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OfflineSummerBreeze
Phyconaughty

Registered: 08/07/03
Posts: 741
Loc: Antwerpen.
Last seen: 7 years, 11 months
"Days of speed and slow time Monday's...."
    #2554438 - 04/13/04 02:36 PM (12 years, 7 months ago)

I'd left the shores of Belfast one fine sunny Summers day in June. Working through an agency that I'd warn you about if they were still in buisness.
I was looking forward too hitting the streets of Holland again after 5/6 years and getting rightiously toasted on choice bud.
But what's this? My employers are stipulating that too smoke weed is too get the Big Elbow (tm)! But not too be dissuaded I said that was something that I'd not dabbled in since I was a kid. So giving the Boy-Scouts Dib-Dib-Dib! I signed on the dotted line and sold my soul for a handful of Guilders.
The journey there I wont bore you with. Suffice too say that I got a lift from who was too be my superviser and who also happened too be known too me as a certified fucking mad)man on the Belfast scene.
I was picked up at 7.00am in front of my apartment in a bright canary yellow Volkswagon Bettle that was jarring my already hungover head terribly and causeing no doubt serious retina damage in the bright morning sun.
So with Uncle Fester at the wheel we speed into the gathering day light and whatever fate had in store for us both.
A tape was slipped into the cassette player, "You'll like this wee tune here, big-man!" he says.
And I did. Not anymore though. Green Onions (Booker T and the MG's) has always been a great and groovy dance tune to my ears. But I travelled from South Belfast too South Holland with it playing CONTINUOUSLY on the tape deck. This mad-man had ony gone and taped the tune over and over and over. Forty five minutes both sides! Luckily I as seriously hung-over from my farewell party the night before so was able too escape into sleep. Waking occassionaly to complain that I could'nt smoke in the car and, "are we there yet? Are we there yet?" .
Which got me to Holland.
I worked up and down the country from then. Doing shite jobs for shite companies for surprisingly good cash. Which I mainly spent on drugs. Silly now I know; I worked out that had I been saving my cash I could have been well on the way to a nice house/mortgage by this stage in my life. In it's place I've got a part time Coke habit and a sore liver. Go figure!?! That's life? Yeah, that's what the people say.......
I'd made my way by this time too Lieden. A beautiful little student city. Small enough too call home but with enough differences too make it seem like I was doing something with my puff.
All together there were 24 of us living in our erstwhile eployeers house that he has bought too fix up. Dirty stinking times. Six too a room. Two showers and two W.C's between the lot. I'd say in all the time we were there I was the only person ever to attempt to clean them. Rotten. Way too much in the way of Persian Rug's and textiles (tm) went on. And most of the crowd were away from home for the first time. Bad, bad mix.
Some good times as well, no worries. The first night we all tripped on 'shrooms stands out in my hazy memory as a blast. Our conciergie/janitor/caretaker, call him what you will, we did frequently. As he had serious trouble understanding what we said in our thick Belfast accents and incomprehensible street slang we got away with murder. Calling him all the cunts of the day and ripping the pish out of him at every oppurtunity. This one night though he brought round a huge bag of 'shrooms to impress us. Which they did. Untill we had finished the bag and forgot about him. Leaving him to punch holes in the walls while tripping out. That may give you some idea of the condition of the house. We burnt the doors when it got cold in Winter and ripped up floor boards in one of the rooms for the same fate. Hallions and Clampets the lot of us. But. This night we were tripped out. Going mad. It was the first time I/we had down 'cubes. Coming from Ireland where only Liberty caps grow it was a new and very enjoyable experience collectively for us. So it's the height of Summer and everyone is running around this huge three story house in underwear and huge trippy smiles. The door goes and we look out the second floor window. And it's the fuzz. Fair fucks. It was around 3.30am and we were being leery. They were more than polite and I think that's what amazed me the most. Coming from Belfast where the force tend to have a name for wading into situations heavy handed. So this one guy (names with held to protect the innocent) leans out the window to be our Ambassador/go-between. And he's handling the situation beautifuly for someone wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a head full of 'shrooms. But whats this? He's only gone and leant out to far and is begining to slip further out the window. We're two stories up here. Potentialy fatal fall, is what I mean to say. So we grabbed him. Whereever we could within the realms of common deceny. But he's sweaty as fuck and still slipping. The worst was that the humour of the moment struct us as delicious. With that and the natural Belfast, "What the fuck you gonna' do about it, Big-man?!?" attitude we were creased with laughter. He was saved finaly by this one guy grabbing a big handful of sweaty skin and back hair (ouch!) and dragging the idiot back through the window. Thus saving him from landing smack on top of the Dutch police force who were giving us the nod for the noise. For the saviours trouble he got a smack round the head from the guy. Gratitude, eh? But what the fuck, wha?!? Rid of the pigs we carried on with the night. Maybe you had too be there but that night stands out as maybe the first time we bonded as a complete unit before the drugs kicked in too a lot of the people and things just-got-messy. Heroin. What the fuck ya gonna' do, Big-man?!? Wha?!?
One night, and this what I want too talk about, a few of our crowd came back with the Word. Some guy in the local Hostel/coffee shop/Den of Iniquity (tm) had gave them the touch that there was a days work going cutting grass for a coffee shop. 125 Guilders for 12 hours work refreshments provided. Sounded way too good too be true. That was mostof our opions. A little too cushty to be taken for real. So we all decided too go for it anyway. It being Saturday we had a fucking wrecker head session too celebrate our sound decision. Already cracking jokes about which road side verge we'd be hacking away at come the morrow.
So it's 6.30am and there are ten from the twenty that said they were up for it th enight before. You can easily tell which of the crowd are into booze/heroin/barbs. They're the ones still in their beds. The rest of us are made of sterner stuff. And coke/speed and pills. Wide eyed and jittering since............................
It had been arranged to pick us up at the hostel between 6.30 and 700am. The hostel was a demented place. I never enjoyed being there? The atm?sphere was all wrong. Violence and ill spoken words cluttered the place. Last nights locked in boozers mixing with the early morning drinkers coming in for an eye opener. All pish and vinegar. Small time gangsters and crooks straight from Scotland/England and Irish Ghettos all trying too make a name for themselves as local hoods and faces. Tossers the most of them. But what th efuck, eh? It's 6.30am and the beers flowing. Breakfast? Whats that?!?
Outside a covered lorry pulls up and this fat Dutch bloke gets out and gestures too us. Being the polite and well brought up guy that I am I asked in brokedn Dutch if he also had a days work for me. He replied that as I was there, in broken English, that I should just jump on in the back. No worries.
And of we go.
There were already a few people in there. One or two of which I'd had run ins with a couple of weeks before over a deal gone pear shaped and the bottom falling out of a good coke contact. Some early morning dagers were being hurled from half lidded eyes. These being the sort that had been in the city for a number of years and viewed themselves as an authority on all and everything. Clampets. One of which went tits up and blue on a bad shot. No great loss was the general concenus. I don't think his body was even sent back to England as no-one had cared enough to find out where he had origionly came from. As I say, no great loss. What the fuck ya gona' do?!?
Also in the back was The Stick-Man. The Stick-Man deserves a mention if only 'cause he was the weridest fucker I ever met. I dont believe, even to this day, that it was not all just a front. No-one could be that fuckin' strange and not take a good shoeing every once ina while. Human nature just woul'nt stand for it. He was called The Stick-Man for the obvious reason of, yes, you guessed it, he carried a stick everywhere he went. When I say stick I mean staff. When I say staff I mean brush pole. You get me? Not ordaned nor nothing. Just a plain old brush pole. I think he grew up with a bit too much of a fondness of LOTR. Anyway The Stick-Man. He mst have had rich parents and a steady income to his bank balance as I never clocked the guy working more than a couple of days in a row and he was forever buying huge piles of records which he would then play at all hours of the day and night pissing everyone that had to work in the moring right the fuck off. He'd turn up for work one day then the next he would awake at 6.00am as normal and start to play his tunes, "Hey! Stick-Man! You comin' to work?". No reply. Small shake of head and on with the next tune. This guy didnt even lay any textiles(tm). He was just.....strange for the sake of strangness.
He was in possession of a mangy curr of a mutt. More two meals away from deaths door than two meals away from a wolf, if you get what I mean? Real yappy bastard. One of those high pitched barks that goes right through you. Constant. So the dogs starts to bark in the back and the driver starts to bang on the windown telling us too keep it down. We had, I know for a fact, been driving round in circles for the last twenty minutes or so. I was sure of this as we had passed the clicking traffic light three times so far. Al the time I lived in Holland I was stoked on speed. I sleep maybe a handful of hours every couple of days and lived on around three good meals a week. Subsiding on daily intakes of a gram of base and pints of milk and raw eggs Yes, I knw how it sounds. But what the fuck ya gonna' do about it? What?!? I had a lot of time too roam the streets is what I mean too say. And I did. Putting miles on my internal clock. Walking around making sue that no-one had nicked any historic buildings while I was'nt looking. Somedays I would simmply get a jump on the day by walking out too my work and awaiting the doors to open. And that was some walk. No joke, like, I really put the miles in those nights/days.
So I could tell where we were with surprisingly good accuracy no windows or not. All the while people are complaining at The Stick-Man. "Get that dog the fuck out or yer gettin' lamped" was what the main topic of conversation centered on. All the time he's like, "Naw, it's fine, he'll settle in a bit." But it never did.
So in the end the van stops and all the Cloak and Dagger driving in circles to hid the destination was in ruins. Poor Stick-Man. The last I heard him say was, "Well if the dog goes then I go?!?", Right then! Out thesweet fuck, mate, and dont spare a second glance. No worries. As he's closing the doors though his stick leans through and is snatched by an enterprising and swift mitten. Crack! and K-runch! Stick in two. Both ends bounced off his loaf as the doors slam and the van echos with our laughter. Cruel but oh so funny.
We had another little drive around the streets. Driving up and down the same streets as before till we crossed a stretch of cobble stones that told me we where leaving town Southside.
Five minutes more the van stopped and we were let out. We stood in front of a lovely big house. Surrounded by tall hedges and detatched from the rest of the straat.
We tip toes inside with fingers to our lips hushing each other and trying not too make the gravel path rattle so much when we walked. The inside of the house was completely different though. Gone was the nice suburbia. In it's place was what in my speed haze I took too be the interior fromsome space-ship of Battle Star Galactica!
Silver foil and ventillation tubes snaked every which way. Bright blue grow lamps cast an eerie glow over all. Extractor fans Whoosing occassionalyexchanging the heady scent of weed to the outside air in safe blasts completed the scene. All very professional. We were each handed a pair of scissors on entering. The mantra for the day, no scissors no pay.
Our job was simple. To make the bud from plant to shop quality as quickly as possible. We would strip the branch. Snip the smaller leaves and deposit the cleaned bud in a large bag in the center of the room. Staright forward enough. After a while I noticed my hands were becoming stiff with the resin and I started to build myself a tidy block of hash from it by rubbing my hands together. Someone had the idea to make a joint. Grabbinbg a handful of bud and placing it on a lamp to dry. It was then wrapped up, not even broken, into a handful of skins and sparked up. Smoked like a chimney. I'm talking a good 1/2 ounce joint here, now. I had one draw and passed it on. My head swimming. With the osmsosi(sp?) effect of cutting the plants, it soaking into our skins we were already beinging to trip out.

Second installment too come as My fingers are sore from typing.


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"Must'nt Grumble!".


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OfflineNoviseer
Percussion isFree
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Registered: 03/18/03
Posts: 3,994
Last seen: 2 years, 8 days
Re: "Days of speed and slow time Monday's...." [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2554654 - 04/13/04 03:15 PM (12 years, 7 months ago)

great, great story.  Have you thought about being a writer, getting something published? no shit i'm seroius.  get on that second installment :wink:


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_______________________________________________________________
namaste said:
no flamz in da ODD, if you got nothing to contribute then keep yo lips zipped
_________________________________________________________________


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OfflineSummerBreeze
Phyconaughty

Registered: 08/07/03
Posts: 741
Loc: Antwerpen.
Last seen: 7 years, 11 months
Re: "Days of speed and slow time Monday's...." [Re: Noviseer]
    #2554771 - 04/13/04 03:33 PM (12 years, 7 months ago)

That's very kind of you, Sir. And also quite perceptive. This is taken from a (soon too be) addittion to a book by a German publishing house. From a contact on another discussion board whom I shall be meeting with In Brussels next Friday to talk further on the subject. It's paid work as well which is well sweet.
The beauty is, and this works also with my song lyrics* that they change each time (sometimes) that they come out. Aw shucks! Just naturally talented I guess!
Wait for the second part when Godzilla and Mothra play a walk on part complete with canned laughter and these words from our sponsers.
Cheers. I'll get the rest tomorrow.

BTW. Is it not a bit iffy being both a Vegan and a Surfer? Like, I'm Hip to how harsh a Vegan diet is. Being a Veggie for the last 16 years I have nothing but the utmost respect for your convictions. But what happens if you accidently swallow a bit of plankton when you "wipe-out"?
Serious attack of morals there I'd say.**

















*Shit! But that sounded posed and contrived! Sorry for that!


**I'm only raking, you know that?


--------------------
"Must'nt Grumble!".


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OfflineNoviseer
Percussion isFree
 User Gallery

Registered: 03/18/03
Posts: 3,994
Last seen: 2 years, 8 days
Re: "Days of speed and slow time Monday's...." [Re: SummerBreeze]
    #2555040 - 04/13/04 04:14 PM (12 years, 7 months ago)

Quote:

SummerBreeze said:


*Shit! But that sounded posed and contrived! Sorry for that!







eh, not so bad :wink:


--------------------
_______________________________________________________________
namaste said:
no flamz in da ODD, if you got nothing to contribute then keep yo lips zipped
_________________________________________________________________


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OfflineSummerBreeze
Phyconaughty

Registered: 08/07/03
Posts: 741
Loc: Antwerpen.
Last seen: 7 years, 11 months
Re: "Days of speed and slow time Monday's...." [Re: Noviseer]
    #2558051 - 04/14/04 07:19 AM (12 years, 7 months ago)

I'd left the shores of Belfast in search of employment one fine sunny summer?s day in June. Working through an extremely dodgy agency that I'd warn you about if they were still in business.
I was looking forward to hitting the streets of Holland again after 5/6 years and getting righteously toasted on choice bud.
But what's this? My "employers" are stipulating that for one too smoke is (tantamount to) one getting the Big E!
But nNot to be dissuaded I said that that was something that I'd not been into since I was a kid. Giving the Boy Scouts? Dib-Dib-Dib! I signed on the dotted line and sold my soul for a handful of gGuilders.
The journey there I won?t bore you with. Suffice too say that I got a lift with who was too be my supervisor-to-be and, who also happened to be known to me as a certified mad man on the Belfast scene.
I was picked up outside the apartment at 7.00am in a bright yellow Beetle that was jarring my already hung-over head terribly.
With Uncle Fester behind the wheel we speed of into the bright morning.
A tape was slipped into the cassette player., "Yyou'll like this wee tune here, wee man!" he says.
And I did. Not anymore though. Green Onions has always been a great and groovy dance tune for me. But. I travelled from Belfast South to Holland South with it playing CONTINUOUSLY on the tape deck. This madman had only gone and recorded a 90 minute tape with the tune repeated again, and again and again and again.........luckily I was hung-over from the party the night before so could sleep most of the way -. Waking occasssionally to bitch that I couldn't smoke in the car and ask how much further. "We there yet? We there yet? We there yet?"
Which got me to Holland. I worked up and down the country from then. Doing crap jobs in factories with crap people for surprisingly good cash. Which I mainly spent on drugs. Silly I know.
I calculated that had I saved in that period I would have a nice house/mortgage by this stage in my life. In it's place I've got a part time coke habit and a sore liver. Go figure! That's life? Yeah, that's what the people say..........
I'd made my way by this stage to Leiieden. Lovely little student city. Small enough too feel like home but with enough differences too make it seem like I was doing something constructive with my puff.
All together there were 24 of us living in our erstwhile employer?s house thatwhich he'd bought to fix up. Dirty stinking times. Six too a room. Two showers and two toilets between the lot that I'd say I was the only person ever too try and clean. Rotten. Way too much in the way of Persian rugs went on there. And most of the crowd were away from home for the first time. Bad mix.
Some good times though. The first night we all done 'shrooms together fer'instance.
Our concierge/janitor/Junior (loveable fool) had brought a huge bag of them to the house to impress us. Which they did. Until they were all consumed. T then we forgot about him, choosing instead to enjoy the trip. Leaving him to punch holes in walls. Which may give you an impression of what the place was like. That was the night we almost killed one of our house mates. Height of Summer and people are running round in their underwear tripping balls. The door goes and it's the fuzz. No worries. So our ambassador (names with held to protect the innocent) leans out the window. Naked except for shorts and tripping right the fuck out and starts to try and reason with the Police. But he's leant out too far and doesn't realise it in his intoxicated state! So we grab him. Where ever we can! But he's sweating like a pig and slippy with it! It was one guy grabbing him by a handful of back and back hair that saved him falling the two floors on top of the Dutch police force. Funny now but at the time with a head full of fungi I was already reading tomorrow?s front page in broken Dutch.
"STUPID IRISH WRECK HEAD DIES IN BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGLE!!??!! Well, something along those lines any way.
One night, and this is what I want to talk on, a few of our crowd came back from a night out with the info that they'd met some people who had offered them extra work. 125 gGuilders for 12 hours. Food and refreshments included. Cutting grass form plant to bag. Too good too be true I thought and said. I was of the view that it would be "cutting grass" at the side of a road verge and not the other Funky Astro Turf (tm).
But we had all (20 of us) decided that we'd try it out anyway. 125 gGuilders being just that that - 125 gGuilders.
We had a little party to celebrate our good fortune and wise decision (sic).
So it's 6.30am and there are 10 out of the 20 turned up and waiting. Out of the twenty you can easily tell which ones are into H/barbs and booze. They're the ones still in bed. The rest are made of sterner stuff. And cocaine/speed/pills. Wide eyed and jittering since...................!
We'd arranged apparently too be picked up from "The Hostel". A demented place where all the UKuk work force would congregate to avoid the Dutch. Harshly put but true enough. I never enjoyed the place. The atmosphere was all wrong. Fights and cross words being the order of the day. Coked up little gangsters straight from UK gGhettos trying too make a name for themselves as big time wheelers and dealers. All front, pish and vinegar, if you know what I mean.
6.30am and the beer is flowing already. Breakfast? What's that?
Outside a covered lorry pulls up and this fat Dutch bloke comes inside and waves us over. We head for the back. Being a polite well brought up person I took it on myself too ask the guy if he minded giving me a day?s work also. In broken Dutch. He replied in broken English that as I was here I may as well jump in the back. And off we go. There were already a few people inside the truck. A couple that I'd had run- in's with in the past. True Clampets that had been in the city for years and seemed to view themselves as custodians of everything they clapped eyes on. Nothing else going for their lives so they try and spoil others? fun. You know the type. We had with us one guy called The Stick Man. The Stick -Man deserves a mention as one of the strangest people I have ever met. I always thought that it must be a front that he carried . Aas he created such a stir in people that there was no way it could be natural and not a forced pose of strangeness. He was called The Stick-Man as he always carried this staff (read brush pole) with him wherever he went. Much like Gandalf. I don't think he was a textile user. His strangeness was just........strange. He must have had money from somewhere as he would work for a day then just walk out of the job not to return. Yet he always had cash. Which he spent on records which he would then play from sun up till sun down at top volume. Much to everyone else's distress.
The reason I've picked The Stick-Man out of the crowd of weirdoo's to focus on is due to his dog. A small mangy mutt on a piece of type cast string. Punk dog. Not so much two meals away from a wolf as two meals away from death. We had been told to stay as quiette as possible in the back for the obvious reason that we were being driven to a weed factory and it was, well, it was illegal. So hush-hush. The drivers had been taking us round in circles for 30 minutes or so. I knew this for a fact. I had a terrible speed habit at the time and tended to spend a lot of my time walking the streets at night. I knew the different early morning sounds of the city and was able to place where we were with surprising accuracy. At this point The Stick-Man's dog starts to howl a hurricane! Non stop. All the while with The Stick-Man saying, "No worries, he'll settle in bit".
But it didn't stop. The drivers were banging on the window shouting in Dutch for silence. While in the back the self elected leaders (sic?) of the crowd were berating The Stick-Man for his choice of four legged friends. Threats were bandied around. Eg, "Iif that mutt doesn't shut up I'm going to break that brush pole and stick it up yer arse!" Which as fate had it actually happened. Well at least the pole breaking. Not the end bit. The truck was stopped and the doors opened. This guy was livid! Fair play, like. They had been trying to get us too believe that we were miles from nowhere. All the while I knew due to the fact that we had passed the clicking traffic light three times so far that we were in fact only ten minutes or so from where we had started. All very cloak and dDagger. So the dog was told to get out. The Stick-Man in all his innocence said, "Well, if the dog goes then I go as well!?!"
No fucking worries was the general consensus! Out the fuck! He climbs out. But as he's going to close the door his staff/brush pole leans through. And is grabbed by a watchful person and broken in two. KE-RUNCH!! The pieces are then thrown through the gap and the door slammed shut. Bye-Bye Stick-Man! (I saw him on the street a week later with the pole sellotapted together, badly. All crooked and bent).
And off we went again.
Another pointless ride round the streets followed. Pointless as I was able to give a running commentary on where we were and were heading too. You got to appreciate that at this time I did not sleep more than a handful of hours per week. No messing. The rest of the time I spent roaming the streets checking that no-one was making off with the historic buildings. I loved that little city. And still do to this day. Though when I think of it I always get the taste of base amphetamine and veggie burgers.
So when we hit this patch of cobble stones I knew we were at the edge of town South side. Five minutes more we stopped and the doors were opened.
We stood in the driveway of a beautiful old house. Surrounded by trees and detached from the rest of the row. Very pleasant. With fingers too our lips we were led inside through the back door. Each of us on tip toes.
Inside was a different ball game. Gone was the nice house and in it's place we stood in what at the time in my speed haze I took too be the inside of a space ship from Battle Star Galactica.
Silver foil and ventilation tubes snaked each and everyway. Bright blue grow lights cast an eerie grow over all. The sound of extractor fans exchanging the weed soaked air in safe bursts to the outside world completed the scene and gave a for sure "air-lock" sounding appeal to the atmosphere.
All very professional. The ceiling had been covered to avoid air detection from choppers. The electric had been fitted so that although it was still running it wasn't going to show any mad dog figures to wise the 'leccy people to the plant. All very, very hip.
The guys we were working for presented us all with a pair of scissors when we entered the cutting room. No scissors, no pay was the mantra of the day. The, what was at one stage the living room, cutting room was also covered in silver foil and the blue lamps cast the maddest shadows across peoples faces. But then I'd been on speed constantly for the last year and a bit so was getting pretty used to seeing stuff like this., Hho hum, thought I.
The floor was covered in past cuttings. Leaf, bud and stalk all covered in fag ash and spilt beer. Messy as get out.
So we all sat ourselves down comfortable and awaited the first batch of green. Which didn't take long in coming. This guy comes in and dumps an arm load of freshly cut plants onto the floor. About thirty plants? worth apparently. Quite a lot. And 900 more to do!
The work was straight forward enough. We were to tidy the bud. Make it presentable enough for the coffee shops. Strip and clean the individual buds. Then place them in a big bag in the centre of the room. After while I noticed the build up of hash resin on my hands and started to collect this into a ball of quality first cut hash. Tasty as! We'd been there for about an hour or so. Conversation had slowed due to, I believe, the osmosis effect of cutting the bud. It was slowly seeping in to our poreurs and I for one was really starting to trip from it all. Then someone decided to make a joint. A handful of bud was placed on top of the lamps and left to dry a little. Then it was simply rolled roughly between a handful of papers. Not even broken up. Smoked like a chimney. I had one draw and passed it straight on as my head bent in appreciation of the puff.
Hour after hours. Pile after pile. The food arrived around lunch time. Pizza for all. Complete with a case of beer. When the pizza was finished our "boss" brought in a pizza box covered in a mound of speed too share around. Very generous indeed. This went on top of my already galvanised state to put me in over drive. No worries! Another smoke from my hash block will sort that stomach cramp right out in quick two four time!
Sitting in the working circle there was this one guy. Would have been around 18 or so. I'd not clocked him working. Only picking and staring at leaves. He was wearing full water proof gear. Top and bottoms. In the glare from the lamps the sweat was visiblye pouring from him. I asked at one stage why he didn't remove them for comfort?s sake and he just stared at me. I recognised the eyes of madness and let him carry on with what he was at. What he was doing was picking leaves, holding them up to the light then placing them inside his water proofs. Top and bottoms. After a while he started to look like the Michelinitchellan Man and was stinking of weed due to his sweat. I was not the only one to notice this erratic behaviour. The "boss" was standing in the door way watching him for a good while. I looked up, caught his eye and raised a James Bond like eyebrow in a ?what-the-fuck-kind? of' way. I got an answering smile and shrug of the shoulders. To this guy the leaves were waste. Something of a problematic garbage situation as he couldn't very well put them out with his other rubbish. Holland is very sound eEco wise but there's not as yet a day to leave out your Persian rug spill over. Not yet any road. So to him any thing to lessen his clean up operation was welcome. This young guy didn't get paid as he didn't work and didn't even seem to notice. Content with his padded out 'proofs and goofy smile.
At this point, sitting as we were on the floor, the spill- off had reached almost to our waists. Time for a clean up. Which consisted of stuffing the floor weed into plastic sacks and putting them into another room. Which gave me a chance to see the plants in all their glory. We'd worked through quite a few but I'd never clocked so much combustibles at one place before in my puff! Row upon row of green in prime condition. Fantastic smell you wouldn't believe.
Back to work. Steadily from around 8.00am we worked at a good pace. Going through about thirty plants at a pop. Every now and again someone would pull of an amazing piece of bud and hold it up for inspection. A friend of mine, had there been a prize, would have won hands down. Talk about a "Donkey dick"?!? This bud was well in excess of a foot and a half. It must have weighed around three ounces damp. It went right down the front of his shirt for later and no qualms.
All this time the rest of us were dropping lots of little bits on the floor. Hip to the fact that we'd be clearing up and would be able to retrieve it later for our selves. Perks of the job. Fringe (culture) benefits.
Close to 1.00am we were told that this was the last batch. That we'd worked better than expected and that we'd be getting some more cash for doing so well. Tch-Ching!!!
All finished. Exhausted but happy faces. The "boss" then brings in another pizza box. This time in place of speed he's covered the surface with cocaine as a treat for his tired work hands. No fucking worries, big-man!
All that was left for us too do was to clean up the place then get a lift back. In total I filled two bags, black bin liners that is, half full of floor gear. Not a bad haul. Every one there had a sack or two to be taking with them and believe me the cra?ic was 90! As they say in 'Merician Oirish (tm) movies.
We were given a lift back to the Hostel and told to wait for an hour when they would return with the cash. Before he left he set up a tab for us at the bar!?! and told us to enjoy ourselves at his expense! I had and have never to this day worked for such a fair and (at least in my eyes) honest person. An hour later he comes back and gives us all 150 gGuilders (none for water proof boy) and informed us that we were the fastest and best pickers he'd had to date. Promising us another bit of work come next harvest. No worries. We topped off a few more beers then decided it would be best to get in doors. It was coming light and we each had a bag/bags of stinking bush slung over our shoulders. Not too mention what I took to calling our "Jamaican camouflage" covered head to toe in sticky leafy and drying hash caked onto our skin and hair. As an indicator of how much I cut that time I had a block of close to a quarter ounce of fresh hash. Almost silver in colour and amazingly strong. So whistling like the seven (ten) dwarves we headed, Hi-Ho-Hi-Ho-homeward bound with he sun rising over the city and bags slung nonchalantly over shoulders.
Back in the house we got back to work. Only this time it was personal!
Ripping open and sticking the sacks together to create a floor covering we piled bunch upon bunch of weed onto the stack. My job was to constantly turn the mound to save it from combusting. This is a natural break down device of Mother Nnature that I'd not experienced before. In much the same way that a manure heap "smokes" so was our weed stack. Digging my hands deep inside the pile the heat was tremendous! Almost to the point of burning my hands. Much the same principle I'd say as a fertiliser bomb. We spent another 6 hours or so de-budding the branches. Stacking in piles of, good, not so good, a bit worse, and plain old crap.
Size wise in the bad light it looked like three dead bodies laying on plastics sacking ? ala?-gangster style mob hit. If you get what I mean?
Then it was the difficult part. Yes we all had kilos of weed for ourselves. No worries. But it was damp. And we had nowhere safe to dry it out of sight fromof our Janitor/minder/concierge. So it was left to dry under beds. In cupboards. In the bottom floor shower. In the back shed and in drawers and corners all over the house. For months afterward you'd open a drawer looking for a fork and have to wade through ounces of this dried weed that no -one could face smoking anymore.
After the weekend we went back to our more conventional jobs. For me this was making wooden wine boxes 9 hours of the day. Stuck on a huge stapling machine dating before the first WW1. Ke-Runch! Ke-Runch! ,*machine sticks, SummerBreeze screams for the 50th time as a big staple shoots through his hand.
Being driven home one night by our employer he mentioned that the janitor had spoken of a "strange smell" emanating from our house. We assured him that it must be the drains as they'd been acting up lately. Not really surprising as I know for a fact that on the tail end of a speed binge one of our group tried to dispose of useless ganja leaf by flushing it down the toilet. ?*Coughcough?, *No name policy here, boy ?*coughcough?*. Suffice to say that we only had one W.C after that sketchy incident. He conceded that that may well be the case. At that point we were driving past one of the biggest/most popular coffee shops and he said, "You like the weed from this place?". I had to be honest and say that I'd not been in there for a month or so. He smiled and said, "Yyes, that does not surprise me with what you have under your bed!" then he smiled and tapped the side of his nose in the world wide recognised sign of a secret being imparted. "It should be good weed! We grow it!" he said laughing. It seems that we had all this time been working for him under a sub-contractual basis and that his "company'" supplied that entire town with their smoke.
I worked for those guys another year and a bit before the day came that I decided enough was enough of kicking around the same old streets. Spending each day fucked up on speed to get me through work. Then comeing home. Scoring two balls of coke on the street corner and smoking that to calm me down (sic).
Holland
can be a great place to live and work if your heads on tight. If not care must be taken for the unwary.

So I split and headed for the realitive saftey of Antwerpe. But that's another story for another time.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin..........


--------------------
"Must'nt Grumble!".


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