Prior to the ban of
mephedrone, Dave Phelan found out what all the fuss was about.
In the shadow of the Central
Bank there sits an abandoned
building; cheap fibre board inhabits where windows once sat, the paint,
weary
and cracked, is no longer a testament to the fine work done by what was
undoubtedly a highly experienced tradesman. In a thick black scrawl
sprayed
across the premises, what is commonly referred to as a lout, has
sprayed:
“ANOTHER VICTORY FOR HYSTERIA”. Seldom do such attempts at social
commentary
grasp my attention but as I strolled towards my desired destination.
“ANOTHER
VICTORY FOR HYSTERIA” could not have been a more poignant statement
that
described my thinking on the latest ‘crisis’ to enrapture this country.
Once
upon a time we had a name for people who frequented
head shops: idiots. These were people who thought a couple of glorified
Pro-Plus caffeine pills would set them off like Brian Harvey at a Happy
Mondays
gig. So as the hype and hysteria built over the head shops latest
offering,
mephedrone, it was with a fierce and smug distain that I labelled as
fools both
protestors and consumers alike.
Whenever
I heard Joe Duffy patronisingly speak in fake
working man’s drone about how the substance is just as lethal as
cocaine or
heroin, I chortled heftily. What I hadn’t accounted for however is the
power of
‘Mary from Clontarf’. If the Daily Mail is middle England’s moral
custodian,
then Joe Duffy is middle Ireland’s equivalent. Even if he doesn’t mean
to, he
induces nauseating delirium amongst the insular Irish public over
issues that
are usually considered ‘counter-culture’. He appeals to the senses of
those
that refuse to see how things pan out, they are instead devoted to the
cause of
persistent and immediate knee-jerk, ‘what about the children’ reaction.
The
mephedrone saga and the subsequent ban is representative of Joe’s
influence in
such campaigns.
In
a populist move designed to appease the few hundred that
took umbrage with head shops, the Government rushed through a ban which
in
effect makes it illegal for head shops to sell anything.
They
seemed to take heed of that middle-aged minority’s
outrage but when 90,000 people descended onto the streets in November
2009 to
protest over government spending cuts, nobody seemed to be home. Not
only is
Mary from Clontarf a primary component of Joe Duffy’s listenership but
presumably she is the mainstay of the Fianna Fáil support.
Just
prior to the ban, it was with a sense of rebellion and
pride that I entered my head shop of choice, more-so to do with
vicinity rather
than affinity. Two years ago I would have felt a fool, and in truth, I
still
did but at least I could thumb my nose at Mary.
As
I asked for mephedrone I was met with slight trepidation
from the gentleman behind the counter. “Bath salts?” he replied
quizzically. Luckily
my acquaintance was aware of the lingo and assured me that I was indeed
looking
for bath salts. “I want the strongest you have,” I said. My chemically
enhanced
days have long passed but I was adamant that no matter what the man in
the Bob
Marley t-shirt threw at me I would later discount as commendable
con-manship.
Such
activities now would make me a criminal, charged with
possession of an illicit substance. Sat in a rather salubrious Dublin 8
household, absorbing the banter of colleagues and friends who had
gathered for
pre-pub drinks I carefully dispensed the powder onto a coffee table. I
had yet
to indulge in one of the four cans of cider sat by my side. True to
form I had
to borrow a note which was willingly supplied by an amused and curious
colleague who had already intimated to me that he had full intentions
of
tagging along on the journey that is mephedrone.
My
nose burned and pulsated in agony; my balsam infused
tissues couldn’t save me now. I beamed to the more naïve among us that
I’d be
grand. What followed was a wholly unanticipated experience. Without the
lubrication of alcohol I entered a world of self-absorption. I thought
I was
being chatty when in fact I was being obnoxious. I thought I was being
friendly
when in fact I was being a touch annoying. Even so, if Usain Bolt had
been in
the room there is little doubt in my mind that I could have challenged
him to a
100m dash to the shop and be back with my cigarettes before he had been
given
his change. Such was the intense euphoria and confidence (which to my
detriment
I’m usually not short on) I experienced - no matter what went wrong on
that
night, I would be able to fix it.
Now
located at what was more a cattle-mart than a night club
it wasn’t long until the vultures closed in, I happily obliged in the
knowledge
that said vultures were experienced enough to know better.
The
three of us spoke at length about how “this was a great
buzz,” and how we were wrong about head shops, and above all, how we
hated Mary
from Clontarf.
The
night dissipated into cries of “who has the meph,” as
more of the group indulged. We had lost one, like a fourteen year old
that’s
yet to learn her measures. She under-estimated the potency, and the
following
morning I would receive a text telling a tale of a sleepless night and
an upset
tummy.
The
very fact that I struggle to concern my precious column
inches with any more talk of my night on mephedrone is a testament to
how inane
the drug actually is.
Like
all drugs it offers a romantic allure but in reality
the romance is greater than the outcome.
Any
experienced adult should be aware of the implications of
downing a bottle of vodka. It is therefore not be beyond the realms of
reason
that those same adults should be given the choice of taking alternative
substances - but informed on the potential pitfalls of over-indulgence.
But
Mary has got her way and the head shops are all but gone. People have
now
returned to dealing with bonafide criminals, by proxy funding gangland
activities. As is usually the case on this island, there has been
another
victory for hysteria.
davidpaulphelan@gmail.com
