For the next six months, anyone caught with cannabis in Lambeth will be given no more than a stiff telling off. Armed with two joints, Merope Mills headed down to south London yesterday to put this lenient new policy to the test
Special report: drugs in Britain
Tuesday July 3, 2001 The Guardian
There is no room for smack and crack in Brixton. It says so on a banner hung loosely above the entrance to Lambeth Town Hall. But on this particular posting, that is as far as the specifics go. Which is one of the reasons I find myself sitting on the building's steps, smoking a joint, to the apparent bother of nobody at all.
It is the first week of new police plans to issue no more than a warning to those caught in possession of cannabis in the London borough of Lambeth, and locals appear disarmingly unfazed by their unique new regulation. When asked, visitors to the town hall proffer a light and pass through the haze that surrounds me without a second glance. Only when a good half an hour has gone by do I get some words of encouragement from a passerby. "You're doing well," says a kindly, gold-toothed man - though, nervously, he declines my offer for him to join in.
Having selflessly put myself forward as a guinea pig in this David Blunkett-approved "experiment", I can confirm there is little evidence that these south Londoners see my blatancy as much of a departure from the norm. It is business as usual down the market where, spliff in hand, I buy a pound of cherries from a local fruit stall. At a nearby cafe, I polish off a fruit juice and the rest of my reefer without incident (though later, when I settle the bill, I ask the manager whether he is happy to have dope-smokers on the premises and he gives me a decisive "no"). I can also confirm that the Prince of Wales pub is less than welcoming to the odd marijuana-fan, having asked a barman whether it's OK for me to skin-up on site. "No way," he says, disgusted, before walking away with a disapproving shake of the head.
Outside the pub, the driver of a police car stuck in traffic eyes me suspiciously. When I look straight at her I'm sure she spies the substance, but I take it from her bullet-proof vest that she has more pressing things to attend to.
As the day wears on I join other dope-smokers on the grass outside the Ritzy cinema. A 61-year-old pensioner, who'd like to be known as Mr Blair, explains that he smokes marijuana because he doesn't drink alcohol - bypassing an explanation for the near-empty bottle of Heineken in his left hand. "I'm a tax-payer, so I'm allowed," he reasons. A woman pushing a pram tells me: "Never mind about the weed - you need to be doing something about Lambeth housing instead."
Then suddenly, a man in a stripy shirt and bandanna is making an unsteady bee line for me from across the park. "Is that ganga?" he asks. "Yes," I say, "do you want some?" "I do," he beams, "and do you know why? It's because I believe it is not a crime." This is the first of many explanations that Principal, a song-writer and poet ("although I don't show it"), gives for why it's OK for me and him to be sharing this weed on Brixton high road. "Did you know you can eat too much, and you can drink too much but you can't smoke too much," he drools, before quickly disproving his own point with an impressive level of incoherence. "I'm glad I've met you because now I know at least somebody understands me. What's wrong with having a spliff?" When I get up to leave he asks where I'm going. "To the police station with the gear," I say. "Heavy," he replies, "good luck."
As of this week, though, luck is not essential if you want to smoke cannabis outside Brixton police station. I know because I've done it. There were twitching blinds as a number of the inhabitants clocked me from the inside - but none of them rose to the bait. Instead I had to hunt down a pedestrian police officer to practise my flagrancy on. And for the record I can confirm that the Brixton bobbies - though consistently courteous when asked - are not at all forthcoming with a light.