Lively Thought

Sick Boy: Personality, I mean that’s what counts, right? That’s what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin, I mean heroin’s got a great fucking personality.

That was the quote that jumped into my head reading this great interview with an (ex) heroin dealer at Vice Magazine. Though, really, he seems more like a character from a Guy Ritchie flick than someone out of Trainspotting.

Some highlights (warning, it seems heroin dealers sometimes use words that aren’t too nice):

On using heroin for the first time, in prison, after being arrested for running his giant smack operation:

In September 1995 I used heroin for the first time, out of boredom and curiosity. It felt lovely and warm, like somebody putting an electric blanket over you. But the best thing about it, and this is why the jails are full of heroin, is that it makes time go by very quick. Twenty hours on heroin is like two hours normal. I got out ten years later and I didn’t know I done the bird [prison time].

On how he and a buddy got heroin into prison:

I had five kilos of pure heroin straight from Turkey buried along with two Berettas, an Uzi, and four shotguns at St. Pancras graveyard in North London. Every week I’d phone a girl up and use the word “brandy,” which was code for brown—heroin—and she would go and get it. She dug up the stash and shaved off some, and then it was given to a second girl who had a boyfriend in my prison. It was wrapped in a condom and nylon sheeting, shaped up proper like a dildo. She stuck it up her cunt. On the visit, they’d snuggle up close, and her boyfriend would put his hand slyly down her knickers, get it, and then stick it up his arse. Back in my cell, he’d get 60 grams and I’d get 60 grams.

On how getting by in prison isn’t too hard, if you have money:

I never ate prison food. They [the guards] brought me in Marks and Spencer salads. In one prison the screw brought me in four ounces of weed, half a carrier bag full of phone cards, half a bag of tobacco, a TV, a phone, and two bottles of brandy, every week, for £500 a week, plus the bill for the food. He’d wink and say: “Your box is under your bed.” Then I’d pay another inmate to look after it. If you don’t have money, you have nothing.

On quitting heroin and crack after prison:

I went for treatment in Turkey twice. A detox where they put you to sleep through withdrawal. It cost £20,000. My family paid. But when I got back onto the streets here in London, I kept slipping. Finally, I fell in love. It’s as simple as that. I haven’t touched a stone since.

And, finally, when asked why he doesn’t get back in the game, if he’s scared:

Fuck off. D’you want a smack?

Brilliant. I wish I was the kind of journalist who was out there interviewing drug dealers, instead of merely talking to economists and scientists on the phone.

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