HEY RON! - MY DAD SWIPED MY WEED

Trouble likes to present itself on Tuesdays, and Ron is always to the rescue like a superhero-cum-debt-negotiator-for-a-magazine come to life. He is all the courage a fretful teen needs to tell his dad he’s sorry for smoking marijuana. And that’s exactly what our problem is today. Keep reading for the resolution to this age-old dilemma.

LONDON - HE WHO CREATES DRUG CULTURE MUST HATE IT

As 1989 moves back into journalists’ crosshairs and we’re treated to one more round of documentaries on the roots of British club culture – as the familiar who’s who zoo of Mike Pickering, Carl Cox, Danny Rampling, The Hartnolls, Mr C, Tony Coulston-Hayter, and so on all traipse across our screens to tell us again how “mental” it was at Shoom – James Palumbo, founder of Ministry of Sound, is one key figure of the period who won’t be grinning a mouthful of ground-down molars back at the world. In fact, you won’t see him at all.

NEW YORK - O SNEAKY, WHERE'D YOU GO?

OK, it's been two weeks since we last heard from Sneaky Leaf. Hopefully he's fine and that--no, wait, we're not even gonna finish that sentence. But really, dude was so worried about what might happen on account of his memoirs on this blog that he started off handwriting each column and faxing it, and then got even more paranoid so he started having them delivered to the office by hand. And then one day, poof! Gone. Hopefully he'll turn up soon. In the meantime, take a click down there to enjoy some high-kickin' little colts who've formed a conceptual screamo boy band that's one guy onstage and the rest in a choreographed mosh pit. No correlation to Sneaky Leaf or weed or anything, just wanted to console ourselves with something.

BOLLOCKS TO THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH - FESTIVAL BREEDING GROUNDS

Tens of thousands of people rolling around in each other’s masticated filth while high on every household substance that the part-time dealers can successfully powder or pill is a recipe for self-harm. The entire festival site is an adult playpen designed to facilitate the sort of debauchery that normally ends in a hospital visit. Which is why, I thought, being a festival paramedic must suck. Not only are you forced to stay sober while everyone around you descends into gurning, grinning morons, but you have to fix them when it goes wrong.

NEW YORK - THE 30MG ADDERALL DISASTER

So, your grandpappy, pap-pap, or whatever you be calling him might have some crazy adventure tales about wars, bullets, and skulls or wolves and saving drowning babies or lassoing shit. And mom and dad might have some tripped-out daisy in the pussy, naked peen dangling in the river, LSD beard stories. Uncle Dennis might spin a few yarns about the cocaine roller skates amyl nitrate mesh tank top and huge AIDS mustaches. But us kids, when we get old and ready to rock the rocking chair with tales are gonna be all about the pill adventures.

SNEAKY LEAF'S DIARY OF A DEALER - ASSHOLE STRIPES

I was strictly a consumer of weed for nearly 19 years before I became a weed hustler. In all that time, almost every guy or girl that I bought weed from was more or less an asshole. Still, I have a soft spot for all those people. Every prickly asshole has their charms. I’m convinced, however, that it doesn’t have to be that way, and I very conscientiously make a huge effort to be a very warm, friendly, honest, and ultra-respectful alternative to the hundreds of impersonal large slave delivery services. It helps that I genuinely like people, and most of my clients are people that I genuinely look forward to seeing. 

AMSTERDAM - HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN DRUG SUPPLY

Lately when someone is puking in a club in Amsterdam, the relevant question is no longer “Too much booze?” but “Too much G?” And the answer is either a new wave of vomit or a weird facial expression from someone who a few seconds later falls asleep. GHB is no longer for lower-eschelon suburban 16-year-old wiggers looking for any role in the date rape at a house party milieu--it’s the new Ecstasy and the new Heineken.

SYDNEY - MOVING TO KINGS CROSS

My girlfriend Kristen and I moved from the "dangerous" streets of Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn and the East Village of New York City to the seemingly safe and tony neighbourhood of Darlinghurst, Sydney. Our new home was at the tip of the dick of Darlinghurst, where the girls walking the streets at night cross over to girls that are really boys that ply their trade in the aptly nicknamed Ten Buck Alley. Its real name is Premier Lane; and from what we've heard at night, as the sounds of slurping and sucking blow up to our balcony, those are some premier ten-buck blow jobs. It warms the heart that in these times of recession and inflation that the price of a blow job remains steady and true.

SNEAKY LEAF'S DIARY OF A DEALER - GANJA PORN NOVEL

I’ve seen from some of your comments that some of you are wondering, “Why in the hell doesn’t he fuck some of these girls?” The first reason is that I see more pussy in one year than most of you will see in a lifetime, and I’m not a desperate, nutless jack-off like some of you! I get plenty! So I don’t need to lose my shit every time an opportunity presents itself.  

AUSTRALIA - TASMANIA BEATS WORLD AT OPIUM, WALLABIES GET THE SPOILS

There’s been a fair bit in the news about vast poppy fields in Afghanistan, but if you think most of the world’s opiates come from the Middle East you’re around 10,000kms off the mark. An interesting fact tailor-made for dinner party conversation is that over half of all pharmaceutical-grade alkaloids are derived from crops grown in Tasmania. How do we know this? Because stoned wallabies have started making crop circles.