Frank, ya still talkin bout bears n forests ya twat?

Men Are Cretins, But Bears Are Worse

So, yer in a dark forest, yeah…

First, let’s discuss Ganja for a second.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m sitting in the courtyard enjoying the last of the seven grams of homegrown Indica donated by my mate Eddy with the big balls. These days, I treat weed like a holiday from the real world. Once a year, or twice at most, I feel my cannabinoids need topping up, and I cancel life for seven days and just get stoned every waking moment.

I lived that wake-and-bake lifestyle for many years in my twenties. I would become that again if I hadn’t regrettably created some societal life that would inevitably implode should I do so — so I don’t.

I’ve also tried to use weed as a tool for writing. And we all know that potheads regularly find a cure for cancer every Sunday night. It’s just they wake up the next day to find their medical paper is a quarry of unintelligible scrawl. Writing and weed, for me, don’t mix. Or, maybe they do for the first day or two, but three days into my weed holiday, I can hardly even think of what to say to the counter assistant at Baker’s Delight when I’m trying to buy my usual triple-seeded panther loaf with bacon bits. That’s why I cancel…