Way back in the days before musicians were obselete and I was optimistically expecting to be a famous rock drummer any minute later, I must have played hundreds and hundreds of gigs back-to-back all over England. Funny thing though is only once do I remember being offered drugs.

In that particular case I was guarding the mixing desk before a gig at the infamous London Road Hall in Bath, a fetid amber-shaded place whose clientelle seemed to compose mostly of rival drug dealers and their woolly-hatted Rasta customers. There had been one gig there where I'd popped out for a burger down the road and returned to discover that threats at knife-point had been going on. At another, a gang of Rastas ambled onto the stage and demanded a reggae set. Of course they didn't get get it. We insisted on performing our own brand of progressive death metal for morris dancers. Now whilst I don't think they understood our music in any sense whatsoever, neither did anyone else, so as usual we survived the gig and people wandered away confused.

But I digress. The drug dealer leaned over the desk and politely asked if I was interested in cannabis. I said no (Come on, keeping time in Red Jasper was hard enough without getting completely zonked out of your head) and he offered a veritable mobile pharmacy as an alternative. Pills for every occaision. Given Robin and Tony's continued moans about musical direction, I remember wondering if he had any headache pills, but perhaps it was better not to enquire.

It's been a long time since I've been offered such things. A few days ago one certain young man made a cursory attempt to discover whether I was interested in Methedrone. I have to be honest, I'd not heard of it and only since then have I come across descriptions in the media of this not-yet-illegal drug, also known as Meow-Meow for some strange reason. That said, it all sounded very drug-rehab and I ignored his overtures. His attempt to sell the substance was for him just a source of pocket money, as if I had any to spend, yet given this youngsters apparent need to adopt certain mannerisms in his quest for manhood, I can't help wondering if he's trying to be 'gangsta'?

Erm... No.

Neither is Mr G, one of my fellow jobsearchers at the programme centre, who sits slack jawed and dull-eyed throughout the proceedings, occaisionally swigging from his bottle of booze wrapped in a blue plastic bag in the folds of his down-and-out coat, and who wanders off to smoke something that will reduce his perceptions to the point that the mindless tedium of the programme will not even register. For him, drug use is an escape, even a social ritual, and I doubt he's coherent enough to realise he could make money from selling strange substances to others instead of sharing the experience with his mates.

Others go abroad to seek relief from the daily grind, either on a drink-fest in which it never really matters what happens as long as you can't remember it, or a more sophisticated excursion to foreign lands dependent on a network of travel agents, airways, and hotels who seem to exist for the sole reason of making your life more stressful than the experience you want to get away from.

Me? I'll stick to wandering the countryside when I need to get away from it all. All I have to worry about are the vagaries of British weather, acres of mud through which a public right of way is supposed to exist, blood thirsty mutant insects, overly inquisitive and nervous cows, loud dogs, and irate farmers. No stress there then.

Sort It Out?

Our community newsletter dropped through the door and boldly displayed on the front page was an article suggesting that graffiti was the biggest problem and that something must be done about it. I suspect the urgency of this crusade comes from a questionaire pushed our letterboxes some months ago.

A few quick squiggles in black or silver appear first followed by huge logo's in the preffered style. How these youngsters get their work displayed on some of the most precipitous and inaccessable surfaces possible is beyond me, but for the most part, the haphazard letters in garish car paint seem to blossom on any expanse of vertical surface. This problem is nothing new. Ancient peoples daubed red ochre on the walls of caves or rocks. We say they were displaying a cultural representation of their lives and religioius beliefs, but isn't that exactly what these disaffected youths are doing today in a more surreal (and drug induced) way?

Okay, graffiti isn't conducive to a pleasant enviroment, but since it represents the same instinct as dogs weeing up lamposts or cats rubbing scent on anything the dogs haven't wee'd on, surely the answer is to tackle the morons who paint this rubbish? There's been initiatives in the past to try and give graffiti some sort of credibility and niche in modern art, probably on the grounds that people ere going to do this sort of thing anyway so lets channel this activity into something mainstream where it can be organised and controlled (and of course subject to review by the ever-present need for art critics).

That initiative failed because the nocturnal vandals who paint these lurid tags aren't exactly interested. For them, it's all about territory and social hierarchy rather than sunday supplements and televised commentary on deep meanings and social relevance of angles and overlaid letters. It's all about youths with no grounding in civilised behavioiur, respect for society or property, and enough money in their pockets to keep paint suppliers trading through the recession. It's the entire culture you need to address, and the lacklustre parenting that feeds it. These kids do this basically for their own self-worth, because unsuprisingly everyone else regards them as worthless. Is that a possible solution? Or is giving these kids a sense of self-esteem going to elevate their hobby to the glossy pages of magazines and the echoing of art galleries?

Sort it out? Well, our present government will no doubt create more laws to tackle the problem and carry on life as before, at least until they get kicked out of office and new initiatives are presented in the media to demonstrate our leaders desire to make the world a better place, even if his motives are probably more to do with his own back yard. I guess that's why the newsletter went out. It's our back yard that's getting daubed in jagged rainbows, not some expensive and exclusive part of London.