Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Snus, Crack, Heroin - In That Order

Sweden makes Volvos, flat-packed shelves and powerful mind bending snus. I gave up smoking about 5 years ago, but I might as well have started injecting skag into my eye sockets. It's got more nicotine in one tub than what went through Dot Cotton's lungs after 11 retakes of when Ethel died- which is very, very moreish.

Despite the fact I can actually breathe, taste grub and avoid having to go outside in the freezing wastes in the middle of winter, I do sometimes wonder what in the name holy Mary and infertile Joseph I'm doing bang on something you can only buy in SWEDEN. This is fucking crackers. It's not like I can trot down the Shell station night window, grub myself a quick Ginsters and pick up some snus. Nope, I've got to get it smuggled into the country like an Iraqi in a wheel arch. Plus, unlike most illegal consumables in the country, I can't go up to a fella in a pub and ask "Got a number for snus mate, got a number for snus?" then wait patiently for a shady character in a Golf GTI to pass a tub out of a tinted window. Not happening.

If, despite all my preparations, I do run out, it's goodbye sunshine- hello rage. Once, when I was awaiting the delivery of my new stock from Sweden and hadn't had a snus for about six hours, I was walking through a local shopping centre as a collection worker for an abandoned donkey charity stopped me right in my tracks to ask me for some change. I replied pleasantly: "Change? I'll change the appearance of the next donkey I see by setting it on fire and bring you the charred corpse, you horrible cunt." She was 12- but it was quite plainly obvious I was in no mood to be generous.

So if you're heading through Sweden any time soon, in the spirit of (donkey) charity and goodwill, please bring me back 10 tubs of General White portion snus and I will most gratefully refund you the cost upon delivery. Cheers.

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