(whisper: What I am about to blog may lead me into trouble with the unsavoury criminal gangs of the underworld. Yet, I feel it is a story that simply must be told…)
On the Metrolink home, another guy comes in. He looks a little out of it, and to be honest, quite green around the gills. Although it could be the flourescent donkey jacket he’s wearing. He catches me looking at him, I smile back and get back to my magazine. He grabs one of those freebie newspapers, the ride goes on.
Two studenty students get on – long frizzled hair, black clothing, definitely the worst for wear for drink. Flourescent guy asks them if they want any drugs, and the conversation starts for the next few stops.
He’s Brian, with an Irish accent. He is also quite drunk. He gives them his phone number — loudly — three times, and phones home in order to arrange the deal for some weed and barbs at the next tram station. Even though the drunk students are lamely protesting that they’re trying to give it all up. He even gives them a potted biography of his life – he’s 27, got three kids by three different women. He works as a security guard at 10 quid per hour in order so the DSS can’t spot his drug dealing earnings.
My stop’s coming up – ironically, at the same stop where the deal is going to go down. But waiting at the door is a slightly dishevelled man, carrying a blue plastic bag. Said plastic bag seems to be full of some kind of liquid. Curious. Oh. It’s urine. and it’s starting to leak.
Thankfully the doors open and we all rush out. Brian and his new best friends are still at the tram stop, waiting for someone to pop round.
I’ve got no particular objection to people selling or buying drugs, but at least pretend it’s slightly illegal.