In 1997 some stalwart from the Norwich-based Legalise Cannabis Alliance asked if I would stand for Parliament in their constituency. After determining that ex-convicts were allowed to stand and that the only requirements were to be alive and to have £500, I agreed. It was thought at first that I should stand as an independent, but as this would oblige me to be familiar with things like education and hospital services, about which I knew nothing, we formed the single-issue Legalise Cannabis Party. I could therefore only be expected to know questions about cannabis, and the local knowledge I would require would be confined to that concerning the dope-smoking community. I went through all the procedures, paid up, and was accepted as a bona fide Parliamentary candidate for Norwich South. Charles Clarke (Lab.), who went on to become, briefly, home secretary, was standing against me.
‘Howard Marks of the Legalise Cannabis Party. Mr Marks, have you ever actually smoked cannabis?’
‘Yes. I have smoked cannabis every day for—’
‘Thank you, Mr Marks. Moving on to Charles Clarke of the Labour party. Mr Clarke, have you ever smoked cannabis?’
‘Yes, I have, but it was many years ago,’ answered Charles Clarke.
The audience murmured in disbelief. This was the first time an MP had publicly admitted smoking cannabis. I saw my chance and to loud protests shouted, ‘Mr Clarke, as there are no statutes of limitation in this country, would you report your crime to the police and be prepared to face the same punishment as has been handed out to several of our party members for similar conduct?’
‘I only smoked it once and didn’t like it. It’s a very bad drug,’ said Charles Clarke, squirming slightly.
The hustings chairman changed the subject.
Next to Norwich South lies Norwich North. I’ve never been keen on borders so decided to stand for Parliament there as well – you can stand in two or more constituencies but sit for only one. Campaigning in two constituencies was excellent fun. Cameramen and journalists followed me all day. Instead of standing on a soapbox announcing boring policy objectives and imploring people to vote for me, we bought a battered van, decorated it with fairy lights and giant marijuana leaves, and banged out non-stop techno from speakers on the roof. We drove through every street in Norwich delivering the following through letterboxes and distributing it on flyers to restaurants, pubs, and clubs:
Dear Voter
I am standing in your constituency as Parliamentary candidate for the single-issue policy of the full legalisation of cannabis. I am doing so because:
• I, as an independent, am able to say things which party politicians cannot.
• I regard the laws banning cannabis use and cultivation to be unsound, unjust and unrealistic.
The effects of this prohibition are to:
• Turn community members into criminals, despite the absence of victims.
• Leave supply in the hands of profiteers who might also sell harmful drugs or accept stolen property as payment.
• Burden police, courts and prisons at excessive cost to the taxpayer.
• Stop the sick and infirm from using a natural medicine.
• Render impossible the quality control of the available cannabis.
• Stop research into the uses of the cannabis hemp plant as fibre and fuel.
• Ban the cultivation of cannabis for its seed, which can be used as a food.
• Deny people the relaxation and recreational pleasure obtained by consumption of cannabis.
• Repress the human and civil right to choose one’s own lifestyle, beliefs and religion.
All major government reports on cannabis have suggested some form of legalisation, yet politicians refuse to openly debate or discuss the matter. I am standing to give you the opportunity of expressing just how important you know this issue to be.
Take care
Howard Marks
Word got around, and I was asked to stand in two other constituencies, Neath and Southampton Test. Simultaneously campaigning in the public halls, squats, techno clubs, shebeens, brothels, illegal raves, recording studios and opium dens of four constituencies proved exhausting. I managed to get an average of 500 votes, losing my deposit in each constituency. I was disappointed of course, but there was never any chance of my being elected, and we had certainly succeeded in bringing our cause to the attention of the public.
Wondering in which direction I should next proceed to advance the cause of re-legalising cannabis, I soon after happened to be reading the employment section of The Times. In it was advertised a newly created post in the Cabinet Office – the UK Anti-Drugs Co-ordinator – whose brief was to eradicate illegal drug trafficking in the UK. Realising that by legalising all drugs I could fulfil the brief easily and quickly, I wrote to the Cabinet Office. They sent me an application form, on which the following words appeared in large bold type: ‘UK ANTI-DRUGS CO-ORDINATOR, ALSO KNOWN AS “DRUG CZAR”.’ I had never dreamed I would have the opportunity of being promoted from a mere baron to a czar. The salary was £75,000 a year, much less than the average drug baron’s but not bad for a job with a built-in alias, and I have always been fond of pseudonyms. There was also a £5,000 removal allowance. I could make good use of this to transport a container of my personal effects which had been sitting around in Kathmandu since the 1980s. I presumed there would be diplomatic immunity. Another page outlined the core personal requirements for the post. These included proven leadership qualities, negotiating and influencing skills, and the capacity for strategic planning linked firmly to the delivery of results. I found this encouraging as the authorities already had proof that I had been the head of the largest marijuana-smuggling organisation in the world; were aware of my successful negotiations with the Mafia and other international organisations, and knew that I had delivered well over a hundred tons of hashish. The page finished by stating that the successful applicant would require credibility in the drugs field. I felt I was in with a chance and wrote the following:
My own experiences in the study of illegal drug transactions began at the University of Oxford in the early 1960s and were continued at the Universities of London and Sussex. Shortly after obtaining a master’s degree in nuclear physics and postgraduate qualifications in philosophy, I was recruited as an agent by MI6, the British secret service. I’m hesitant to detail here my drug-related work during this period, but presumably the Parliamentary Secretary for the Foreign Office is empowered to show you any relevant files. Suffice it now to state that for twenty years I was intimately connected with illegal drug trafficking in the following countries: Wales, England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Holland, Portugal, Morocco, Kenya, Lebanon, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Thailand, Philippines, Hong Kong, Canada, United States of America, Colombia, Jamaica and Mexico. In many of these countries I worked closely with senior law enforcement, forging long-lasting professional and social relationships. I have been granted unique access to many clandestine illegal drug processing plants.
I have held directorships of Panamanian media companies, Liberian record labels, British travel agencies, Dutch boutiques, Chinese publishing companies, Thai massage parlours and Swiss investment consultancies. I owned and managed a language school in Pakistan, not far from the Khyber Pass.
For the first half of the 1990s I was employed by the United States Department of Justice, permitted to enter the Federal Bureau of Prisons’ convict section, and allowed to teach incarcerated drug traffickers. I did that for seven years. I can keep down a job. At the same time, I posed as a marijuana addict and entered a drug abuse programme to familiarise myself with the problems of denial and recovery.
I have written a book on illegal drug trafficking. It has sold over 750,000 copies in Britain, been translated into six languages, is still a best-seller, and is available from all good bookshops.
I have written articles on drugs and crime for almost every national newspaper. I have appeared dozens of times on major TV and radio channels as an expert on illegal drug tr
afficking, false passport acquisition and money laundering. I regularly give talks and lectures at rave clubs, music festivals and business conferences. I would gladly risk and even sacrifice my life right now to achieve the eradication of all illegal drug trafficking in this country. I am 100 per cent committed.
I posted the completed application form to the Cabinet Office. Eventually I received a reply.
Dear Mr Marks
Thank you for your application for this post. The selection team have carefully considered it along with all the other applications, and I am sorry to inform you that we were unable to include you among the candidates for interview.
May I, nevertheless, thank you for your interest in this post and for taking the trouble to apply. I hope that your disappointment will not prevent you from applying for other positions which the Cabinet Office will advertise in the future.
Yours sincerely,
Colin Welch,
Recruitment Manager
Again I was disappointed, but at least the door had not been closed.
None of my tireless work appeared to have the remotest effect. But now, while Scott was languishing in a Swiss prison for legally growing cannabis, a wind of change was puffing its way through the British cannabis community. More people were smoking more joints than ever before. Those on the dole could grow stronger marijuana than gangsters could import. The police were fed up with busting honest, otherwise law-abiding kids, and police chiefs were advocating turning a blind eye. Rumours of impending legalisation swept through the streets. At last, the government, after refusing for decades to even debate the issue, was going to sort it.
There was some cause for optimism. At the end of 2001, Home Secretary David Blunkett had asked the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs to review the classification of cannabis in the light of available scientific evidence. Drug offence penalties are graded into one of three classes according to the personal or social harm attributable to the particular drug. Class A, carrying a maximum penalty of life imprisonment, included heroin, cocaine, ecstasy and LSD; Class B, with a maximum of fourteen years imprisonment, included cannabis, amphetamines and barbiturates; while Class C, with a maximum of five years imprisonment, included steroids and tranquillisers. Although the Advisory Council found cannabis could produce dilatation of the conjunctival blood vessels (red eyes), disrupt blood pressure (a whitey) and increase heart rate, it stated that such cardiovascular symptoms are similar to the effects of exercise, and most unlikely to constitute a health risk. It further found that cannabis did not increase risk-taking behaviour, did not contribute to violence – either to others or to oneself – did not cause mental illness or brain damage, and did not lead on to other drugs. The Council concluded that cannabis was much less harmful than the other substances within Class B and should therefore be reclassified as Class C. Polls showed that most of the voting population agreed. The reclassification was implemented in law during early 2004, and many cannabis smokers felt they could smoke with impunity.
In fact, the change in law was slight. Although penalties for individuals consuming cannabis were less, those for other cannabis offences remained the same. The government had not downgraded cannabis from Class B to Class C; it had formed a new and different class. Subject to police officers’ discretion to arrest or not, cannabis possession, sharing a joint, allowing someone to smoke a joint in your home, consuming cannabis in certain areas and cannabis cultivation were all still arrestable offences and punishable by up to fourteen years imprisonment. Nevertheless, there had been progress of a kind. Other European countries debated following the British initiative. The tide was changing.
But this swell of shifting attitudes could not help Scott. After months of interrogation and several unsuccessful bail applications, the Swiss, under pressure from the Australian embassy, moved Scott from the Mendrisio bunker to a more civilised prison near Lugano. The spartan conditions of the underground prison had taken their toll on Scott’s health, but now he had access to a gymnasium and quickly regained his fitness. He was also earning 400 Swiss francs a month ironing clothes in the prison laundry.
Eventually Scott was formally charged with contraventions of the Swiss federal law on narcotics ranging from smoking marijuana – which he wasn’t about to deny – to smuggling tons of the stuff – which simply wasn’t true. The trial took place in March 2004.
The judge found there was nothing to suggest that Scott had sold marijuana or had made any economic gain from its sale, as the prosecution had repeatedly claimed. The judge also ruled that Mr Nice Seedbank’s commercial activities were perfectly legal. Scott’s only offence was to bring into Switzerland his plant genetics (seeds) and his expertise – which happened to lead to great improvements in the quality of the marijuana grown generally in Switzerland. For that Scott received a sentence of four years imprisonment followed by ten years expulsion from Switzerland and an undisclosed fine. This reasoning is typical of both the Swiss and the American legal codes. If you should have foreseen or accept the possibility that the outcomes of your actions might incidentally cause or aid criminal activity, then you have broken the law, even if your actions themselves were legal. In other words, if they want you, they will get you whatever you didn’t do.
Everyone who knew about Scott’s case was appalled at the obvious injustice of his punishment, including the Swiss Court of Appeals judges, who a few months later reduced the sentence by half. To the relief of all, especially his three-year-old daughter, Scott was released in October 2004. Mr Nice Seedbank continues its legitimate business.
Other than fleeting visits of a couple of hours each to attend to matters relating to my mother’s death and ensure the house stayed clean, burglar and weather proof, and in one piece, I had not visited Kenfig Hill for over two years. It was time to break my self-imposed exile. I took a train from York to Bridgend, where I rented a car and drove the familiar five miles to Waunbant Road. I parked outside the house expecting to be drowned by waves of sadness, pierced by pains of nostalgia and disoriented by déjà vu. Instead, the house twinkled in the twilight and glowed with welcoming winter warmth. The door opened easily without a creak, revealing spotlessly clean rooms. My parents looked at me from their portraits on the walls, as they always did when I entered the living room, but this time their faces did not arouse in me intense feelings of everlasting loss; they smiled with relief, robbing death of its dominion.
The attic was in the same state as when I had visited when performing at the Porthcawl Royal Pavilion. Bric-a-brac and pamphlets still littered the bookshelves and overflowed from cardboard boxes and suitcases. Would it ever be sorted and classified or would it just wait until irrelevant to anyone left alive and end up in a skip? Poking around aimlessly, I found a stash box I must have left behind years ago. Inside was a matchbox containing enough hashish for a strong joint. It was reddish brown. Could it be Red Lebanese, the favourite smoke of the 1970s? Had it lain here for over a quarter of a century? I started rolling a joint, and the hash crumbled into tight little buds. Perhaps it had decomposed beyond use; I had no idea how many years hashish remained fit to smoke. Despite repeatedly resolving to keep a sample from every consignment I imported, I hadn’t managed to hold on to any for longer than a few months. If it was good, it had to be smoked. As the tiny buds disintegrated, I smelt a familiar odour, and my heartbeat quickened.
Memory is seemingly unable to conjure up a smell from the past in the same way it can recall sights and sounds from long ago, and whenever I recognise an old smell, I am shocked and surprised. This dope reminded me of the Panama Red given to me by Living Stone in Panama three years before. I had smoked some in Bocas del Toro and Portobelo but had forgotten I still had it with me in Jamaica. I must have unknowingly brought it to Kenfig Hill on one of my brief visits. Or had my father or some other cool ancestor acquired it in Panama decades earlier? I smoked it and still couldn’t determine which.
Beautifully stoned, I rummaged around for hours, picking up bits and pie
ces and reliving the times I had last seen them. I found a boxful of Elvis Presley 78 rpm acetates, sheet music of his early hits, some Elvis badges and a collection of Elvis cards given away with bubblegum from slot machines. I came across a tin cabin trunk stuffed full of National Geographic magazines, maps, charts and guidebooks to countries all over the world, and began sorting into one box anything relating to South America.
There were ashtrays inset with moth wings from Brazil, ceramic figurines from Peru, a marble statuette of Christ of the Andes, a Uruguayan basket made from the carapace of an armadillo, guide booklets to Inca, Aztec and Mayan monuments, and cheap souvenirs from most of the continent’s capitals. My obsession with Welsh–South American connections went into overdrive and butterflies started dancing in my guts. I felt excited and adrenalised, but safe and secure as if surrounded by guardian angels. I saw a small battered brown leather wallet, opened it and found a spread-out caul affixed to a small white envelope. A caul is the shimmery transparent membrane that on rare occasions covers the face and head of a child at birth.
In cultures throughout the world, the presence of a caul means the child has supernatural abilities, such as sight into the future or a third eye. The child is intended for greatness. Jesus Christ was born with one. Cauls are considered protection against drowning at sea and are therefore prized and sought-after by sailors, who pay large sums of money to own these talismans. Gathering the caul onto paper was an important tradition. The midwife would rub a sheet of paper across the baby’s head and face, pressing the caul onto the paper. This would then be presented to the mother to keep as an heirloom. I knew my father had always carried a caul with him when at sea as he had often referred to it, but I had no idea whose it was.