre vocabulary).
Everyone else in the house laughs at Rashid. “I refuse to smoke with him because he gets such shitty weed.” says The Slovak. “I know, right? I mean the guy grew up in Bangladesh, he knew good weed from bad before he knew not to stick his fingers in the plug sockets!” I respond. Meanwhile Rashid sits in his room watching Simpsons re-runs and smoking the weed he got from the Black.
“When are you going to call the Chinese again?” I ask.
“I don’t know, one of these days I suppose. Why? Do you want something?”
“Only if you call the Chinese I do.” and I close the door on Rashid.