Dronfield

That awkward moment when you’re buying weed in Lowedges

Sheffield Versus Chesterfield

Transactionally speaking, buying weed should be quite a simple affair but it hardly ever is.

There’s just nuances and idiosyncrasies which are inescapable sometimes: dope dealers are notoriously unreliable people, probably because of all the free weed the occupation affords them.

We’ve all been there, probably. In 2010. It’s 11pm, you’re sat in a car in the shopping precinct in Lowedges because that’s where you’re meeting the guy. You think it’s funny at first because: Haha, Lowedges. You don’t know him but a mate of a mate gave you his number. You texted him and he said a time and place, your friend reluctantly comes with you. Nobody else can sort, so it’s your only option.

It’s a cold weeknight but there’s roughly 10 dangerous looking kids with a few ankle tags and vicious looking dogs between them about 20ft away stood out front of the shops.

You’re starting to regret pulling up with your windows wide open blaring out some Sheff grime like Remz and Coco, or Jamie Ferguson November 2007 mix because now you’re just getting sized up. You should probably stop staring over at them because one of them is going to ask for a fag and kick then shit out of you. But you can’t help it because you don’t know if one of them is the guy, so you keep idly glancing over until you catch eyes with someone and immediately stare away.

A provocatively dressed 15 year old girl with a bottle of Lambrini in her right hand and a Sterling cigarette in the other is enthusiastically kissing a scruffy looking lad with a shaven head a few years too old for her. It’s the awkward to watch type of kissing where they both move their heads too much from side to side.

She hits the half way point of her cigarette, passes it to her friend (I name her friend Gemma in my head to add to the story) and the unexpected happens: Yeah, someone is now getting fingered against a bin. The girl reciprocates by putting her hand in his grey nike jogging bottoms and begins to pump her puny arm vigorously. Her friend turns round and giggles when she notices as if it’s just one of those things. Just one of those things that hand job girl does. She just tugs people off in car parks. You’re that enthralled by the whole bizarre affair that you stare over in disbelief for a little too long. You turn to your friend and he’s just shaking his head and laughing, because he’s already tweeted a picture with the caption “Romance isn’t dead #lowedges” or something to that affect.

More of the local hoods emerge from behind the precinct, it’s a 20 strong crowd of sports clothing, authority issues and a single GCSE. Even more young girls rub themselves against older boys with bottles of larger in their hands, the small yellow individual price labels are still on the bottle necks. You sadly wonder just how many times these girls have been on the business end of a latex prophylactic this week. You cringe at the idea that they might be proud of it.

He sent you a text 35 minutes ago saying “20 mins pal.” You’re not sure whether to send him another text because you don’t want to piss him off, but you do anyway and he immediately sends back, “15 more mins pal.”

And at that point you think to yourself “I only wanted to buy a 10 bag, how the fuck did it come to this?” You could have gone to the pub to do a quiz but it’s too late now.

A car pulls up next to you. 4 lads are staring at you and one of them signals for you to lower your window. He asks you if you’re alright. You coyly explain that you are and hand him a crisp note. He passes you something, it’s not in baggy. It’s just in some plastic from a shopping bag thats been lighter melted. There’s no point in weighing it because you know it’s underweight, and what are you going to do, ask for your money back? Start quoting the Consumer Sales of Goods Act 1975? That’ll go down a treat.

You drive home, reflecting on your experience, firmly glad that you live in the comfort of boring suburbia. But it’s not over, inexplicably every Wednesday morning at 10AM he texts you. It only says “got bone dry pukz”. You never reply, but you keep receiving the same message at the same time for the next 6 months.

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