Men's Night Out

Men's night out by Neil McCall

The venue for the church men's night out was always going to be
controversial; Denis the evangelist declared the whole thing to be a
bad witness, some of the wives tutted and said we'd be better off
holding an all-night prayer vigil - though the most spiritual thing
they've ever done was Colour Me Beautiful - and Jethro from the States
was horrified when he found out, which was well after the event. Of
course, we didn't invite Jethro, or the youth workers, or anyone with
problems in certain areas, which made the whole thing a little bit
exclusive to sensible, mature men of good standing, and when we met up
it was rather like a jury from fifty years ago solemnly pondering a
crime scene. But there's no longer anything illegal about growing
cannabis; in fact it's fast becoming part of the industrial heritage of
the North-West. It's always good for Christians to be well informed
regarding local issues, especially if they can get stoned at the same
time, and one of the positive things about being an Anglican is that we
tend to be more relaxed about intoxicants that many of our less liberal
brethren.

The dope industry has rejuvenated the wide expanses of derelict land
adjoining the Manchester Ship Canal; once a hive of railway lines,
cranes and berthed steamers, the former waste land now sprouts a large
network of greenhouses and the modern bustle of motorway spurs and tram
links necessary to support this new industry. Once again cargo vessels
are loading and unloading at quays, and brown road signs with a
fern-like plant motif direct visitors to the high-security but
customer-friendly business centres. We followed the signs down to
High's, a respectable family-run concern which is especially keen to
escort small groups around its premises.

Growing cannabis is basically a simple business; all you need are the
raw materials - seeds, heat, light, good quality compost and water -
and nature does the rest. What I hadn't realised was that cannabis
sativa is unusual in that there are separate male and female plants and
that, as with species the world over, females are good and males are
bad. Therefore the males have to be rooted out and destroyed otherwise
the females will be more interested in producing seeds than in storing
up that juicy THC. Well, that's what the guide told us as we toured the
nurseries where the young plants begin their growth, then we went on to
the main development areas where the males are weeded out (ouch!) and
the little ladies are fed, watered and nurtured under high-pressure
sodium lamps for eighteen hours a day until they reach optimum size, at
which point the light is reduced and the plants begin to bud and flower
- this section was unforgettable, as a heavenly aroma arose from the
tall, bushy plants which were rapidly approaching harvest. Apparently
the good, soft Manchester water is ideal for their cultivation, and
ancient artesian wells under the city have been given a new lease of
life by the industry. The tour then went to the harvesting, drying
rooms and despatch facilities but by this time we were all getting a
bit hungry and thirsty so it was back to the visitor centre for the
real treat, the testing of the final product.

Now, I've never been a great one for smoking dope - in fact, I abhor
smoking of any kind, though I can appreciate it as a sort of necessary
evil on the way to producing the end result, and the back seats of
Manchester buses have long provided an impromptu cannabis caf? for
youth. So I wasn't looking forward to the acrid fug hanging over the
visitor's bar, which the vicar immediately added to by lighting a huge
spliff the size of a Cuban cigar. But there was good food laid on; a
wonderful saag gosht made not with boring old spinach but the finest
crop from the warehouse, a wacky chilli of similar strength, served
with garlic-and-cannabis naan bread, all accompanied by beer and hemp
tea, and delicate little cakes packed with the essential oils, so I was
soon well away without having to fill my lungs with too many toxins.
The vicar led the way of course; in the course of his ministry he's
required to love everybody, even the vile denizens of our inner-city
parish, and he was thrilled to find that for the first time in his life
he could truthfully declare his love for all mankind, which he did all
evening in a loud, maudlin tone. Old Bill the mournful churchwarden
chuckled non-stop as though he had just heard the world's funniest
joke, whilst the sensitive young curate merely blinked and giggled and
stared intently into his hash curry as if searching for ancient
runes.

Of course, we all had to be out by eleven and back in the minibus, but
those of us who could still stand were invited to peruse the gift shop;
I bought my wife a cannabis cookbook, several men got packets of seeds
to try a bit of home-production whilst the curate came out carrying a
huge bong which he was going to pass round at the next home group
leaders' meeting. One thing's for sure; from now on I wouldn't miss
church for the world!