Dronfield

Dronfield – or How not to maintain a buzz.

Dronfield Police Enquiry Desk.

Weed, Pot, Reefer, Grass, Dope, Ganja, Mary Jane, Hash, Herb, Aunt Mary, Skunk, Chronic, Cheeba, Danks and Vitamin THC. These are just a few of the street-names you, as parents, should watch out for.

Of course, ‘Weed’ is easily accessible, with most big name supermarkets now stocking it and storing it between the tinned fruit and numerous unnecessary condiments. This obviously, is not true, but it might as well be: all joking aside it will be a lot easier for underage, budding smokers to obtain cannabis than obtain a coveted pack of twenty Windsor Blues. Scoring ‘wacko-tobacco’ needs no ID.

Is your son/daughter high? look out for these signs:

  • Dry mouth.
  • Red eyes.
  • Intense desire to learn the sitar.
  • Complaining about ‘the man’.
  • Laughing a little too hard at Adam Sandler movies.
  • Talking about jazz.
  • Inability to start fights.

Being the old fashioned type of guy that I am, for many years I was firmly under the assumption that injecting marijuana would result in an instant death, therefore I shunned the dank dark areas of my town, such as ’round the corner’ and ‘next to the park’, in favour of one of Dronfield’s fine drinking establishments: where I am at complete peace with no shouting, no fights and certainly not any drugs.

Economically, I am overlooking the benefit ‘da chronic’ brings to the numerous take-aways within the S18 postal area. I’m sure Dronfield’s fine fast food proprietors must be delighted with the mass influx of glazed over, squinty, red-eyed teens who pile through their establishments in search of grease and stodge served with sides of heart disease and cholesterol.

As I walk to the pub in my glorious town, I stare around at the docile Reefers-heads stumbling past me. Reassuringly I think to myself, “Look at them: brainless, savage, oafish.” They look like an ensemble of primates on the hunt, and then my train of thought is lost upon my arrival to the pub. I have to dodge to avoid a large man swinging his fist in the direction of my head, jump over mounds of human sick and finally arrive inside to discuss football, fighting and women with my peers: True sophistication.

– Contributing Author, Byron Manson.

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