Pupil Barrister

Tag: Diary (Page 14 of 30)

Liberalism and Legalisation

Last weekend, I had an interesting and surprising discussion with some medical students, on the legalisation of cannabis.
Since they were students, I sort of assumed that they would be in favour of legalisation; and that the hypocrisy in the differing laws on alcohol and cannabis would be self-evident. Not so! Instead, they were almost unanimously in favour of prohibition.
Their objections to legalisation were based on their clinical experience of patients with cannabis-induced psychosis. De-criminalising cannabis would endorse and encourage cannabis use, increasing such mental illness. When I responded with a standard liberal argument on personal responsibility, they made the point that most people were not responsible. Amusingly, they pointed to the vast array of empty bottles on the table, explaining that even they were knowingly binge drinking, despite being probably the most educated group of people in the perils of substance abuse.  What hope for everyone else?
All I could do was remind them that all of the psychotic episodes they will have witnessed would have been as a result of illegal cannabis use. They would not have seen comparative data for legalised, regulated inhalation. Could it be that perhaps regulated drugs were safer?
The debate was a timely reminder that political discourse amongst the general population is very different to the extremely liberal bubble in which I work. Out there in the real world, people are much less libertarian, more authoritarian, and for good honest reasons too. Amongst that group of med-school friends, the perception persists that criminalising something is the natural and appropriate response when confronted with something bad.  The liberal case is often woolly, idealistic and missing crucial pieces.
So, what I should have asserted:   Prohibition is only appropriate for those activities that harm others, and not for self-harming acts.  We could then have had a discussion about whether smoking and drinking harms others or not, where a much more fruitful and divergent discussion is to be had (in this respect, I guess this post serves to shut the barn door, two days after the horse bolted).
What is so often missing from the liberal argument, is the acceptance, even the embracing, of the bad things that happen in an extremely liberal society.  I have twice before made that point here, when discussing ID cards and other civil liberties.  At the Convention on Modern Liberty, Dominic Grieve spoke of the “mythological state of absolute security.”  Perhaps we need to speak of a mythological state of absolute health too, and admit that the consequence of decriminalisation will be an uptick in cannabis use, and an associated increase in the risk of health issues… but that we should do it anyway.  The benefits to society would be greater, and we can work out regulatory ways to reduce that risk.

Photo by Ace. No drugs were used in the production of this picture.

Drugs can help you see the world differently.
Photo by Ace. No drugs were used in the production of this picture.

Redesign

Keen eyes will have noticed the blog has been redesigned again.
In this latest incarnation, I have referenced the torn paper motif which graced versions from 2005-2007, which I have neither the inclination nor the imagination to move away from.  I also include a handwritten name, so beloved of readers long since alienated back in ’07.
However, in reference to my new employers and my current engagement with free expression issues, I’ve included some ink blots. These splats double as a nod to my design for the Liberal Conspiracy site, and to Judith Adams’ site, which Fifty Nine created back in the day.
One thing I’ve not touched is the typography, which remains vanilla Kubrick.  I’ve tried messing with it, but any deviation from the Trebuchet/Lucida Sans combo weakens the communication, I feel.

Northern Line Lovers

Rush Hour Crush, by Simon Perry
Rush Hour Crush, by Simon Perry


Twenty-seven minutes past eight in the morning. The tube doors cry out in pain as they roll shut, and we are sealed into the train. I find myself facing the the door, my neck and head bent back, tracing the shape of the curved window an inch from my face. Its an unbearable torture, so I pivot myself around. Other bodies bob against me, someone takes a step, and we find ourselves in a new, pressurised equilibrium.
I stop turning, too late to realise I’ve twisted plumb into someone else’s personal space. We are belly to belly. The first thing I see is a brown, manicured hand cluching the strap of a handbag, which is enough to tell me that its a woman, and she’s young. Instinctively, before I really think about it, I raise my eyes to check her out.
She is facing away from me, her head just moments from my chest, and I’m looking for just long enough to behold the divine curve where her neck sweeps up to join her chin, before she turns back to face me. Our eyes meet, and I do that quick, guilty glance away that you do when a stranger catches you staring on the train. I focus intently at the plastic roof of the carriage, and inside, I cringe.
But then I realise that she’s still looking, directly at me. Nervously, I steal another glance, and she stares right back. Dark eyes. A mop of hair, still damp from a shower somewhere, skimming her shoulders and framing that neck.
I think I can see a faint expression on her mouth. I wouldn’t call it a smile as such, more a look of contentment. Her face is the absence of anxiety, and it fills me with great joy. I half smile back at her, and suddenly there’s a slight flick of her tongue as she moistens her lips.
We inhale each other, all the way to Old Street. It is a moment of sincerity, a moment of unfettered trust between two people. An abrupt and unexpected moment of true love.
As the train lumbers in to Angel, she breaks our shared gaze, and turns towards the door. As it opens, I know she will steal a glance back at me, an unspoken farewell. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.
But it does not happen. Her gaze is fixed ahead. As she coldly brushes past me and steps onto the platform, I can just make out a bright white wire losely woven into her hair, travelling from her ear, down into the folds of her coat. It is then that I reach an understanding: For her, I have never existed. Since London Bridge, she has been staring into a void of her own thoughts. It was nothing more than unlucky chance that my eyes, and my soul, should have stumbled into that blind plane of view.
Thirty-seven minutes past eight in the morning. The tube doors cry out in pain as they roll shut, and I am sealed into the train. Only then do I remember that Angel was my stop, too.

London Tube by Crystian Cruz
London Tube by Crystian Cruz

Spheres of Influence

I just had a meeting at the Inn the Park restaurant in St James Park. Its not too far from Downing Street, or Buckingham Palace, two places between which President Obama has been travelling.
Its funny that he and Mrs Obama should be so close geographically, yet still seem as remote to me as if they were in the White House.

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