Bristol - Drug Problem?

With two universities and a massive student population, Bristol has been named one of the coolest cities in the country. People like Banksy have made Bristol’s street art infamous (did anyone manage miss the unfeasibly massive queue outside the museum during his exhibition?) and areas like Stokes Croft have worked tirelessly to drag themselves from rough and run down to become ‘Bristol’s cultural quarter’. Like any other large city, Bristol has a ‘drug problem’. What’s arguably different here is that many of Bristol’s inhabitants don’t consider it a ‘problem’. The people who enjoy the cities seedy affair with drug use are as varied in their habits as the range of drugs on offer.
The selection is huge – and available in most areas of Bristol (although you need to head to places like St. Pauls to get crack or heroin apparently). This may well be the case in many cities. However, the thing that sets Bristol apart is the commonality of drug use.
So, is the scene is simply part of Bristol’s character? Drugs usually link with music, fashion, art and culture – so which came first, the street art and the music, or the drug use? I spoke to a few people involved in the scene (whose names, for obvious reasons I have changed here) about Bristol’s habit.
After becoming homeless aged 12, Mark began stealing drugs to sell on, and has been a dealer ever since.
He explained ‘I’d break into houses and take drugs and money. I wouldn’t take goods because you can get into trouble with the police. You can’t phone up the police and say, oh sorry officer, but someone has taken my drugs, so it was just safer’.
He hasn’t taken drugs himself for around 5 years.
‘I’ve got lawyers that come in three times a day, and still hold down a job. I don’t know what it is about Bristol, but everyone is just so laid back about it. People look down on the crack and smack, but weed, coke and pills, everyone is doing it. It’s just looked at like drinking in the pub really. And I personally don’t see there’s much difference’.
He also used to deal in London and believes dealing in Bristol isn’t so rough. ‘I lived in London for a couple of years and people are much more likely to beat you up to score…I know less people here that don’t take drugs than do, but that might just be because of the work I’m in!’
Joe, a dealer from Sheffield, comes to Bristol for nights out – ‘there’s a lot more drugs here, and they’re easier to get hold of. In Sheffield, if you don’t know those sorts of people, you’ll struggle. Down here you can ask anybody on a night out and chances are you can get what you want. There seem to be a lot more young people and students into drugs in Bristol. The Sheffield scene is more isolated…in Bristol it’s everywhere’.
Rightly or wrongly, it seems Bristol has a more tolerant attitude to drug use, or at least to some drug use, than other cities, despite the problems it brings.
Mark also said ‘People kick off on coke, and skag and crack bring no end of problems. Regeneration of places like St. Pauls and Stokes Croft will just spread the problem further. And it’s not like drug use is only confined to deprived areas anyway, it’s just what drug people take that differs. St Pauls for example is a place where you’d sell more crack or heroin, but I sell there because people need to buy the coke so they can turn it into crack, and that’ll mix now that the richer people are coming’.
So maybe the drug scene here is constantly changing, as is the music, art and culture. What drugs different people take and why is also obviously inextricably linked to affluence and area, and effected by social problems and forces. But for the time being at least, Bristol still seems set on getting high and enjoying the ride.

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Bitter, Moi?

What is the point of relationships anyway?

Am I too young to realise what great importance they provide us?

You’re raised from an early age to believe that this is the aim of all things (that and a career obviously). I don’t mean this in a feminist way. I’m not going to get on my high horse about the wrongs and misguided notions of Walt Disney. Men have been raised the same way. And it isn’t the fault of the fifties, the golden age of unbroken marriages and prosperity. It isn’t the fault of idealistic notions of marriage and children. It isn’t the fault of all the love songs we have all listened to all our lives. It’s the fault of the human need to organize everything, and make it mean something, and be recognizable to someone else.

It doesn’t mean anything. Who the hell said nothing means anything else unless it’s recognised by someone else. I’ve never been the romantic type. I’ve never thought anything I do is going to end happily. I never minded. Until now. Until the guilt was put upon me by parents, friends, friends of boyfriends, and boyfriends themselves.

What the hell are you doing?

That’s what they ask.

Some out loud, and some by inference.

Well, what the hell are you doing? Feeling proud? Of course you are, it’s written all over your face. Well, answer me this. Without me, without the fuck up, the useless yardstick by which you measure yourself, what the hell are you doing? If everyone were like you - building a home, holding down a paper pushing pointless job, making plans you'll never follow through, getting engaged with whichever ring outdoes the ring the other guy in your department bought – where the fuck would you be?

You. Coasting along without being noticed for anything either pitiful or proud. You’d have no one to patronise without me. No one to belittle. No one to look at and persuade yourself that you’ve done better. I may not be happy, but neither are you. So run it off after work. Buy the matching shirt and tie. Act rebellious and sleaze on the secretary after work when your missus isn’t there. Take her to business dinners and try to impress her. Or your Boss. Or anyone who is bored enough to notice you.

You’re still an attention seeking child, still a rebellious teen, just as much as I am. And if learning to hide it is being successful and adult, then here’s my adult response. Fuck you. Shove your judgement up your arse. We’ll both probably die in the same boring, ephemeral, drawn out way. But I’ll do it with a glass of wine in front of the fire, and you’ll do it with an earl grey in front of the Aga.

And neither of us will deserve it more than the other. We’re both as pointless as each other. So what's the difference fool?

Apologies in general.

Not posted anything for a long time.

By way of explanation (and in a very short summary) this will bring me from last post to present.

Broke up with the boyfriend. Spent many weeks very drunk. Went home to Lincolnshire for a wedding where I discovered (to my horror) all my old friends are engaged/married/settled with toddlers, and to add insult to injury, I was mistaken by the photographer for my little sisters mother. Booked comedy Dave and Dominic Byrne. Met Joss Stone, at work of all places. Decided I should be more mature and sensible. Changed my mind. Drank many a rum, bought a take away pizza, wrote about it on my blog.

There. Now I'm updated. I'll make more effort soon.

It's Friday night and I'm drunk and blogging. Break ups are no good for the social life/reputation/career.

More (and hopefully better) entries soon.

xx