The truth is these sweets contained absolutely no genuine cannabis, but instead a cheaper, very dangerous synthetic cannabinoid, most likely something called JWH-018, known on the street as “Spice”. Its nasty stuff, manufactured in a lab. The effects are nothing like real cannabis, but it binds to the same receptors in the brain. Also, unlike genuine cannabis, JWH-018 is toxic. Natural cannabis isn’t toxic at all, weed is actually safer than aspirin.
As I said, these two stories have two things in common and the first is by far the most ironic. While the headlines screamed “cannabis!”, in fact, no actual cannabis was involved in either incident. The young girl who was searched, was not found to be in possession of anything. And the sweets that poisoned that woman, contained zero natural cannabis.
The other thing that both of these cannabis stories have in common, besides the lack of actual cannabis, is that they were enabled, and driven, by our foolish prohibition of cannabis.
Prohibition is at the root of most of the supposed harms caused by natural cannabis, the most significant of those harms being an encounter with law enforcement. And as the strip search of that young girl demonstrates, you don’t even need to have any cannabis, for our silly cannabis laws, and prohibition to leave their mark on you.
The UK doesn’t have a regulated, or legal market for adult use, we mainly only have the black market, and it mostly doesn’t care about safety, only profit. Actual cannabis edibles are available here, but it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between them, and the dodgy ones made with Spice. Unless you’ve made them yourself, there is no way to be certain, and buying them from the black market, will always be a risk, until we do the right thing.
We could dial that risk down to zero, by legalising cannabis here. The idea is popular with the public, It would be even more popular, if the media told the truth, but cannabis has been the target of what I call the original disinformation campaign, and one-hundred plus years of lies, continue to be reported as fact. Don’t believe me? Then why have so many other places legalised it already? The science is settled, unless you wilfully ignore the truth.
A cannabis leaf, with shadow
The United Kingdom legalised cannabis for medicinal use via private prescription in 2018. Currently, around 15,000 people are legally accessing cannabis products. A prescription is expensive, the process is complicated, and the products vary in quality, while their availability remains inconsistent. That’s why millions of domestic medicinal users still source their cannabis from the black market, myself included.
Germany recently voted to legalise, they’re doing it to ensure a safe supply for their population after an adulterant scare. And in America, 37 of the 50 states have extensive medicinal programmes, and 18 states have legalised adult use. The United Kingdom is being left behind in one of the fastest growing industries in the world. We could all have safer products, while the Treasury benefitted from VAT on sales. Currently, our extensive illegal cannabis market remains untaxed, and unregulated.
How many more people have to be mistreated by the police, or die from dangerous imitation products, before our leaders act? Prohibition is a failure, they all know it, yet they continue on the same path. Change here is long overdue.
I have used cannabis daily, and medicinally, for over 40 years, I have benefitted from it enormously throughout my adult life. I’m willing to go anywhere, speak to anyone, to help make this change happen. Will you join me? We need all the help we can get.
Doug – the northlondonhippy is a writer, and journalist (lapsed), who has been writing about drugs, and drug use, specifically his own, for nearly20 years. He is a self-described “cannabis evangelist”. During his 30+ years in the media, Doug has worked for BBC News, Reuters, AP, and MTV Music Television. Doug is a full time hippy now. He tweets as @nthlondonhippy
On the 21st of June 1981, I got high for the very first time. It was the night of my high school graduation back in New Jersey . I wrote about it in my book, “Personal Use”, it’s the first chapter.
As today is 21st June 2021, it marks the 40th anniversary of this very significant event in my then, young life.Here is that first chapter of my book, reproduced in full.
If you dig it, you could always pick up a copy, you glorious mofos!
All the best,
Doug, the northlondonhippy
Personal Use Cover
Chapter One
A Toe in the Water
Picture it, the late 1970s.
Hair was long, queues for petrol were even longer and disco music was king.
I was a dumb kid, living in a small beach town on the east coast of America.
Burt Reynolds was the biggest film star in the world, Jaws and Star Wars were immensely popular and the BeeGees were dominating the music charts.
The 70s were weird.
I went to a small high school, there were only 200 students in my year. I wasn’t one of the cool kids, which I am sure will shock you. I wasn’t one of the uncool kids either. I was just a kid, trying to figure out my place in the world.
I‘m still trying to figure out my place in the world. Some things don’t change.
The very first drug I experimented with was tobacco.
Legal, readily available and used by just about every adult I knew at the time, tobacco was the socially acceptable drug of choice for millions. Smoking was cool, smoking was popular, smoking was a favourite pastime for many people when I was a child. Smoking is also potentially fatal, but no one seemed to care back then.
Smokers today still don’t.
Getting hold of cigarettes was easy, one of my friends acquired a pack of Marlboro Reds and a group of us went out into the woods near a local park. I was probably about 12 years old at the time. That would make it 1975.
We gathered in the woods, this small group of pre-teens, and we all lit up.
None of us really knew how to smoke, so we inhaled into our mouths and quickly exhaled. The unlucky amongst us, drew the thick smoke deeper into their lungs and were rewarded with convulsing coughs.
The taste was disgusting, but look how cool and grown up we all were! I wouldn’t smoke a cigarette again for seven years. This experience was not enjoyable.
I started smoking cigarettes properly at the age of nineteen and didn’t stop until a few years ago, at the tender age of fifty.
Cigarettes are stupid and I regretted getting hooked on them, but I still looked cool smoking them. Everyone does and that’s one of the reasons why anti-smoking campaigns don’t work. Smoking is cool, smoking is sexy. Emphysema and cancer, much less so, but they are decades away from your first smoke, so it’s a hard sell.
These days, I am still hooked on nicotine, but I use an electronic cigarette, which is a much safer, healthier way to get that sweet nicotine buzz.
The next drug I experimented with was alcohol.
My parents, like the parents of all my friends, kept well- stocked bars in their homes, so we were all exposed to liquor at an early age. Booze was normal, acceptable and readily available, much like tobacco.
I used and abused liquor for years, but I don’t drink any more.
I was 13 years old, the first time I got properly drunk. It was at a party at a friend’s house.
I learned a couple of valuable lessons that night. One: that booze can make you sick. And two, if you swiped a small amount from every bottle in your parents’ liquor cabinet, no one would notice.
Bug juice. That’s what we called it. Bug juice. You would mix a small amount of every liquor in your parents’ bar, into a bottle or jug, add something to kill the taste, like orange juice or fizzy pop and away you go.
One of the ingredients was always Creme de Menthe, a foul, minty mouthwash-like liqueur with a deep green colour. It was a popular gift, so everyone had a bottle of this, practically untouched. It became a staple ingredient in our bug juice. It always ensured a bright green colour that was the trademark of this foul swill.
A small group of us polished off a large pitcher of bug juice and proceeded to get loud and lairy. We went outside to smoke cigarettes and run around. That’s what drunken 13 year-olds do.
At some point between going outside and getting collected by my parents, I realised I was unpleasantly drunk and a bit dizzy. And then I threw up and magically felt better.
I would repeat this routine on and off, for decades. Drink too much, throw up, and feel better.
As an adult, I drank like I meant it and could polish off copious amounts of spirits. Vodka, tequila and cognac were my favourites.
I stopped drinking completely, well, around 26 years later, in 2002. And I don’t regret stopping at all, though it shocks me it took as long as it did to realise what a bad drug booze is. Live and learn. Eventually.
Tobacco and alcohol were part of my life, directly and indirectly, from my formative years right through to adulthood and middle age. And they are two of the worst drugs around in terms of harms to an individual and society.
While tobacco use has fallen, it still accounts for a shocking number of preventable deaths every year. And alcohol is one of the most damaging substances around, with many experts proclaiming it worse than heroin and cocaine due to the immense damage it continues to cause to individuals and society as a whole.
And it might have been the 1980s when the anti-drug hysteria reached its peak, but even back in the hippy- dippy 70s, the message was still clear: Drugs are bad, m’kay.
My mother was terrified by drugs, even though she was a heavy cigarette smoker and social drinker. She didn’t see herself for the drug user she really was. She tried to pass this mixed message on to me, and it was surprisingly effective. I thought booze and cigarettes were acceptable, but drugs definitely not.
Only losers were users, I once thought. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
My parents, like the parents of my friends, didn’t discourage teenage drinking. In their view, drinking was OK, because ‘at least it wasn’t drugs’. Except it was a drug, but that distinction was lost on them back then. Just as it is now.
Alcohol and cigarettes are drugs, no doubt about that that, but they’re legal, so that’s OK. And they’re deadly, which is also apparently just fine too.
Back then, keg parties were the done thing. Your parents would get half a keg of cheap beer and let you have your friends over. They enabled under-age drinking as a defence to drugs. Clever, eh?
At around the age of 16, I tried weed for the first time. I didn’t get high, I didn’t come even close, but the experience taught me a lot about my own fears and perceptions.
It was early evening, after school and post extra- curricular activities. I was invited to join a few of my friends on the school playing field, to sample the devil’s weed for the very first time.
I remember being extremely nervous, worried that I would be out of control and stinking of dope, but I overcame my fears by asking my friends questions. What is it like? What does it taste like? Would people know immediately that I was high? They were all very reassuring.
We sat in a small circle, maybe half a dozen of us. A small, single skin joint was lit and passed around the circle. When my turn came, I really didn’t know what to do, so I took a puff and passed it on. I coughed a lot and everyone laughed at the newbie.
I had several turns on the joint and I didn’t feel any different. I had no idea how to smoke or how to get the smoke into my lungs. And I had no idea what I should be feeling, but I was fairly certain I wasn’t feeling anything.
But I had finally tried weed and that was the main thing. I was part of a peer group, and my green cherry was well and truly popped… except I wasn’t even slightly high.
They say weed doesn’t make you paranoid, it’s the illegality that does and that was certainly true for my first experience. I was absolutely terrified of being arrested, or worse my parents finding out I had dabbled in drugs.
We smoked another doobie, or rather my friends did, while I wasted more smoke and coughed. And when we were done, we all went home.
I remember walking into my house convinced my mother would take one look at me and know I was on drugs.
You don’t just take drugs, or rather, once you take them, you are ‘on drugs’, presumably, for life.
I said a quick hello and went straight upstairs to my bedroom. I took off all my clothes, which I was convinced reeked of weed and stuffed them into a bag. I got dressed again in clean clothes and quietly took the bag of old, stinky weed-clothes out to the trash and threw my them away. Better to have one less outfit than have my shameful secret uncovered, now that I was ‘on drugs’.
I didn’t go back downstairs after that. I can remember, even now, lying in bed, in the dark, worrying about the risk I took. I wasn’t even high, just scared.
Would I be craving acid next, or smack? Would I be stealing to support my new habit? Would I be grounded until I was 25, because I was dumb enough to take a few puffs from a joint only to end up ‘on drugs’?
Of course not! But in my less than worldly wise, 16-year- old brain, a series of horrible outcomes awaited me.
Weed was very popular in my high school. This was the late 70s, in a beach town on the east coast of America. Weed was everywhere.
I remember watching a burnout surfer kid in one of my classes, rolling joints inside a textbook, our teacher completely oblivious to it. I saw kids, stoned out of their gourds, eyes red, lids drooping, attending other classes. And there were rumours about teachers, getting high in their cars before class. They were probably all true.
My brief brush with marijuana didn’t put me off, exactly, but nor did it inspire me to try it again, at least not soon. I was still curious, but my curiosity was somewhat sated, because I could say with confidence that I had tried weed. I wouldn’t smoke again for a couple of years.
In my senior year of high school, I fell in with a different group and they were proper, hardcore stoners. They were always high and while there was never any pressure to try it again, they certainly made it look more enjoyable.
They bought it by the quarter ounce, half ounce or ounce. It was what I would now call Mexican dirt weed: darkish brown, full of twigs and seeds and dry and dusty. This was known as commercial weed at the time. It came in by the plane or boatload, from south of the border. Some people called it Colombian Gold, but those in the know said it was from Mexico.
It never looked like much in the bag, that’s for sure, nothing like the beautiful, manicured green buds we’ve grown accustom to today.
I observed the rituals of dope smoking, 1970s style. You would start with a gatefold, double album cover, opened and spread out in front of you. Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti was always a popular choice.
You would take the dirt weed and crumble it between your fingers on to the album cover, reducing it to dust. You would pull out the twigs and sticks, then sift with the edge of a pack of rolling papers, usually EZ-Widers, so the seeds would collect in the hinge of the album cover. You didn’t want the seeds in your joint, as they would explode like popcorn with a loud snap.
Joints back then were thin, single skinners, rolled neat without tobacco. In America, we always smoked it neat, mixing with tobacco was something I would pick up when I moved to the UK and started smoking hash.
Headshops were everywhere, selling pipes, bongs, power hitters, doob-tubes, roach clips and any other bit of paraphernalia you can think of and more. My friends had a wide selection to try.
On the night of my high school graduation in 1981, I ended up at a pool party with my stoner friends. They were passing around joints, hitting bongs and generally having a very good time. We were also drinking.
One of my friends had a power hitter, a piece of paraphernalia that was popular at the time. It was a squeezee plastic bottle, with a screw cap on the end and a draw hole in the side. You unscrewed the cap, inserted a lit joint into the cap, then screwed it back on the bottle. When you squeezed the bottle while covering the draw hole, smoke was forced out the end of the cap in a steady, heavy stream. Hence putting the power into a power hitter.
My friends explained to me that I needed to get the smoke into my lungs and hold it, if I wanted to get high.
I did. I did want to get high, so I followed their advice.
I took a couple of long draws from the power hitter, getting the smoke deep down into my lungs and then I coughed. The smoke was harsh and burned my throat, but I was persistent and got used to it quickly.
Before long, I was taking great lungfuls of smoke and holding it for ages.
And then it happened, I was high. For. The. Very. First. Time.
Wow!
Wow! WOW!
It was as if for the first time in my life, I actually felt normal. I felt complete. I felt like I had found the one thing that my life was missing. All of my existential angst and creeping anxiety just melted away. The world made sense, the universe made sense.
I made sense.
I knew in that moment that my life was about to get much better. I knew in that moment I had found something special, something that would help me to become the person I am today.
And I knew that I needed to have more of this wonderful substance. Lots more.
I turned to my friend and asked if he could help me get some for myself?
He said: ‘Yes.’
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press, and Reuters, and 15 years as an overnight duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, hippy, and drug law reform campaigner.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
Doug’s next book, “High Hopes” should have been published by now, but it is hard to write a book about remaining optimistic in the face of adversity, during a global pandemic. Try it yourself!
For the last year, Doug has spent most of his time hiding away from a killer virus. Bet many of you have too.
You can find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy, but only if you look really hard.
I’m still alive. Yep, I’m still leading with that.
It’s been three weeks since I blacked out, and collapsed at home with a suspected seizure. My injuries are healed, and I am feeling better. I am still worried it will happen again. Terrified actually.
My referral to the first seizure clinic at UCH was rejected. This is a big setback. The reason is silly, they said I didn’t live in their catchment area. My GP and I chose UCH because I had been seen by their neurology department before, on what may or may not be a related issue, about a year and a half ago. So I was in their catchment area then, and I believe that continues to be true today. My referral should not have been rejected. Hey ho. I’m waiting for another referral to a different clinic. In the meantime, I had a scary-assed, probably neurologically related episode 21 days ago, and have yet to be assessed by a specialist. That seems less than ideal to me. Suboptimal even.
I have no memory of what happened, just the events leading up to it. I woke up around 10am, and I felt a bit off. I skipped my customary morning coffee, which is unusual. I had a supermarket delivery around 11:15am, and I remember struggling to put everything away. I threw up, twice, quite violently, my stomach expelled what little was in there. I recall feeling extremely unwell, and agitated. The last thing I remember, is thinking something was seriously wrong with me, and it wasn’t a heart attack, because I had no chest pain. I sat down on my sofa, and told myself to calm down. From there, I’m blank.
The next thing I remember is being really groggy, sitting on my sofa, with a paramedic putting ECG pads on my chest. I was very confused, it seemed like a weird, vivid dream. The two paramedics, and Mrs. Hippy explained to me that I was face down on the floor when I was found, and awake, but unable to speak or get up. My partner phoned for an ambulance, and they helped me on to the sofa. The paramedics wanted to take me to hospital, but I refused. They mostly ruled out a heart attack, or a stroke, but they said I should be checked over by a doctor. I didn’t go out of fear of Covid, but from what I have learned since, it is unlikely they would have been able to diagnose the cause anyway. Even after all of that, my virus dodging ways didn’t let me down.
I stayed on the sofa and dozed on and off for a day, questioning my partner when I could. I was lethargic, and sleepy. I had knocked quite a bit over, and broke a couple things in the living room. As I became more awake, I noticed that I was covered in injuries, literally from head to toe. Here’s a complete list:
Head – 2 scrapes, front and back. Scrape on back is bad
Tongue – back left side bitten
Shoulders – both sprained
Arms – both sprained
Elbows – both scrapped and scabbed
Knees – both scrapped and scabbed
Right knee sprained badly
Right big toe bruised, and a deep scrape
Left 2nd toe scraped, bruised, and broken.
I was a mess, but thankfully nearly all of that is healed. My right knee may have some permanent damage, but it is mostly pain free if I am careful.
I have been a chronic depressive for many decades, but this episode has sent my depression into the stratosphere, shifted it into overdrive, and put it on steroids. All I think about is death. While I don’t think I nearly died or anything, it still feels like a near death experience. I have a massive gap in my memory. Its like I was dead, and I came back to life.
I have a security camera in my living room, a holdover from my old nightshift days. It recorded the entire incident. That makes the absence of memory even more disturbing, because there is a visual record of what happened. I get up and walk over to my desk, and I sit down at my laptop. After a short time, I fall out of the chair, and the chair goes flying across the room. I’m on the floor, on my back, floundering around. I have not timed it, but I am down there for many minutes. I don’t know if I am convulsing, but I might be.
After a while, and still on my back, I manage to get into the middle of the room, where I roll around some more. Eventually, I manage to stand, but I am clearly very wobbly and unstable. My face looks blank, and droopy, like I am semi conscious. I stand for a moment, supporting myself against a wall, then I take a couple of steps and fall toward, flat on my face, in the opposite corner, where I manage to tug the security camera power cable, rendering the rest of the footage a bit useless. And that’s the spot where Mrs. Hippy found me.
The whole thing is surreal. I have no history of anything like this, though there is epilepsy in my family. My mother’s sister had it, and I think some of my cousins may have as well. It could also be a tumour, I guess. Whatever possibility I come up with, is depressing and scary.
There’s a big part of me that’s ready to give up, and let go. I don’t want to deal with a new health issue, on top of my pre-existing health issues. I’m tired of it all, and bored with it too. I don’t enjoy life enjoy enough to put up with any of this shit. Why continue if every day is miserable, and bound to get worse? That’s a damn good question.
Depression in overdrive, remember? How much of this is clear thinking, and how much of it is my depression? Depression is a vicious circle of self amplification of the desire to not exist. The more depressed I am, the more I wish to not be. How much more am I expected to endure? At what point can I quit?
Writing is therapy for me. Please keep that in mind.
I’ve been toying with the idea of a one way trip to Switzerland. If I’m going to do this, I should do it with my head held high. I have always advocated euthanasia as an option for the terminally ill. Is depression a terminal illness? What if it is combined with a handful of physical, and now potentially neurological afflictions as well? Can I still get the good euthanasia drugs? I don’t know the answer, but I am becoming increasingly tempted to find out.
I came really close to self-euthanasia 2 years ago, but I managed to turn things around. And for what? To give up my job, and come up with a viable plan for the future, only to have a stupid pandemic come along and completely disrupt those plans.
Then I spent a year hiding from a virus, and again, for what? To black out and collapse just as things were starting to open up again. Now, I live in constant fear I will black out again, and I still don’t know what caused it. The last couple of years have sucked for me, and spoiler alert, it seems really likely it’s going to just keep getting worse. Shouldn’t I just throw in the towel?
Life isn’t a gift, it is a curse. Whatever happiness and joy anyone experiences, it is exponentially outweighed by the overwhelming amount of suffering, pain, and loss that every living creature is forced to endure. The only way to avoid all this pain, and ultimately death, is to not be born in the first place. I wish my parents didn’t have me. I would have been happy to never exist. But a couple of people had unprotected sex back in 1962, and now I have to clean up their mess. Me, I’m their mess.
I was born 6 weeks prematurely in the early 1960s. It might not sound like much now, but back in the olden days, I was a fucking miracle baby. I spent the first month of my life in an incubator. I bet there’s a psychological impact to that, as I was probably barely touched, or held for the first 4 weeks of my tiny little life.
I’ve had health problems since then, that are all connected to my premature birth. As a child, as a teenager, and as an adult, I have had health issues that are a direct result of not developing enough in the womb. Chances are I wasn’t viable, and I should have been allowed to die, instead of being a miracle of modern medicine.
When I was 13, I nearly died. I had various incorrect diagnoses, before they settled on one. And then that one was proved incorrect a few years later, but it was close. I spent another month in the hospital that time. I still take medication for that issue, some 45 years later. I was born with it. No mystery, it’s called a hiatus hernia, it’s a stomach thing. It’s chronic heartburn with a physiological cause. They offered me surgery once, but they said 50/50 it would make it better or worse. I didn’t like those odds, so we settled on a daily pill.
Whatever happened to me three weeks ago, had a profound impact on my mental state. I wasn’t in a great place before this, but I was managing to muddle ahead, and isn’t that the best many of us can do anyway? I was mostly OK. I was getting by, and getting on.
Since the incident, and all of my existential angst has erupted like a volcano of death, and every day since my collapse just seems unnecessary. I don’t see how I can be helped, except to get to Switzerland. If I go, I will live-tweet the entire trip, from the airport to the bitter end. It will be a good story, with no possibility of a sequel.
I’m just being honest. I literally have nothing to gain, or lose from being honest. My life feels over, only my corpse is still walking around because no one has told it to lie down. Dead man walking, isn’t that the phrase? That’s how I feel. It’s not a mid life crisis, it’s an end of life crisis.
Is this really the end of my life? Sure as shit feels like it. Is it my depression or am I clear sighted? Why not both?
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press, and Reuters, and 15 years as an overnight duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, hippy, and drug law reform campaigner.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
Doug’s next book, “High Hopes” should have been published by now, but it is hard to write a book about remaining optimistic in the face of adversity, during a global pandemic. Try it yourself!
For the last year, Doug has spent most of his time hiding away from a killer virus. Bet many of you have too.
You can find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy, but possibly for a limited time only.
Hey. I had a weird medical incident last week, I collapsed at home, and had a sort of seizure. I was down for about an hour, and I am covered in minor injuries. Mrs. Hippy found me and called an ambulance. I don’t remember any of it. The last thing I remembered was feeling a bit nauseous and sick, the next thing I knew two paramedics were tending to me, and it was over an hour later.
The paramedics wanted to take me to hospital, but I declined. I declined because I was very disoriented, but also afraid of Covid. It was a silly decision that I now regret. I should have gone to be checked out. Instead, I just limped my way through the bank holiday weekend, and followed up on it today with my GP.
I have video of the incident, thanks to an old security camera from when I used to work nights. There is an hour of me struggling on the floor, I manage to eventually stand, but I then fall again on my face. It’s hard to watch, especially because I don’t remember any of it happening.
It wasn’t a stroke, I don’t think it was a heart attack, but both are still possibilities. My guess is it was some sort of epileptic seizure, presenting late in life. One of my mother’s sisters had epilepsy, so it is in my family.
I spoke to my GP this morning, she thought it was a seizure too. She has referred me to an urgent first seizure clinic, and is sending me for blood tests. I will speak to her again next week. I’m lucky, I have a really good GP, who I trust, and who knows me. Thank fuck for the NHS! My GP says we will figure it out and treat it. She says the video I have may help diagnose what happened.
I am covered in bruises, and scrapes, and I have lots of muscle strains and pulls. I hurt all over. I’m also shaken up, and more than a bit scared it may happen again. I still don’t feel right. And my heart rate has been elevated since it happened, though it seems to have come down a bit today. The same day it happened, I received the text invite for the 2nd dose of the vaccine. How that for bad timing?
While I take it easy, and all of this complex new medical shit is investigated, I am going to have to pause my activities on the Ceasefire Initiative. Next week was expected to be the rescheduled ceasefire4good week, which was postponed once already due to Prince Philip’s passing. While I am feeling somewhat cursed, I am not abandoning the idea, this is just a pause until I know what’s going on with my health. The work will continue, soon I hope.
I feel like I am letting everyone down, and I am so sorry. I saw a neurologist over a year and a half ago, regarding a different complaint. There is a good chance this incident is related to that issue, and this is a weird escalation of something I though was solved.
No secrets from you guys. Other than Mrs Hippy, and a very small number of IRL friends I used to work with, I don’t really have many people in my life. Any positive vibes you glorious mofos can send my way, would be hugely appreciated! I don’t really want to die just yet.
And sure, I am over sharing, but what have I got to lose? Are you a doctor? Does any of this mean anything to you? Any guesses on what happened to me? I’m listening.
I have been wanting to write this up for a while, it all happened before Xmas. It’s a good story, with some fun twists and turns, a few unexpected personal details, a flashback to the early 1980s, and a surprise ending. Here we go.
Part One
Medicinal cannabis was legalised in the United Kingdom a couple of years ago, but it’s uptake, and availability until recently, has been limited.
Professor David Nutt’s organisation, Drug Science, created Project Twenty21 which has the ambitious aim of registering 20,000 medicinal cannabis patients by the end of 2021, to assemble a database demonstrating the efficacy of medicinal cannabis treatment for a wide variety of conditions. It is a very noble aim.
The first hurdle one must leap to access medical cannabis in the U.K. is financial. Medicinal cannabis is expensive, in many cases more so than black market equivalents. Plus there are additional costs associated, including consultant fees, which are also not cheap.
Project Twenty-21 approved products, and clinics aimed to keep these costs down for certain selected products, but this subsidy doesn’t cover the entire range of products available domestically. Additionally, there are admin fees, prescription admin fees, and postage, or delivery fees. It all adds up. Many people reconsider at this point, as it can be cheaper to medicate via the black market, or to just grow your own.
The other barrier to accessing treatment is that you must meet the following criteria. You need to suffer from a qualifying condition. There are a wide range are on that list, including chronic pain, and anxiety. And you need to have tried two licensed pharmaceutical medications that were ineffective in improving your condition.
I was initially sceptical of all of this, but Project Twenty21 caught my attention. I have used cannabis medicinally for nearly 40 years, to cope with crippling anxiety, and varying degrees of suicidal depression. My mental health has benefitted greatly from my cannabis use, it has saved my life countless times over the years. It still helps me to this day.
If you would like more information on how to become a patient yourself, and learn more about the costs of consultations, and the available products, check out Cannapedia. It’s a great place to start. There is also a very lively subreddit on Reddit for UK Medicinal Cannabis patients. You can peruse many posts from patients, sharing their real experiences, both good and bad, of accessing treatment.
It was interesting to read about the experiences of others, along with the hiccups people were encountering.
For example, even though the United Kingdom is the world’s number producer of medical cannabis, nearly all the products currently prescribed here are imported. That’s meant that people have had long waits to receive their medication. Availability is slowly improving, and soon, more domestically produced products will be licensed.
Besides costs, there were also some complaints around the clinic admin side of things, many were slow to respond, or weren’t that helpful. The industry really is in its infancy here, and there is definitely a learning curve for patients, and practitioners alike. The system is far from perfect, but it is the only one we’ve got. It is certainly a step up over having no legal options, but of course it could be improved.
Much of what I read was positive, especially about the doctors who staffed the clinics. They are all experts in treating people with medicinal cannabis, something you will not easily find anywhere in the NHS. I am not going to name the clinic I contacted.
I have been speaking to my current GP about my medicinal cannabis use for years, much to her amusement. The Endocannabinoid System wasn’t discovered until the 1990s, it wasn’t in medical school textbooks when my doctor was in medical school. I’d bet you there isn’t much in those text books about it, even now.
I am fairly certain that underneath many, if not all of my physical, and mental health issues, is a cannabinoid deficiency. It’s why I feel, and function better when I nourish my endocannabinoid system. The NHS is way behind in understanding this, and Project Twenty21 aims to provide evidence to change their views.
Having read about obtaining a prescription, I decided to pursue one myself. I rationalised that it would be worth the additional expense to finally explore legal options, and the legal protections of a prescription. And I was certainly curious about trying legal products.
Currently, legal cannabis dispensaries provide various strains of cannabis flower, and cannabis oils, in various strengths, and THC/CBD ratios. Nearly all the flower, or bud, have black market equivalents, and names, but the idea is that medicinal production maintains quality, and consistency.
I met the criteria for access via Product Twenty21. The easiest condition to pursue treatment in my case, is anxiety. My GP would not argue with that diagnosis. And I had tried two licensed medications to treat my anxiety a very long time ago, so that box was ticked as well. My only concern was that I had tried them in the early 1980s, when I lived in America.
I did some research into the clinics and they all seemed fairly similar. Some of them are owned, and run by the medical cannabis producers themselves, and they are known to try to steer you towards their own-produced products. As long as you are aware of that, it didn’t seem to be a big issue, so I chose one based on cost.
When I applied, I contacted them directly to confirm that my US medical history wasn’t accessible, and was told as long as the two licensed medications I tried were mentioned in my medical history from my current GP, it would not be an issue. It didn’t matter when or where I tried those two medications, so my concern was unnecessary.
I booked a telephone appointment with my GP to discuss all this, and told her I wanted to access medical cannabis. She immediately, almost like a reflex, told me she can’t prescribe cannabis. Sigh. I know that, I told her. I wanted to access a private prescription, and all I needed from her is a summary of my diagnosis, and care regarding anxiety, which included a mention of trying two licensed medications when I was living in America in the 1980s. My GP was happy to provided this, but it took a couple of weeks.
I was excited, for the first time in my life, I was going to have access to legal cannabis. No more hiding In the shadows, I could finally speak up, and be a very public advocate without fear of arrest or judgement. I was going to be respectable. And first the very first time, fully legal. This was going to be life changing. This was going to be good.
A couple of days after I submitted my summary of care to the clinic, I heard back from the patient coordinator. It was the same one that told me everything would be fine when I spoke to her initially.
I thought she was ringing to book my first consultation. She wasn’t. She rang to tell me because I had no proof of trying those two medications, they could not offer me a consultation. This was a gut punch, and a complete contradiction of her earlier advice.
She went on to explain that the clinical director reviewed my application personally, and said it was too much of a risk for them to help me, because if they were ever audited by the regulators, the paper trail demonstrating my suitability could be questioned.
The patient coordinator said I could try to get my 40 year old records from America. Or there was still one other way they could help me, and that is if I got my GP to write a recommendation that my condition may benefit from medical cannabis.
Thinking about my medical records from 40 years ago, sent me on a little detour journey into my ancient US history, from my own distant past. You can come along too.
I grew up in America, and between the ages of 17 and 19, I saw a psychologist, and then a psychiatrist, for anxiety, and depression.
I am 58 now, I was 13 years old when I had my first suicidal thought. Cool, huh? Quite frankly, it is a minor miracle that I was able to make anything of myself in life, but a couple of things helped me early on. Discovering cannabis at the age of 18 was one of them, and another was the first psychologist I saw.
The first shrink I saw, the psychologist, was a really cool guy who helped me lot. He was a big, boisterous, physically imposing man in his 60s, with a sharp sense of humour, and a great approach. I really liked him, he was super progressive. He treated me like an adult, and listened to me. I made progress under his care. And he gave me great advice, that still helps me to this day. I wish I kept seeing him, who knows how much more I would have improved?
So why did I stop seeing him? Even now, the reason makes me laugh, because you have to laugh, don’t you?
Periodically, my parents would join for a session, and at one of these meetings, the psychologist pretty much told my mother that her overbearing, controlling nature, was my biggest problem. And just like that, almost to prove his point, she stopped my weekly sessions with him immediately, and found me a different doctor. Told ya it was funny.
I didn’t like this second shrink nearly as much. He was a psychiatrist, meaning he was a medical doctor, and could prescribe.
He was also very cold, and Freudian, so his response to almost every question was this. “Well, what do you think?”. I think for a hundred bucks an hour, you should answer my goddamn questions. I did not get much out of my sessions with him, but he was far more acceptable to my mother, so there was that.
He prescribed me Xanax for my anxiety. I did not like it, it made me feel nauseous, and dizzy. He then prescribed Valium, which I did like, maybe a little too much, but the dosage was way too high, they were 10mg. They made me too sleepy, and weren’t a viable long term solution because I couldn’t function on them.
I was lucky, as both drugs are extremely addictive, and I could have ended up hooked on pharms at age 19. Instead, they put me off all psychiatric meds, and I have not agreed to a psychiatric prescription since. That psychiatrist was also the first to offer me antidepressants, back in 1982, but the other drugs had already put me off, and I declined, as I have countless times over the years.
It amazes me, even today, how quickly doctors offer people antidepressants. Go to your GP, tell them you’ve been feeling down, and see how quickly they offer you a prescription. No, don’t. I know they help some people, but I also know they harm others. Cannabis is a lot safer, and can be much more effective.
In 1981, I tried cannabis for the first time. I was still seeing the first guy, the psychologist. I remember talking to him about it, telling him how good it made me feel. He was never judgemental, he just told me not to get caught. Excellent advice!
I didn’t know it at the time, I didn’t understand it at the time, I didn’t even have the vocabulary to express it at the time, but I was self medicating with cannabis before I even knew it was a thing. All I knew was that if I smoked it daily, I felt normal. I could function. So that’s what I did, that’s what I have done, and that’s what I still do today. Back then, I worked full time, and went to college full time, at the same time, all while smoking weed to cope. All I can say is it worked for me, and still does.
I hadn’t thought about my early mental health history, in a very long time, but when I was dealing with the medicinal cannabis clinic, I went there. I had to. Turns out it is a key part of telling this story, of my experience in trying to access medical cannabis treatment. And that story is not done yet.
I decided to try to access my medical records from the early 80s in America.
I remembered the name of the second shrink, the psychiatrist who prescribed the two medications in late 1981. That’s nearly 40 years ago, what were the chances the doctor was still practising? And would he still have my files? I was about to find out.
I googled his name, and the name of the town where he practised. And I found him, and his phone number, and even a photo. I recognised him, though obviously he was a whole lot older.
I had no idea what I was going to say to his receptionist. “Hi, I was a patient 40 years ago, and I am trying to access medicinal cannabis in the backwards United Kingdom. They need proof I was prescribed a couple of drugs that were useless back in the day. Can you help?” At least they would be accustom to a bit of insanity in a shrink’s office. It definitely felt insane.
I dialled the psychologist’s phone number in New Jersey. Immediately, I was greeted with a recording, telling me the number was no longer in service.
My old psychiatrist must have retired, he would have been in his mid to late 70s. In that moment, getting my old records went from being incredibly unlikely to definitely impossible.
My absolutely last chance, according to the patient coordinator at the clinic, was a recommendation from my doctor. Having had it take weeks just to get a summary of my care, I was not optimistic at all, but I felt I had to try.
I booked another telephone appointment with my GP, the first of several in this round, to discuss it further with her. She did not feel comfortable recommending medicinal cannabis, though I explained to her repeatedly that what she was actually recommending me for was an assessment, from someone whose speciality is medical cannabis.
I like my GP, a lot, but my experience in dealing with her regarding all of this, is precisely why Project Twenty21 is so vitally important. The NHS still has a lot to learn when it comes to medicinal cannabis. The stigma, and ignorance needs to be replaced with data, and facts.
Finally, I sent my GP a letter. An abbreviated version is below. I’ve removed some personally identifying info, and some boring bits.
Dear Dr. – ,
It was good to speak to you yesterday, thank you for phoning.
I didn’t feel like I put my case for a referral to you very well. As this is all complicated, and in a new area of medicine here in the UK, I thought it would be best to put it all in writing to clarify the situation.
I am trying to join Project Twenty21, which is run by Professor David Nutt’s organisation, Drug Science.
Project Twenty21 aims to register 20,000 medicinal cannabis patients within the next year, to gather more data on the effectiveness of cannabis for a wide range of conditions, including Generalised Anxiety Disorder, which is my diagnosis.
As I have told you, I have used cannabis medicinally for nearly 40 years, and it has been remarkably, extremely beneficial to me for my entire adult life. The majority of patients accepted into the study have previously self medicated, so I am far from unique in that regard. To join Project Twenty21, I would be assessed by a specialist from the private clinic, and if deemed suitable, I would be prescribed a cannabis product precisely calibrated to my condition and needs.
At present, I source my medication via the black market, which means consistency and quality are often issues for me, and those would vanish, if I had a prescription for a medicinal product.
At this point, my only route to an assessment is a referral from you, I am not asking you to prescribe cannabis. All I am asking you to do is provide a referral to the clinic for an assessment by their specialist. It would be up to them to decide if I am suitable to join Project Twenty21 and receive a prescription.
While I appreciate you may have some scepticism regarding medicinal cannabis, I can assure you from decades of personal experience and research, that it is extremely effective, which is why the laws have finally changed in the UK. Rather than try to convince you myself, you should look into Dr. Raphael Mechoulam, one of the world’s leading experts on medicinal cannabis. He is an amazing and fascinating man. I hope you will read this article, I think you would enjoy it.
For me, this isn’t about getting high, I can do that now. This is about treating my anxiety (and depression, though that is not part of the study yet). It’s about finding the exact right balance of THC, CBD, CBN and terpenes, and being able to reliably ingest the correct dose daily. It’s also about harm reduction, as the prescribed products will be of pharmaceutical quality. And as this is a private prescription, via a private clinic, it will actually be more costly to me than the black market initially, but my health and well being are worth it to me, which is why I am trying so hard to make this very beneficial life change now.
In my conversations with the patient coordinator at the clinic, they have all but told me I am exactly the sort of patient they wish to study in Project Twenty21. All that is holding me back is bureaucracy. I understand the NHS is behind the curve when it comes to medicinal cannabis, and that is what Project Twenty21 is trying to address, by amassing a wealth of patient data as quickly as possible. I very much want to be a part of this study, so I can help bring the NHS into the 21st century on cannabis. It can help many more people, it’s not expensive, and it is extremely safe. And the UK is already the world’s largest producer/exporter of medicinal cannabis. It is quite frankly shameful that it is not in wider use domestically.
As of this writing there are only 2 patients in the United Kingdom with prescriptions for cannabis provided by the NHS. Both had to fight hard to receive them. At present there are around 2,000 patients receiving cannabis privately in the UK, I very much wish to join them. This is all still fairly new ground to navigate, so I totally appreciate your position and situation.
I have tried to lay out my case for a referral as clearly as possible, and with as much detail as possible. I already know cannabis helps me. I know that a prescription would allow me access to proper products, manufactured to a consistent pharmaceutical standard, and it would eliminate all of the biggest risks of my present cannabis use.
You mentioned you wished to discuss this matter with your colleagues, I hope this letter reaches you before you do. Please feel free to share the contents with them.
I spoke to my GP again the following week, and she agreed to add this single line to my summary of care: “In view of all of the above, I am happy for (him) to be assessed by the medicinal cannabis clinic”. That was it, that was exactly what the the patient advisor at the clinic said I needed.
I submitted the updated summary of care to the clinic. For the second time, I thought I had met the requirements set out for me. Only this time, for sure!
The astute amongst you may have already deduced where this story is going. You won’t be disappointed. Unlike me. I was very disappointed. Still am.
The clinic said no, again. The patient advisor gave me very bad advice. Again.
A doctor’s referral is of no use without proof that you tried two licensed medications. Where have I heard this before? I tried two licensed medications, Xanax, and Valium, and they were not effective in managing my long term condition. What I lack is a piece of paper from 40 years ago confirming this in writing.
I appreciate my situation is unique, and unusual. I have lived in London for 30 years, and this is the first time I have felt penalised for growing up in America.
When I moved to London in 1991, I was 28 years old. It never occurred to me to get my doctor’s notes from my GP, never mind a shrink I had seen 10 years before that. It never crossed my mind, I was young, and reasonably healthy back then. No GP here ever asked for my American medical records. It never came up. How was I supposed to know something I never thought about would come back to bite me in the ass when I least expected it?
Clearly the rules to access medicinal cannabis in the U.K. are arbitrary. Why not three ineffective drugs? Why not one? Why any at all? Cannabis is hardly an experimental treatment for anything. Why do there have to be any barriers to access it in this system, if all the barriers do is prevent you from even speaking to a clinician?
I wasn’t refused a prescription after a considered consultation with a doctor specialising in cannabis. I was refused the chance to even discuss the possibility, because of these arbitrarily constructed rules. I never spoke to a doctor. And it looks like as of now, I never will.
Let me put it another way. Because I can’t prove I that I really tried two pharmaceutical medications that were ineffective, I am not being allowed to speak to a specialist doctor about a safer medication, that I already use, and know from 40 years of continuous use, is extremely safe and effective. That’s just crazynutsykookoo.
Like I said in the letter to my GP, this isn’t about getting high. I can do that now. This is about accessing an appropriate treatment, that I already know is 100% effective, in the safest way possible.
I was given really bad advice. The clinic’s patient advisor advised me poorly. Maybe she was inexperienced, or badly trained. Perhaps they work on commission? I have no idea, but I would like to think that it was simply her enthusiasm to help me, that resulted in me being twice misled.
I ended up wasting not only my own time, but my GP’s time as well. I even apologised to my GP, when I had to speak to her about an unrelated matter recently. She was gracious about it, but I doubt it left her with a good impression of the our domestic medicinal cannabis industry. And that’s a shame. The sooner the NHS backs medicinal cannabis, the better for everyone.
If the clinic had said straight up, your records are abroad, and you don’t have them, so you don’t have a chance, you wouldn’t be reading this now. My expectation was to be turned away, and I would have accepted it then without question.
Instead, the clinic gave me hope, twice, and then snatched that hope away. I was really looking forward to trying what is available legally. I was really looking forward to seeing what a specialist would recommend.
Though I had a bad experience, I still 100% support anything that helps people, and decriminalises them too. One legal cannabis patient in the U.K., or one million, or ten million, it is all positive progress in the right direction.
Just because I got burned by a weirdly arbitrary system, doesn’t mean thousands of other people aren’t being helped every day. They are, and I can still be happy for them.
I could try to game the system. With my mental health history, it would not be difficult to get my GP to prescribe me a couple of drugs for anxiety. Heck, I thought about asking her to prescribe me one Valium tablet, and one Xanax tablet, just to prove a point. Yep, took ‘em, and they still don’t work. But no, that’s not me, that’s not how I roll.
I approached this, as I approach everything, with total honesty and transparency. I don’t think the clinic thought I was lying, the point for them was if they were audited by their regulators, it could leave them exposed. The industry here is still very new, they don’t want to give anyone the slightest excuse to question anything. I understand that. I understand their caution, that’s why this was literally the first question I asked the patient advisor. I anticipated this, and was repeatedly assured it was not an issue. Turned out to be the only issue.
My own reality hasn’t changed. I still self medicate, I’m still an outlaw patient. That won’t change, much as I would prefer to be legal. I am dependant on cannabis, the same way someone with diabetes is dependant on insulin. And I take far worse drugs for other chronic conditions. Hey ho.
The system is entirely too restrictive, anyone should be able to have a private consultation with a cannabis specialist, if they, the patient, believe they would benefit from a private prescription. Wouldn’t that just be considered, sensible compassion?
You can buy aspirin over the counter. Aspirin is more dangerous than cannabis. People sometimes die from taking aspirin. No one has ever died from taking cannabis. Almost everything is more dangerous than cannabis. Cannabis is safe and effective, I know this from decades of Personal Use. There is no reason why cannabis shouldn’t be a first choice treatment for many conditions.
And on the off-chance that someone from one of the many cannabis clinics in the U.K. happens to read this, might you be so bold as to offer me a consultation? I have been as transparent, and honest here, as I would be in real life. Though my first experience was less than satisfactory, I still have an open mind regarding the future. Can you restore my faith in this system?
I hope you enjoyed my sorry tale of medicinal cannabis woe. I think the system will improve in the future, and become less restrictive. My own personal anecdotal evidence is all well and good, but when Project Twenty21 has 20,000 detailed case studies, no one will be able to ignore the evidence any longer. Here’s hoping that day arrives soon.
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press, and Reuters, and 15 years as an overnight duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, hippy, and drug law reform campaigner.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
Doug’s next book, “High Hopes” should have been published by now, but it is hard to write a book about remaining optimistic in the face of adversity, during a global pandemic. Try it yourself!
For the last year, Doug has spent most of his time hiding away from a killer virus. Bet many of you have too.
You can find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy.
Wednesday, 29th April 2020 marks the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the Dachau Concentration Camp. The hippy reflects on his father’s firsthand account of that day.
Was my father a war criminal? I asked myself this recently, as I explored an idea I had for a feature story pegged to the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Dachau, which is on 29th April 2020.
My father was part of the US Army battalion that liberated Dachau, the very first Nazi concentration camp. It was the location of some of worst atrocities ever perpetrated by humans, against other humans. According to historic records, during the 12 years it was in operation, Dachau housed over 200,000 prisoners, and more than 40,000 of them were murdered there. These were horrendous war crimes, committed on an industrial scale.
My father didn’t like talking about the war. As a young boy, I found the idea of war fascinating. I would often pester him about his experiences, but he was almost always reluctant to talk about them.
When pushed, he would say the war changed him, that he didn’t feel able to come back home straight away when the war ended. He felt too savage. He said he had seen too many horrible things, and couldn’t return to his normal life straight away. He needed time to adjust, so he volunteered to stay on as part of the provisional government, tasked with the denazification of Germany.
My father did have two go-to war stories, for when he was put on the spot, and I heard both more than once, over the years. One concerned a serious injury, when a mortar shell exploded near him, and the shrapnel sliced into his neck, barely missing an artery. He was stitched up and sent back to the frontline. It left a scar, you could still see. He received a Purple Heart medal for this incident, but he didn’t put in for it, for many decades, and only received it in his seventies.
The other story he would tell was even more dramatic. While on patrol in the Black Forest, a Nazi soldier jumped out from behind a tree, with his rifle trained on my father at close range. The Nazi pulled the trigger, but his rifle jammed, giving my father the opportunity to shoot and kill the Nazi instead. That jammed weapon spared my father’s life. My father called it fate, and said the incident left him shook. He knew he was very lucky to survive this brush with death.
You will notice I keep using the word Nazi, rather than German. I’m doing this, because my father always made this distinction. He liked the German people very much, and he said they were mostly very kind to him. But he hated, with a capital HATE, all Nazi soldiers, and especially, and specifically, the ones that tried to kill him. I never thought that was an unreasonable view for him to hold.
My father was my hero, when I was a kid. He was a man’s man, who could, and did, charm everyone he met. He could do everything. He rode horses, flew planes, and piloted boats. He could hunt, fish, he was a top marksman too. He could do woodwork, construction work, fix plumbing, fix cars, fix any engine, you name it. My best description of him is this: Picture Ernest Hemingway, but without the literary talent, or crippling alcoholism. He even looked a bit like Hemingway. That was my dad. He was hard working, capable, honest and decent, even if he was often emotionally distant.
My father’s name was Henry, but everyone called him “Mac” and he passed away in 2004. During the war, he was a Master Sergeant in the US Army. He told me he was offered several field commissions, but he always turned them down. When I asked why, he chuckled and asked me why I thought they were being offered on the battlefield. I thought for a moment, and I realised it was because the officers he had been asked to replace had been killed in action. My father said he didn’t want to end up like them, so he remained a Master Sergeant for the duration of his deployment.
My father was born in New York City, in 1921, which means he would have been 100 years old, next year if he was still alive. He was orphaned as a baby. His mother died due to complications from childbirth, the day after he was born. And his father left him with a foster family, then disappeared himself, never to return. He didn’t have the best start in life, and in many ways, this defined him. He was as self-made as a man could be.
My father married his first wife straight out of High School, at age 18, and they had their first child a year after that. I always thought he married so young to create the family he never had. A few years after that, America finally joined the war, my father voluntarily joined the military, and he was shipped out overseas. And by the age of 23, he was helping to liberate Dachau.
Contrast that with me at 23. I had just dropped out of university, again, and I was freelancing as a production assistant for MTV in New York. I wasn’t married, I had no children, and I hadn’t killed a single Nazi. Compared with my father at the same age, I was a loser, and a child, and not even a very successful child.
My father spoke German, and because of that, I chose to study the German language in High School. Every two years, my school sponsored a trip to Germany, for ten days of culture and sightseeing, while immersed in the language. But that wasn’t the appeal of the trip. The appeal was beer. The drinking laws in Germany were different from the USA, and it meant I would be legal to drink beer there. The motivation to go was strong.
When I was 16, in 1979, I went on the school’s Germany trip, and my father came along as a chaperone. I was worried his presence would curtail my legal, yet underage beer consumption. I was in touch with my teenage priorities. Now, I couldn’t imagine the trip without him.
Travelling in the olden days of the 1970’s was different than it is today. For starters, it was still relatively expensive, and overseas travel was rare. The flight to Germany would be only my second ever trip on a jet, and my very first abroad. And as it was a school trip, being organised as cheaply as possible, we didn’t even have direct flights.
Our journey began with a coach ride from the Jersey shore, to JFK airport in New York. We first flew to Iceland, where we had a very brief layover at the airport. That was my first time on foreign soil, and we didn’t even leave the airport at Reykjavik. The second leg of the flight didn’t even land in Germany, but instead in neighbouring, tiny Luxembourg, which was the second foreign country I ever visited. I spent maybe an hour there, at baggage claim, and on yet another coach. And it was that second coach, which finally brought us to our destination, Germany, my third new country that day. The journey took over 16 hours and was exhausting.
Sitting here now, in April 2020, trying to recall details of my first foreign trip, and I find myself prodding the recesses of my memory. I remember many of the different places we visited, like Neuschwanstein Castle, and the site of the 1972 Olympics in Munich, but my most enduring memory of the trip, is our visit to Dachau. Seeing online photos of the camp now, and they have a certain familiarity to them. A digital restoration of my faded memories.
Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, you heard about “the war” a lot. Not Vietnam, which was the current war back then, but the big world war. It weighed heavily on the minds of my parents’ generation. Heroic WW2 films were broadcast on TV constantly. And “The Diary of Anne Frank” was required reading in my High School. We knew the Nazis were the bad guys, but actually seeing Dachau for myself, brought it all home.
Our group was led around Dachau by a tour guide. We saw the rows of foundations where the wooden barracks once stood. We saw the crematoria, and the gas chambers. There was also a small museum. We were all very solemn, the enormity of the atrocities still evident.
At the end of the tour, my father took me aside and we found a spot outside to sit down. He seemed to be particularly subdued. He cleared his throat and told me he has been here before, in 1945, and this was his first time returning. Of course, I knew he had fought in Germany during the war, but at the time, I wasn’t aware of many details. He had never mentioned Dachau to me before. My father seemed surprised that he was having an emotional reaction to being back, like he wasn’t expecting it.
He went on to tell me that he was amongst the first US soldiers to arrive at the camp. And he recalled his shock at the conditions, and the physical state of the prisoners. He described them as living skeletons, just all skin stretched tightly over bone. We’ve all seen the photos, they were on display at the small museum on-site, but my father’s description felt more visceral to me. I could see in his eyes, that he had witnessed unspeakable things that day.
And then he told me something that really stuck with me, and it was a detail that I never thought to look into, until recently.
My father told me that they captured all the remaining camp guards, those that hadn’t fled as his unit arrived. He said that rather than take the captured guards as prisoners, he and his colleagues, made a different choice. They gave guns to some of the liberated prisoners, and allowed these former prisoners to march the camp guards away from the camp, into a wooded area nearby. A short time later, the former prisoners returned, but the camp guards did not.
I won’t lie, at 16 years old, I thought this was incredibly cool, like something out of a Hollywood film. Proper rough justice, a moral choice, an eye for an eye. Those Nazi guards ran a death camp. Whether they were following orders or not, they were still mistreating and murdering people on an industrial scale. They got what they deserved. End of. As a teenager, the world was still very black and white to me.
I was surprised my father opened up to me so much, that day. He was never very talkative, and he never spoke about his feelings, but I could see sharing this story with me wasn’t easy for him. I could also see that sharing this story was necessary for him, like he was unburdening himself.
After a brief, awkward silence, we were bundled back on to the coach, and we left Dachau. We finished the trip, flew back to America, and got on with our lives. I tried to ask my father about this incident again, several times, but all he would say, is “I already told you all I remember”, as a way to cut me off. I never got any more details, but the story stuck with me.
Flash forward to a couple of months ago, and I noticed the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Dachau was approaching soon. Of course, my father’s story popped into my head, and I realised I’d never actually looked into it.
While it doesn’t confirm every detail my father gave me, it does confirm his overall story, that between 35 and 50 Nazis were killed in the post-liberation reprisals. I’d never doubted my father’s story, but it was still interesting to read other accounts of that day.
And then the question that is the title of this piece, popped into my head. Was my father a war criminal? Could what he told me he did that day, be considered a war crime? It is a compelling title for a feature. You would click on it. You did click on it! But it still remained in my mind, as a valid question.
My plan, had I pitched this feature to a newspaper or magazine, and had it been commissioned, was to find an answer to this question. I would have interviewed a historian, and a war crimes prosecutor, to help me reach a conclusion. But I didn’t. I can’t imagine anything non-Covid related getting commissioned now. Maybe I’m wrong, but I didn’t pursue this idea any further.
Instead, I am writing this piece for my website. I’m writing it as a tribute to my father. And I will answer the question, posed by the title of this piece, unequivocally. Chances are, you’ve already worked out my view. My father was never a war criminal. What happened at Dachau, what my father said he did there, was a moral and just response to grossly immoral crimes against humanity. Allowing the prisoners to mete out their own extreme punishments, was just a tiny step towards rebalancing the scales of justice. Two wrongs may not make things right, but sometimes you still need to take that eye in return. I don’t need scholars and experts to tell me what I already know.
When I ask myself, would I have done the same thing, under the same circumstances? Maybe. How can I know for sure? My father was a tough, confident, self reliant man at the age of 23. I wasn’t. I would never have considered joining the military, I grew up in the shadow of the very divisive Vietnam war. I’m a lover, not a fighter. I wish I was as tough and battle-tested as my dad, but I’m not. The horrors I’ve experienced over my 30 year career as a journalist, even as a non-combatant in war zones, are pale in comparison, relative to what my father went through during the war.
My father has been gone for nearly 16 years, and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of him. Sometimes, the reminders are small, others are more significant. And I can think of nothing more significant than the Dachau liberation anniversary this week. It wasn’t just a major, historic event, it had a very personal significance for my father. And after our visit to Germany in 1979, for me too. I miss him a lot, and know I always will. When people talk of the greatest generation, I think of him. I’m not a tenth of the man he was, and never will be. No, my father wasn’t a war criminal. He was my hero.
My father in 2002, at age 81 (Source: Family photo)
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press and Reuters, and 15 years as a duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, and hippy.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
You can also find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy
We are living in unprecedented times. Nothing has come close to what we are going through right now, with COVID-19. And it is going to get worse before it gets better.
It’s OK to be afraid.
I’m scared, but then I have read that I have reason to be scared.
Hypertension, high blood pressure, which I have, is one of the leading risk factors for death from the coronavirus. My risk of death is 5 times higher as a result of my high blood pressure. I take pills to manage it, I monitor my BP frequently, and it is under control, but it still increases my risk of death.
Old age is another risk factor, I am pushing 60. The older you are, the more at risk you are. The NHS is not equipped or resourced enough to deal with this pandemic. Five cases out of 100 infections will require intensive care and we simply do not have the beds, the ventilators, or the staff to cope with what is about to come.
I am assuming if I catch it, I am going to die and I don’t think this is an unreasonable view of my situation. And a death at home due to respiratory failure, is a death I do not wish to contemplate. So yeah, I am scared.
It’s OK to be scared.
I am full time carer for my partner, and have been for the last few years. If something happens to me, she is on her own. So I can’t let anything happen to me. So I won’t.
Last year, I had a breakdown myself. It was a bad one. Though be honest, have you ever heard of anyone having a good one? It’s not something I have mentioned much online, so far.
I nearly checked out of life last year, I was really low. I am saving the details for my book, “High Hopes”, assuming I survive long enough to finish it, and anyone is left to read it when I do.
For the first time in over 20 years, Mrs. H and I are in a position where we can move out, leave London and take it easy. And this stupid virus is fucking it all up.
I planned on house hunting in March and April, and if I found a place, moving by June. Clearly none of that is going to happen, if I am self isolating like an old person for the next few months, or longer.
If this pandemic hit a year ago, I would have simply and quietly surrendered to it. But a year later, with new found freedom, determination and some rare optimism for the future, and I want to do all I can to survive.
I think the government advice so far has been far too weak. We are in the period where people are walking around infected, without showing symptoms, and spreading it. We can slow this bullshit down.
Our Prime Minister, Boris Johnson is not letting this pandemic interfere with taking weekends off, and he has not been seen for a few days. That’s probably a blessing, since all he did during his last press conference is tell us that everyone we love is going to die. Not exactly channeling Churchill there, is he? Can we get Boris an empathy coach?
A reassuring PM
Now is the time for social distancing and self isolating. Don’t wait for the government to advise it. And no, clearly I am not a doctor, or expert, but I have a lot of common sense, and that is what I am using to guide me and my decisions. If the government won’t exercise good judgement, then we will need to do it for ourselves. Just look at how other countries are coping and the fallings here so far, become more apparent.
It’s OK to be frightened, it’s OK to be scared. None of us have ever experienced anything like what is going on now. The unknown is scary. Our leaders indecision and inaction, is scary. And potentially dying from this horrible virus, or losing loved ones, is scary too.
We can do this. We can survive. Common sense, and caution. If you can stay home, do it. If you need to go out, keep lots of distance between you and anyone else. Act like you have it already, and act like everyone else does too. And wash your damn hands! A lot!
It’s OK to be afraid. I’m a grown-assed man and I am scared. But I am not going to let my fear rule my life. I am going to survive this, and so are you! And hopefully, when we all come out the other side, we can keep making this world a better place. Just hang on to your optimism, we are going to need all we can get!
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press, and Reuters, and 15 years as an overnight duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, hippy, and drug law reform campaigner.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
Doug’s next book, “High Hopes” should have been published by now, but it is hard to write a book about remaining optimistic in the face of adversity, during a global pandemic. Try it yourself!
For the last year, Doug has spent most of his time hiding away from a killer virus. Bet many of you have too.
You can find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy.
(Photo taken Sept 2012, on my first NBH nightshift)
I have worked in the media for the past 35 years, the last 30 as a journalist. But the role I am most proud of, is my work from 2013 to 2019, as a background artist on the BBC’s Ten O’Clock News.
I didn’t start out at the BBC as a human prop in the background of the network news. From 2004, I worked there as a senior broadcast journalist too.
(TVC at dawn)
When the network news teams moved from Television Centre, into New Broadcasting House, in the spring of 2013, I got to make my on-air debut as a background artist. We don’t like to be called extras. Using that word only diminishes us.
There’s a good chance you might have spotted me during one of my many recurring appearances. I played “journalist rushing between desks”, a role I put my very heart and soul into, night after night.
I joined the BBC less than a year after I left Associated Press Television News. I worked at AP for around a decade, as a field producer, cameraman and news desk editor.
When I left AP, I had only one career goal, to work for BBC News. I eventually wangled an introduction via an old friend to the right person and started freelancing in the Spring of 2004. I got my first contract in the autumn of that year and was a member of staff until earlier this year, when I left their employ.
BBC News initially hired me as a World Duty Editor, working on the foreign desk, and I started out on the nightshift. Fifteen years later, I was still only working nights, and still working in effectively the same job. That’s half of my thirty year career as a journalist. Go me.
It wasn’t easy, joining the BBC later in life. There was so much jargon and BBC-speak, that I felt lost for the first 6 months I was there. And it is just so big. There was a lot to learn to do my new job. I was lucky that a couple of people, and one in particular, helped me get up to speed in those early days. Otherwise I would never have lasted long enough to become a background artist, when the time finally came to have that very small, yet vital on-air role.
(That’s BBC News foreground artist/newsreader Fiona Bruce on-set, with background artists/journalists behind him)
If you’ve watched BBC News on TV in the last 7 years, you no doubt noticed that behind the main set where Huw Edwards sits, is the actual BBC newsroom. That’s where I worked, that’s where I sat. If you think the CCTV surveillance is bad where you work, imagine having it broadcast to millions of people, night after night, in high definition.
When we first went live from NBH, everyone was extremely uptight about what those of us in the background might do. Journalists are notoriously unpredictable, just ask any politician.
We were discouraged from standing up and we were told not to wear bright colours. On one of the early broadcasts, someone had a hi-vis vest on, as they were preparing to depart and cycle home in the dark. It stood out, like hi-vis yellow is meant to do. But it was noticed by management, and hi-vis clothing was quickly banned from our shop floor. I think it still is to this very day. I hope that’s not a trade secret!
For the first couple of weeks, a squad of spotters patrolled the newsroom floor during BBC One network news broadcasts. They were in direct contact via radio headsets, with managers watching screens in the gallery. It was the spotter’s job was to quickly rush over on command from the gallery, to point out when people violated the rules of behaviour in the background. Mainly they just barked at us to “get down”. A lot. It was weird. I bet they had experience working as baby wranglers on a nappy advert before this gig.
As I mentioned, I only worked nights, and the Ten O’Clock news went out within the first 90 minutes of my arrival. In that time, I really would be rushing around, trying to speak to people who had been on all day, asking them questions, about what happened while I slept. Once they went home, that was it, I was on my own, so it was always good to get as much info as possible from them.
I had an actual, operational need to be in constant motion. So my character, “journalist rushing between desks” had motivation and a rich and complex backstory. I hope you agree it allowed my performance to be more multilayered, nuanced, and convincing.
The patrolling spotters didn’t like me, or care at all, why I had to move around during the news. I was yelled at more than once, to “get down”. It was about as much fun as it sounds.
When they told me to “get down” I had to constantly resist the huge urge to jump up on the desk and shout “gimme a beat!” and then do my best choreography. But then I would remember I was a short, fat, bald, middle-aged guy, with zero dancing skill. It was always a crushing blow.
What was worse, is for maybe the first 6 months of being in the new building, my colleagues were constantly telling me they spotted me on TV during the news.
It was always the same. My shift would finish around 7am, I would pass someone on the spiral stairs, or near the revolving doors, or outside on the piazza, and they would say, “I saw you on TV last night”. Or “you sure looked busy buzzing around behind Huw”. Or my personal favourite, “you looked like you were in a hurry last night.” Of course I bloody was! I was “journalist rushing between desks”!
As nice as it was to be complimented by my peers for my convincing performance, in truth I would have preferred to have never been spotted. I never asked to be a background artist. I was happy enough, just doing my real job as an overnight, duty news editor.
My specialty at BBC News, if I can call it that, was breaking news. When something unexpected or unforeseen occurred in the middle of the night, that was when I got to shine. Earthquakes, plane crashes, any disaster really. And high profile deaths too. Good news never happens in the dead of night. Only bad.
In my job as a duty news editor, I was responsible for organising the BBC’s initial response to big, breaking news and I’ve dealt with a huge range of stories, from the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami in Asia, to the Grenfell Tower fire in 2017 and many, many more. If you watched any TV news in the last 30 years, there’s pretty good chance you saw something I had a hand in covering. That’s not a boast, it’s just a fact.
And even though I’ve lost track and count of the number of major and minor events I have covered in the last 30 years, they have had an accumulated effect on me. How could they not? Professional detachment can only get you so far.
I still find it hard to let go of the enormity and horror of Grenfell, and I still have the occasional nightmare about it. And it still hurts many years later, to think about friends I’ve lost in the line of duty. There is a personal cost to my former line of work, and everyone ends up paying for it, eventually.
After a period of ill health last year, and my subsequent recovery, I decided to leave the BBC. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I know it is time for me to move on. I’m a full-time hippy now, something I have secretly wanted to be for a very long time.
I will cherish my time at BBC News, and as a journalist. It was great place to work, full of smart, dedicated, hard-working people. And even though new challenges and adventures hopefully await me, I know I will miss that very special time when I was a background artist on the BBC Ten O’Clock News.
I understand they have had to recast my role. It wouldn’t be the BBC News without someone portraying “journalist rushing between desks”. I wish my replacements nothing but success and all the best, as I do to all my former colleagues. I will miss you all.
Doug – the northlondonhippy
4th March 2020
(That was me, 15 years ago)
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press and Reuters, and 15 years as a duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time writer, hippy, and the United Kingdom’s very first cannabis evangelist. Hallelujah and amen to that!
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
“Personal Use” is available as a digital download on all platforms, including Amazon’s Kindle, Apple’s iBooks and Barnes & Noble’s Nook. The paperback is available from all online retailers and book shops everywhere.
You can also find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy but only if you look really hard
Personal Use – Book Montage
Copyright: All words and photos are copyright the northlondonhippy…
…except the screen-grab of BBC News, which is used fairly without permission, but with affection.
Sixteen years ago, on the 4th of March 2004, I posted my first ever entry on the original northlondonhippy Blogspot blog. It was a long, rambling piece, introducing myself. It didn’t get seen by many people, but it kickstarted this thing that I am somehow, still doing. Sixteen years later, I am still pretending to be a make-believe hippy online. The pretending ends, next week.
On 4th March 2020, exactly sixteen years to the very day, I will be publishing a piece online that pretty much identifies me. It’s an extract from my forthcoming book, “High Hopes”, which is the follow up to my first book, “Personal Use”.
Personal Use
If you know me in real life, then you will learn I am the hippy. And if you know me online, then you will find out who I really am. Everybody’s finding out something, even me. I’m going to find out if I can really be a full time hippy.
I’m ready to start working again, so once this piece goes live, you can hire a hippy. Details will be available here on my website of what I can do for you, and your media organisation. Yes, you can hire a hippy. Everyone should have one on retainer, because you never know when one will come in handy. I’m a handy hippy, and I represent real value for money. Ask me about my loyalty scheme and hippy reward card.
While I am still expecting a collective “so what” from the wider world to my public revelation, should there be any media interest, I will be available to any and all media organisations that might wish to speak to me. Don’t all queue up at once!
Doesn’t matter how big or small your outlet might be. For the first fortnight after publication, I will say yes to any legitimate requests that I can physically do, in person, on the phone, or via Skype. But check this, as it is really important. After the two weeks are up, I won’t agree to just anything, and will only say yes to things that meet my new criteria for life.
What’s my new criteria for life? Simple, I will only turn up if I can have some fun, or do some good. No good? No fun? Then no hippy. No joke.
From now on, I will be writing and campaigning full time. This is what I do now. I will have more to say on this, once my piece goes live, but I will remain open to any and all opportunities. If I do this right, you will all be sick of me in no time. Maximum effort for maximum exposure.
I will also be offering all media organisations in Britain free training for their journalists with my new course called “Covering cannabis accurately in the age of legalisation”. Having spent the better part of three decades in British newsrooms, I can tell you that the general standard of cannabis knowledge is extremely low and woefully inaccurate. I aim to change that. I’m not going to teach any controversy, as the great British press manufacture plenty on their own. I will teach facts, science, and history, and I will give them an introduction into what a legal, regulated market looks like.
The UK is way behind the rest of the world when it comes to cannabis, and I don’t want to see us be the last country on earth to sort this out. If we really want to unleash the true power of global Britain, then the legal cannabis industry needs to be a part of it, for us to reach our true potential. Why do you think so many other territories are jumping on the cannabis bandwagon?
You might have noticed the countdown clock near the top of this page. When it hits zero, at midnight on Weds 4th March 2020, my new piece will go live online, here on my site. You don’t need to stay awake to read it, it will still be there in the morning, when you wake up. And so will I. And you all will know a lot more about me than I ever expected to tell anyone. Things change, I changed too. Wish me luck, I am going to need it. And I apologise in advance for the disappointment.
Hippy Highlights
While you wait, you can check out some of my recent output on this list of hippy highlights:
The northlondonhippy is an author, cannabis evangelist and recreational drug user, who has been writing about drugs and drug use for 16 years. In real life, until recently, the hippy was a senior multimedia journalist working for a large company. With over 30 years experience of working in broadcast news, the hippy’s now left journalism to embark on a career as a full time hippy.
The hippy’s book, ‘Personal Use’ details his first 35 years of drug use, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
“Personal Use” is available as a digital download on all platforms, including Amazon’s Kindle, Apple’s iBooks and Barnes & Noble’s Nook. The paperback is available from all online retailers and book shops everywhere.
The hippy’s next book, “High Hopes” will be published in autumn 2020.
You can also find the hippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippybut only if you look really hard.
It might not seem like it, just yet, but I am now a full time hippy. Yay! The countdown clock has ticked down and for the first time in a decade and a half, I am now unemployed.
I spent the last 30 years working as a journalist, mixed media really, but mostly TV news. The last 15 years was for the same company. It’s one you’ve heard of. but I’m not revealing it, yet. I’m not revealing much of anything, now. I’m still waiting for my final pay cheque. Once that’s banked, then I can pull back the curtain. I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid.
I will be publishing a piece in the next couple of weeks, which reveals my identity. Somewhat.
Spoiler alert: You will get my first name, and you will find out where I used to work. I’m still a nobody, my name won’t make a difference. I will still be the northlondonhippy, but I want to claim my real-life identity publicly, anyway. I have wanted to do this for a long time.
There will be a companion piece, which lays out my goals in my new role as the UK first self-proclaimed, cannabis evangelist. It’s not a crowded field, but I still want to make my mark. Hallelujah and amen to that!
Now that I have the freedom to operate a bit more openly, I want to spend the next few weeks getting some advice, I want to contact some people I admire who fight to reform our drug laws, plus some campaigners in other fields, and some media folk too. I want whatever I end up doing to have some impact.
Personal Use – Book Montage
When I wrote and published “Personal Use”, I had no expectations. It was a fun, secret side project. I used to joke if I sold a million copies, I would quit my job and be a full time hippy. I haven’t sold a million, not even close, yet here I am.
So while you wait for me to do whatever it is I am going to do, here’s a selection of 10 hippy highlights to keep you entertained:
The northlondonhippy is an anonymous author, cannabis evangelist and recreational drug user, who has been writing about drugs and drug use for over 15 years. In real life, the hippy was a senior multimedia journalist until Feb 2020. With over 30 years experience of working in broadcast news, the hippy’s now left journalism to embark on a career as a full time hippy, writer and cannabis evangelist.
The hippy’s book, ‘Personal Use’ details the hippy’s first 35 years of recreational drug taking, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
“Personal Use” is available as a digital download on all platforms, including Amazon’s Kindle, Apple’s iBooks and Barnes & Noble’s Nook. The paperback is available from all online retailers and book shops everywhere.
The hippy says his next book, “High Hopes” will be published in 2020. The hippy says a lot of things.
You can also find the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippybut only if you look really hard.
