THE MOST DANGEROUS DRUG ISN'T MEOW MEOW. IT ISN'T EVEN ALCOHOL . . .

Newspapers Are the Biggest Threat to the Nation's Mental Wellbeing

I'm a lightweight; always have been. I didn't get properly drunk until
I was 25, on a night out which culminated in a spectacular public
vomiting in a Chinese restaurant. Ever wondered what the clatter of 60
pairs of chopsticks being simultaneously dropped in disgust might
sound like? Don't ask me. I can't remember. I was too busy bitterly
coughing what remained of my guts all over the carpet.

Not a big drinker, then. Like virtually every other member of my
generation, I smoked dope throughout my early 20s. It prevented me
from getting bored, but also prevented me from achieving much. When
you're content to blow an entire fortnight basking on your sofa like a
woozy sea lion, playing Super Bomberman, eating Minstrels and
sniggering at Alastair Stewart's bombastic voiceover on Police Camera
Action! there's not much impetus to push yourself. Marijuana detaches
you from the world, like a big pause button. The moment I stopped
smoking it I started actually getting stuff done. I still sit on my
sofa playing videogames, necking sweets and laughing at the telly, but
these days if I have to leave my cocoon and pop to the corner shop to
buy a pint of milk before they close, it's a minor inconvenience
rather than a protracted mission to Mars. That was the worst thing
about being stoned: there came an inevitable point every evening where
you'd find yourself shuffling around a massively overlit local
convenience store feeling alien and jittery. Brrr. No thanks.

I tried other things, only to discover they weren't for me. LSD, for
instance, definitely isn't my bag. Call me traditional, but if I
glance at a wall and before my very eyes it suddenly starts smearing
and sliding around like oil on water, my initial reaction is not to be
amused or amazed, but alarmed about the structural integrity of the
building. My most benign lysergic experience consisted of an hour-long
stroll around an incredibly verdant, sun-drenched meadow, watching the
names of famous sportsmen appear before me in gigantic 3D letters
carved from fiery gold. Eventually someone passed me a cup of tea and
the spell was broken: there I was, sitting in a student halls of
residence, watching late-night golf on BBC2 on a tiny black-and-white
TV. From that point on it was like being trapped in a David Lynch film
that lasted for eight hours and was set in Streatham. Once again:
Brrr. No thanks.

These days I'm sickeningly lily-livered, by choice rather than
necessity. I don't smoke, I drink only occasionally, and I'd sooner
saw my own feet off than touch anything harder than a double espresso.
I don't want to get out of my head: that's where I live.

In summary: if I've learned anything, it's that I don't much care for
mood-altering substances. But I'm not afraid of them either. With one
exception.

It's perhaps the biggest threat to the nation's mental wellbeing, yet
it's freely available on every street - for pennies. The dealers claim
it expands the mind and bolsters the intellect: users experience an
initial rush of emotion (often euphoria or rage), followed by what
they believe is a state of enhanced awareness. Tragically this
"awareness" is a delusion. As they grow increasingly detached from
reality, heavy users often exhibit impaired decision-making abilities,
becoming paranoid, agitated and quick to anger. In extreme cases
they've even been known to form mobs and attack people. Technically
it's called "a newspaper", although it's better known by one of its
many "street names", such as "The Currant Bun" or "The Mail" or "The
Grauniad" (see me - Ed).

In its purest form, a newspaper consists of a collection of facts
which, in controlled circumstances, can actively improve knowledge.
Unfortunately, facts are expensive, so to save costs and drive up
sales, unscrupulous dealers often "cut" the basic contents with
cheaper material, such as wild opinion, bullshit, empty hysteria,
reheated press releases, advertorial padding and photographs of Lady
Gaga with her bum hanging out. The hapless user has little or no
concept of the toxicity of the end product: they digest the contents
in good faith, only to pay the price later when they find themselves
raging incoherently in pubs, or - increasingly - on internet
messageboards.

Tragically, widespread newspaper abuse has become so endemic, it has
crippled the country's ability to conduct a sensible debate about the
"war on drugs". The current screaming festival over "meow meow" or
"M-Cat" or whatever else the actual users aren't calling it, is a
textbook example. I have no idea how dangerous it is, but there seems
to be a glaring lack of correlation between the threat it reportedly
poses and the huge number of schoolkids reportedly taking it.
Something doesn't add up. But in lieu of explanation, we're treated to
an hysterical, obfuscating advertising campaign for a substance that
will presumably - thanks to the furore - soon only be available via
illegal, unregulated, more dangerous, means. If I was 15 years old, I
wouldn't be typing this right now. I'd be trying to buy "plant food"
on the internet. And this time next year I'd be buying it in a pub
toilet, cut with worming pills and costing four times as much.

Personally speaking, the worst substances I've ever encountered are
nicotine (a senselessly addictive poison) and alcohol (which spins the
inner wheel of judgment into an unreadable blur). Apart from the odd
fond memory, the only good thing either really have going for them is
their legality. If either had been outlawed I'd probably have drunk
myself blind on cheap illegal moonshine or knifed you and your family
in the eye to fund my cigarette habit.

But then I'm pretty ignorant when it comes to narcotics. Like I said,
I'm a lightweight. I can absolutely guarantee my experience of drugs
is far more limited than that of the average journalist: immeasurably
so once you factor in alcohol. So presumably they know what they're
talking about. It's hard to shake the notion half the users aren't
trying to "escape the boredom of their lives": just praying for a
brief holiday from society's unrelenting bullshit.