Legal Medicinal Cannabis In Britain
In The Pink
Last week Jim Starr flew into Bristol Airport from Amsterdam carrying 80 grammes of herbal cannabis as prescribed for him by a Dutch doctor. That’s just under three ounces of dried flower heads. He was carrying it in a parcel about the size of a telephone directory.
There was no one at customs, even though Jim went through the red channel and had telephoned ahead to advise the airport that he was bringing the cannabis in. He waited, even looked around for someone, anyone, but there was no one to be seen at all. He wanted to declare what he had with him. He’s never wanted to break the law. He knew that he was risking confiscation of the cannabis, possibly even arrest but the coast wasn’t just clear, it was deserted. The authorities had evidently decided that in their “war on drugs”, this time, discretion was definitely the better part of valour. They were in full scale retreat.
Jim had confirmed to the airport that he had the necessary paperwork to prove it was prescribed medicinal cannabis. His doctor had told him that he was protected under Article 75 of the Schengen Agreement which states “persons may carry the narcotic drugs and psychotropic substances that are necessary for their medical treatment provided that, at any check, they produce a certificate issued or authenticated by a competent authority”
Prescription
Of course, even then, it didn’t stop the journey being a nerve wracking and tense experience. Now, safely at home in Dorchester with his family, Jim understands from the Home Office that he is entitled to bring in the cannabis as prescribed for him by his Dutch doctor. He can bring in up to three month’s supply at a time if he carries it on his person. Otherwise he has to apply for an import licence and have it shipped to a UK pharmacist.
Jim is 36 and is married to Emma, with whom he has two children. Originally from Birmingham, he was a very active man in full time employment until in 1999 he was diagnosed with a degenerative disease of the spine. In 2003 he was involved in a road accident and suffered terrible spinal injuries. His life seemed hopeless. The cocktail of powerful drugs he was prescribed, including morphine, were debilitating in themselves. He couldn’t face a future in which he was turned into a zombie, unable to enjoy any sort of decent life with his wife and children. He admits frankly that he was suicidal.
One day in 2004, Jim was upstairs in bed in so much pain and despair that he could barely move. A friend called round to see him and offered him a joint. Half an hour later Jim made it downstairs for the first time in three weeks. Suddenly he had hope and the possibility of a future with his family.
Life since then has been a constant game of cat and mouse with the police and drug dealers. Apart from risking arrest and even prison, Jim has also been in danger of being robbed or ripped off by dealers. He’s never wanted to break the law. He told his doctor the relief that cannabis provided and as soon as Sativex became available, even before it was officially licensed, his doctor prescribed it for him. Unfortunately, the very next day she rang to say that because of licensing and regulation problems she wouldn’t be able to prescribe it again. In fact, Jim did manage to get another prescription for Sativex but again it was withdrawn, this time because his health authority refused to fund it.
Jim has been an active campaigner for the legalisation of cannabis ever since. He has organised a series of marches, protests and petitions in Dorchester, Weymouth and even Downing Street. Over the last seven years, three MPs, Oliver Letwin, Jim Knight and Richard Drax, have written various letters in support of him. He is a distinctive figure in his wheelchair with his dyed beard which has earned him the nickname “Pinky”. Perhaps he has been a little too high profile for the Dorset police who he accuses of persecuting him. Unable to obtain Sativex or afford the prices and risks of dealers, Jim enlisted the help of a friend to grow his own medicine. Inevitably, in May 2009 the police arrived and Jim was arrested.
Campaigning
In August this year at Dorchester Crown Court Jim was given a two year conditional discharge for growing cannabis. He is now pursuing a complaint against the police alleging brutal treatment during his arrest. Other complications, allegedly at the police’s behest, have led to the DVLA revoking his driving licence although he has never been arrested, charged, convicted or even stopped on suspicion of driving under the influence.
Jim has become an avid recorder of everything. He uses mobile phones, video cameras and audio recorders to retain evidence of every contact with the authorities. He has a video recording of an officer saying to his wife “Look luvvy, whatever he grows up there from now on is up to him. We promise it don’t bother us”. Foolishly, he took the officer at his word. Three weeks after receiving his conditional discharge the police arrived again.
There was no provision for transporting him to the police station in his wheelchair. The officers were warned not to lift him by his arms because of his spinal condition. They wrenched him out of his chair by gripping his shoulders and underpants causing anal bleeding due to an existing condition. He was refused a doctor at the station. There was no provision for disabled people, even for his special toilet needs. He was refused access to any of his prescribed medication or even his specialist anti pressure sore mattresses.
The following day he attended hospital and was diagnosed with torn shoulder muscles. In fact, his spinal column is so delicate that any movement could potentially paralyse him. This is the basis of all his high profile campaigning and must be well known to the police. Jim now faces another charge of cultivating cannabis and a possible prison sentence.
With Mr Nice
The trip to Holland was a last resort, only made possible by the generosity of a friend. The Dutch doctor was horrified at the range of highly toxic prescription medicines given to Jim and prescribed two grammes per day of medicinal herbal cannabis. He told Jim that he shouldn’t be using Sativex as the alcohol in its solution was like pouring petrol on a fire, given his medical conditions.
So at last, Jim seems to have the medicine he needs. He will have to continue to rely on the generosity of friends to pay for it. He is applying for a Home Office licence for the cannabis to be imported to a local pharmacist who can then dispense it to him. He will continue to campaign for the right to grow his own for free. The costs of cultivation at home are minimal compared to the rigmarole of importing from Holland or the massive “Big Pharma” cost of Sativex.
Jim is not the first person to get the medicine they need in this way but he is the first to go public about it. Many tens of thousands may now wish to follow his example. Most European countries and 15 US states already regulate the provision of medicinal cannabis. Surely it is time for the government to consider reform of what looks increasingly like an absurd and cruel law.
Young Jimmy’s Jolly In Peru
There’s all sorts of perks to being a government minister you know. If you’re young Jimmy Brokenshire then as part of your courageous “war on drugs” you get an all-expenses paid trip to Peru to have a good laff at the poor sods who’ve got themselves jailed chasing the white lady.
Jimmy's Holiday Snaps
Apparently, most cocaine in Britain now comes from Peru rather than Columbia so, of course, it was vital for young Jimmy to get on a plane and do some fact finding. What I’d like to know is did he find anything of decent quality or is it all crap like it is on the mean streets of Britain? Did he rub it on his gums, sniff a few lines and get partying or was it bubbling in a spoon and blazed on a big glass pipe to get him rampant and raving and even more dangerous than he is at home?
The terrible story of Nick Jones from West London can be seen here. He was caught trying to bring back two kilos of Peruvian Flake. Sure, I feel sorry for him but it’s an extremely high stakes game. He knew full well what he was doing and chose to take the risk. Jimmy went along to gloat and use the opportunity for some easy propaganda. I think he must have still been cracked out though because he told the BBC, “The liability that you will be caught is very, very high”. Now that’s some malapropism. Maybe he’s got some other “liability” or likelihood on his mind or maybe he really was “very, very high”.
It makes me sick that this vile, baby faced punk is frittering our money away on his unjustified jollies. The Minister for Crime Prevention is a disgrace, a prohibitionist, a propagandist and a dissembler. Probably the most dangerous man in British politics, I’d rather see Nick Griffin at the Home Office than young Jimmy. He couldn’t be worse. He couldn’t be more poorly informed. He couldn’t be more regressive or oppressive or smug and self-satisfied.
Jimmy Visits A Peruvian Prison
In my wildest fantasies, maybe someone will slip a couple of wraps in Jimmy’s pocket and he’ll get busted at Heathrow. A few weeks in Brixton would do him the world of good before his chums pull strings to get him off. He’d be a better person for it. He might have to face up to some realities rather than the deluded, fantasy world in which he lives.
Alternatively, maybe he could do the decent thing and swop places with Nick Jones? Now that would be truly useful. I’d be the first to recommend him for a medal. Then, in a few years time we could send someone out to gloat over him!
Well I can dream!
Extreme Dog Walking
This is the new, ultra hip, super cool sport for happenin’ dudes, dudesses and their doggies.
Started on the Dorset coast in the autumn of 2010, it has finally brought together the noble traditions of dog walking, singing in the rain and mad, British malarkey. Contrasted with the idea that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, this is the sport where only bonkers Brits and adventurous dogs go out in a torrential storm.
You’ve never been really wet until you’ve been Extreme Dog Walking. When the rain has been blown past horizontal, round to vertical but going upwards, then you begin to get a flavour of this exciting and challenging sport. When you have to walk with your face turned away from the stinging shotgun pellets that are rain drops while the dogs whimper and scuttle about your feet, only then will you begin to understand the determination, courage and true grit necessary to survive and succeed in this competition to end all competitions. Far below the sea can just be seen as a seething mass of whitewater. As the squalls come in the whole environment darkens and the gale force winds thrash and tangle at hat and clothing. Even with the air temperature at 17 C, the rain makes your hands freeze and your face smart. All you can do is call the dogs on, put your head down, gird your loins, steel your determination and go forth into the turbulence. There is no option to stop. It is as far to go on as it is to retreat. Forwards is the only option. Onwards to the end, to glory and glorious triumph!
As in all such endurance events the best bit is when it stops. A first layer of saturated “waterproofs” is peeled off and then the dogs are towelled down. Then off come the boots, often with gushes of water as each one is removed. Finally, right down to the underwear, each soaking layer is removed and the steam begins to rise. Then we begin to yarn, to talk of how every gust seemed bigger than the last. To boast of how we just made it through when all seemed lost, how we nearly got caught by that “gnarly” one, how we feel so “stoked” and “trashed” by our experience. Then we sit around in our “baggies”, drinking beer and smokin’ weed, knowing that we know what others never can, knowing that up there in them thar hills is where we feel really alive, where our sport of Extreme Dog Walking makes life worthwhile!
Banker Robbers Still On The Loose
If I considered it as the plot for my next novel, I would discard it immediately as being completely unbelieveable. It is outrageous. The story of the way the banks have wriggled and wormed away from their responsibilities is the biggest scandal the world has ever seen.
The Very Worst
Today the shameful figures are revealed of the number of complaints that our high street banks receive. See here. It is an appalling litany of failure and disrespect of customers. Complaints are at the very bottom of their priorities. They are inefficent. They have bonus systems that discourage staff from accepting complaints. Santander, which so many used to know as the Abbey or Alliance & Leicester, cannot manage to answer even half of its complaints within two months! It is shocking. It hasn’t got better since we all bailed them out. It’s got worse. Oh, except for the bonuses. They just get bigger and bigger all the time.
These problems, affecting the modest balances of ordinary people, may seem trivial in the context of the billions that the banks have already cost us but they are not. They are crucial. This is real money belonging to real people and needed to pay real bills. It’s not the cocaine, champagne, Ferrari fantasy of some City boy ponce. These figures indicate precisely the contempt, the utter disregard which bankers have for us even though it is we, ordinary people, who have been called on to rescue them from their catastrophic mistakes.
Actions Not Words!
Where is Vince Cable now? He is the biggest disappointment of the coalition government. His brave words as recently as the LibDem conference are all hot air. He has let us all down. His promises were empty.
We want the banks split up so that they are no longer too big to fail. Only today, in Ireland they are realising that their nation is still held to ransom by its bankers. So is ours.
We want retail and transaction banking separated entirely from casino investment banking so that there can be no more threat to our economy from the spivs and gamblers. We don’t want any of these sharks anywhere near our money. John Diamond, the putative new head of Barclays has made a £100 milion fortune on the back of the taxpayer and the banking crisis. He is not a fit and proper person to be in charge of a British bank. The government should ban him immediately.
Wide Boy Spiv
Late last year the Office of Fair Trading let the banks off a £40 billion hook. These were the extortionate charges illegally debited from customers’ accounts over the previous six years. See here. This was in addition to the £850 billion cost of the original bailout. See here.
How much more are they going to get away with?
When will David Cameron, Nick Clegg, George Osborne and Vince Cable stop dithering?
Stop the banker robbers now!
Ed Miliband
Family Trauma
I’m rather proud of the two brothers. Be as cynical as you like, it must have been a dreadful time for both of them. They have behaved as gentlemen, with great honour and dignity. They have risen above the snide provocations of the press. I thought David’s determination to stand well clear to give Ed a clear run was a noble and sincere act. He will return as an elder statesman. He will become an ever more important figure in British politics.
I’m more than happy to see a new broom in Ed. The Labour Party needs a fresh start. I think he’ll try to be his own man. He’ll try to shed all the baggage and forge his own path. It’ll be interesting to see what happens. I wish him well because I do believe that a strong opposition is a good thing. The inside information I have, from the heart of Ed’s campaign team, is that in reality he’s way to the right of David. We’ll see!
The Labour Leadership
Four Men And One Woman In A Sinking Boat
I suppose I should get my six ha’porth in, if that’s the correct expression, before the result is announced.
The very entertaining More 4 programme, Miliband Of Brothers, finally corrected my spelling last night. There may be two brothers but there’s only one “l”. I’ve been getting it wrong all the way through this thoroughly underwhelming campaign. At least it will be all over this afternoon. Then we’ll be treated to the appalling spectre of Gordon Brown making a farewell speech. Farewell and good riddance I say. The worst British prime minister in my lifetime. No doubt about that.
David Miliband is the obvious choice. He has the gravitas that you would expect from an ex-foreign secretary but I fear that he will be yesterday’s man by the time of the next election.
Ed Miliband has most of the qualities that his brother offers but with a spark of individuality that I think would serve his party well. If I was a a Labour supporter, wanting to see the party succeed, Ed would be my choice.
Andy Burnham can be very proud of the campaign he has run. He is coherent, honourable, very telegenic and, I should think, every Labour mum’s toyboy fantasy. He hasn’t got a hope in hell.
Ed Balls? Now as a Tory he gets my vote. What a total plonker! He would be disastrous for the Labour Party but it would make wonderful entertainment for the rest of us. I can dream!
I’m very fond of Diane Abbott. Along with all my fellow political junkies I love the Michael & Diane sofa partnership on “This Week”. They’re the real stars of the show, forget the leering old lothario in the corner. Trouble is, Diane isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact she’s probably the bluntest in the entire kitchen so I’ll be looking forward to seeing her back on the sofa with Michael next Thursday.
The Pope’s £838,000 Spin Doctor
Monsignor Media
It isn’t even the Pope paying his salary. It’s the British public. It isn’t even his air time he’s giving away. It’s the British public’s.
The Public Sector Pay Scandal
There are very few things in politics that are simple. This is an exception. The principle, implied by Panorama, that no one in the public sector should be paid more than the prime minister seems very sensible to me.
I already knew that BBC senior executives enjoy vastly overinflated pay but the fact that Mark Thompson, director-general of the BBC, gets £838,000 per annum is shocking. It is particularly hard to take after the absurd spectacle of the Pope’s visit. The leader of a very minor church, presently mired in appalling scandal, has enjoyed a bonanza of free, round the clock, TV, radio and internet promotion. I didn’t know but it turns out that Mark Thompson is a rabid Catholic. He has a nerve to run his own private campaigns at our expense! This is too much!
He is at the top and is the very worst of a deeply depressing list of excess and vanity. I am sure that many of these people are very able and skilled in their profession. If and when they choose to go into the private sector they may well make millions. While in the public sector, every single one of them should be very grateful for the privilege to serve.
The argument about market forces, put forward by the leader of Liverpool City Council, is just a weak excuse. If he really believes it then he needs to think again. Believe me, real market forces will sort this out, no problem. We will still get the very best in senior positions if we recruit properly. Successful people will seek to make their name in the public sector first, in prestige positions, then move on to make their fortune.
I say increase the prime minister’s salary to £250,000. These gestures of senior politicians cutting their own pay are meaningless and impress no one. Make that the maximum that anyone in the public sector can earn. Enforce it immediately. All salaries to be trimmed to that level from 1st October. I see everything in favour of this and nothing against.
The BBC’s Absurd Level Of Coverage Of The Pope
This has been another grave error of judgment by the BBC.
According to the 2001 census there are 4.2 million Catholics in the UK. According to the 2005 Church census, just 887,000 are regular worshippers. Does this justify the absurd level of wall to wall coverage we have had to endure over the last four days?
It looks totally disproportionate to me. More like some sort of subversive attempt by religious zealots to impose their superstitious beliefs on the rest of us.
If any other group can prove nearly a million regular supporters in the UK will the BBC guarantee equivalent coverage?
With 96 straight hours of guaranteed airtime, whoever you are, whatever your “act”, you’ll easily be able to fill Hyde Park and venues all over the country. You’ll make a fortune!
My Tribute To The Pope
Without kind permission of Crosby Stills & Nash but with enormous gratitude.
CATHEDRAL
Six o’ clock
In the morning I feel pretty good
So I dropped into the luxury of the Lords
Fighting dragons and crossing swords
With the people against the hordes who came to conquer
Seven o’clock
In the morning here it comes I taste the warning
And I’m so amazed I’m here today
Seeing things so clear this way
In the car and on my way to Stonehenge
I’m flying in Winchester cathedral
Sunlight pouring through the break of day
Stumbled through the door and into the chamber
There’s a lady setting flowers on a table covered lace
And a cleaner in the distance finds a cobweb on a face
And a feeling deep inside of me
Tells me this can’t be the place
I’m flying in Winchester cathedral
All religion has to have its day
Expressions on the face of the Savior
Made me say
I can’t stay
Open up the gates of the church and let me out of here
Too many people have lied in the name of Christ
For anyone to heed the call
So many people have died in the name of Christ
That I can’t believe it all
Now I’m standing on the grave of a soldier that died in 1799
And the day he died it was a birthday
And I noticed it was mine
And my head didn’t know just who I was
And I went spinning back in time
And I am high upon the altar
High upon the altar, high
I’m flying in Winchester cathedral
It’s hard enough to drink the wine
The air inside just hangs in delusion
But given time
I’ll be fine
Open up the gates of the church and let me out of here
Too many people have lied in the name of Christ
For anyone to heed the call
Too many people have died in the name of Christ
That I can’t believe it all
And now I’m standing on the grave of a soldier that died in 1799
And the day he died it was a birthday
And I noticed it was mine
And my head didn’t know just who I was
And I went spinning back in time
And I am high upon the altar
High upon the altar, high
Peter Reynolds 