Britain’s nihilistic new drugs culture reflects the state we’re in

I think, although I can’t find the reference anywhere, that it must have been William Burroughs who observed that different narcotics suit different personalities. A naturally lazy person, for example, is more likely to enjoy the heavy-limbed torpor induced by a joint; whereas someone full of hectic energy may prefer a cocaine buzz.

A similar observation could be made across populations and epochs. In the late 1960s, when spiritual revolution was in the air and anything seemed possible, the drugs of choice were mind-expanding hallucinogens. In the depressing 70s, heroin numbed the pain. In the late 1980s, with the economy back on track, ecstasy got us partying again. Then came cocaine for the sleepless City boys in charge of the money. And after the financial crash, the cheap oblivion of ketamine.

What do the drugs of the current moment tell us about ourselves? The Government has just added 15 varieties of synthetic opioid to the list of Class A drugs. Of particular concern is a class of opioids called nitazenes. These aren’t exactly new: they were first developed in the 1950s as analgesics, but were found to be so dangerously potent – 100 times stronger than heroin – they were never approved for medical use.

This country is, mercifully, nowhere near the kind of opioid crisis that, last year, killed more than 112,000 people in America. But since the Taliban cracked down on heroin farming in Afghanistan, synthetic opioids (which can be manufactured cheaply anywhere) have begun to creep into our narcotic ecosystem. Just since the summer, more than 100 deaths in the UK have been linked to taking nitazenes.

You can see the junkies changing. They look more wrecked than ever before: their faces caved in, oily clothes hanging off their bones, their chalky skin covered in sores. And, most unnerving of all, their vacant eyes. Sometimes they get frozen in weird postures – mid-stride or in a standing stoop – as if they had been turned to stone by Medusa.

It reminds me of another Burroughs observation, this time about heroin. “If all pleasure is relief from tension, junk affords relief from the whole life process,” he wrote. “Boredom, which always indicates an undischarged tension, never troubles the addict. He can look at his shoe for eight hours.” With the world in its current alarming state, I suppose it’s not surprising that the drugs have become more nihilistic. The worse the tension, the stronger the pain relief.

A modern tradition 

Did you know that the Garrick is a private members club peopled exclusively by powerful and celebrated men? Yes of course you did, and so did I, because that is what the Garrick is, and always has been, famous for.

Founded in 1831 by a group of showbiz types, its members have included Charles Dickens, William Thackeray, A A Milne, John Gielgud, Isaiah Berlin, P G Wodehouse – and now, according to The Guardian’s so-called scoop, Stephen Fry, a clutch of judges, politicians and civil servants (although no longer the Cabinet Secretary, Simon Case), and the King.

The only actual shock in this shocking exposé is that Benedict Cumberbatch is a member. These days most celebrities prefer the trendier London members’ clubs. Being of a nostalgic bent myself, I find it reassuring that there are still people like me (albeit, in this case, men) who prefer the dustier, more muted pleasures of an ancient institution.