12.45am: "The Budget is bad shit, man," explains D. "It's going to cost seriously to, like, go down the pub, smoke tabs, drive around and that. If drugs were legal, we'd be getting seriously clobbered for tax right now. Cannabis could have gone up 1p per quarter, E could have been up 10p a pill!! Skins might have gone up to, like, 50p!!!" Try pointing out that, yes, dope might have got a bit pricier were it a legal way to get off your head, but 1p a quarter is a lot cheaper than pounds 500 in court fines or a visit to Pentonville. "Why don't you just tell your customers that due to the Budget, you're having to put your prices up?" Dylan looks at blocks of hash he is weighing in our sitting room with renewed wonder.
1.20am: Prolonged ringing on the doorbell reveals a nasty-looking skinhead plus dishevelled girlfriend. "Looking for Dylan," says skinhead. "Spider!" shouts Dylan from inside. "He's a real mate," he tells us. "He once glassed someone for nicking my gear." "Dab?" says Spider, producing pinkish looking sulphate. Decline, as he is spinning round room like he's on Persil Automatic. "Thing is, mate," says Dylan. "I'm having to stick me prices up 'cos of the budget. The ounce will cost you pounds 94." Look at him horrified, but Spider just nods. "Fucking budget," he says, miserably. "First it's fags, then it's booze, now it's dope.They're well out of order, the Labour Party. Can't they let any fucker enjoy himself any more?" His girlfriend nods agreement. "I'm going to vote Tory next time," says Dylan. Spider looks at him. "Tory? You've got to be joking! After 18 years of that lot! You want to vote BNP like me and Sonia, mate. They're the only people who'll stand up for the likes of us." Just then, Vikram walks in. Me and Anna look at each other. "Alright, Vikram, mate," says Skinhead. "How's med school? Still at those books, are ya?" Vikram nods. "You need to take more drugs, that's your trouble," says Spider, whacking Vikram in a blokeish way.
1.45am: "Erm, Dylan," I say. "Me and Anna have been talking and we'd rather you used somewhere else to, er, sell your stuff..." Interrupted by doorbell. "Come on in, boys," says Dylan. Picture latest clients - Godfather- type gangsters, maybe, or Trainspotting smack addicts who need some puff to tide them over?
1.46am: The "boys" are, well, boys in blue, coppers, officers of the law. Me and Anna freeze. The pair of them take their helmets off politely and shuffle their feet a bit. On the carpet are digital scales, a large knife, a bong, skins, eight to ten bags of speed and a handful of pills. We all stand there looking at them. "Anyone want a cup of tea?" says Anna, suddenly. The police shake their heads. "No thanks, love," says Nice Copper. "We're just after a bit of blow 'cos we haven't managed to nick any teenagers with any tonight. Quarter will do us, Dylan." Dylan chops up a block. "It's extra, cos of the Budget," he explains. "'Course, mate," winks Nasty Copper and hands over a couple of notes. "What will we do when they decriminalise this stuff? We'll have to pay for it every time..." Dylan asks if they want to sign his petition.
2am: "Look, Dylan," I try again. "Do you think you could find somewhere else..." Interrupted by him chucking over a bag of sweet-smelling skunk. "What's this?" I ask him. "Rent," offers Dylan. "Life of crime it is, then," I say to Anna, who nods, happily.Reuse content