Cannabis Club Tales
7 min

Tales From The Cannabis Club Part 3: Good Weed, Bad Luck And Unconventional Methods

7 min
Lifestyle News

In another edition of Tales from the Cannabis Club, we see a series of unfortunate events that play out with comically dark humour. Further documenting the tales of Top Shelf Grower.


Gold Coast

I furiously type this dispatch, amidst a cloud of high-grade marijuana smoke, in my death trap apartment somewhere on the Gold Coast of Catalonia. Definitely not Spain as the natives almost exclusively emphatically identify as Catalan. Well, when queried by a well-meaning curious Irishman they seem to.

This Sunday afternoon, with no internet connection and intermittent power outages localised to my kitchen and living room, is yet another uncomfortable scenario for me to deal with. At least, I have a few chunky nuggs of Super Bud to keep myself uplifted.

My present predicament is far from my “Boats ’n Hoes” imaginings of how my trip north would pan out. I finally understand the meaning of the phrase “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times”.

Almost three weeks ago I took my last look at the Sierra Nevada Mountains and said farewell to the Tabernas desert. After a 9 hour painfully slow train ride with a couple of frantic transfers. Every train station platform in Spain seems to have flooring designed to test the shock absorption capabilities of wheeled suitcases to the limit.

Gaps, grooves, and an infinite number of tiny speed bumps, as opposed to the usual suitcase friendly smooth surfaces. Probably would be advantageous during an icy winter to prevent slips and trips. But this is Spain for Christ sake! Err well most of the land is.

Lugging two jerking suitcases with a combined weight of 40kg, a backpack and laptop bag was problematic. Plus the few words of Spanish I’ve picked up proved as useful as Swahili once I reached Catalonia proper.

I staggered into my Hotel room for the night sweating, stressed out mess fumbling for the packed spliff of Strawberry Kush hash I rolled on the train. I blazed up and minutes later crashed out on the couch of the room fully clothed.


Little Problems

The next morning my Catalan real estate agent sent me a text to advise me there was a “little problem” with the accommodation I had already paid for in advance. In a nutshell, it was for spurious reasons no longer available, and I would be staying somewhere else in the next town along the coast temporarily.

When it rains is pours. As I was about to check out of the hotel, the front desk advised me my prepaid 20GB wifi internet device never arrived the previous day. Or more accurately since I was the only guest they closed early so the courier couldn’t get in. I had almost forgotten about this vital piece of kit.

Internet access is as essential as running water and electricity these days. I couldn’t go anywhere without it. Then I received another text from the agent telling me he can’t pick me up from the hotel until later in the afternoon.

My stress levels were rising. I could feel my blood boiling. All my carefully laid plans to ensure a smooth move up north were crumbling around me. Sweet Jesus, I really needed a joint at that moment.

So I took a walk on the beach and smoked another packed hash spliff as I pondered my options. What would Richard Branson do in this situation I thought? Probably buy out the hotel chain and sack the sloths at the reception. No, no, that’s a Howard Hughes play. Branson is a smooth operator. He would have arrived via hot air balloon equipped with the latest 5G satellite internet setting down gently on the landing pad of a private villa.


Much later that evening, after the most strained negotiations since Kissinger sat down with the Communist Chinese. I made it to my temporary apartment with my portable wifi unit in hand. The agent was apologetic for my dingy digs and fled promptly.

I found myself on the wrong side of the tracks. Way too close to the train tracks in fact. The thundering clammer of the “Renfe” to and fro Barcelona every 30 minutes makes the whole place rattle. It was the best my “Manuel” agent could come up with on short notice, and it was very “Fawlty Towers” indeed. I told myself “Marines make do” and so must I.

Apparently, the owner of the original penthouse apartment is racist and unwilling to rent to foreigners. He has no special resentment for the Irish rather he is universally prejudice and has a problem with all foreigners, including Spaniards. I hope he has the guts to stick to his backward principles if ever he finds himself in need of a blood transfusion or an organ transplant.

Settling into my shabby accommodation was perilous. Just as I was about to have a seat on the crack den style sofa in the living room and roll up, I switched on the TV. ZZZZZap! I was electrocuted, not badly, but it stung like hell. Suddenly, smoke started billowing from the back of the old box TV set.

After yanking the plug from the socket and beating out the flames with a dish cloth my nerves were fried. It took three not so well rolled spliffs, due to the burning sensation running through the nerves in my left hand, just to calm me down.

Later I had a powerful lust for fast food. That night a calorie laden Burger King feast was just what I needed. It had been over a year since I had stuffed a greasy Whopper in my gullet. Anything but nutritious. Yet absolutely delicious. For a city boy abroad, still getting his bearings, it was the perfect comfort food at the end of a hard day. Probably one of the best burgers I’ve ever tasted.


Local Cannabis Club Bureaucracy

Before I got the crazy notion in my head that I could change the world using the only two talents God gave me, writing dope stories and cropping weed. I too was a hardcore capitalist, singularly focused on “winning”. Although, most of the time I was losing, even when I thought I was winning. Don’t go trying to label me. I am not any sort of “ist” and subscribe to no “ism” philosophy. I am human, man.

However, I did pick up all kinds of transferable skills in the black arts of bribery and deception. Little did I know I would have to rummage in my old bag of tricks to blag my way into membership of a cannabis club in Catalonia. In this case, the ends justify the means, so I’ve no regrets. I am still a firm believer that simple bribes can solve the most complicated problems.

My stash of hash coins was beginning to dwindle, so I urgently needed to pay the local cannabis club a visit and stock up on some top-shelf marijuana. After all, it’s the whole point of my escapades and hopefully why you are reading. That being said, I can understand how my missteps and mishaps are amusing to others. I’d laugh too if this crap didn’t always happen to me.

Anyway, so I’m well aware, that best practice for joining a local cannabis club is to bring photo ID and ideally a recommendation from a friend. But I’ve had enough bureaucracy to last me a lifetime, so I prefer to do things my own way.

Carrying your passport around everywhere is not practical. I keep mine in a drawer like most people for safe keeping and only carry it on my person in the airport. Plus I’m new in town and probably not staying for long, so I don’t have the time to make a genuine new best friend that will fill in the recommendation paperwork. Sigh, yes the cannabis clubs over here are obsessed with irrelevant forms and documents. So I’m nought for two, but I’m resourceful.


My method for joining a cannabis club might be unorthodox. But I guarantee you it’s the only way to join a cannabis club in less than 5 minutes. Obviously, I’m not advocating others to replicate my method rather recounting it for posterity. I’ll discuss my streamlined instant membership process a bit later. Let’s start with my preparations for infiltration.

First I rolled a nice packed combo joint of the last of my Strawberry Kush bud and my second last hash coin. Next, I carefully wrapped up my last hash coin and put it in my pocket. And finally hit the ATM before swinging by the closest cannabis club.

The nearest club is a few shop fronts down from regular newsagents, so I really did just stumble upon the place. It looked pretty plain; just an ordinary glass storefront with the name of the club above the door in plain black lettering. No giant weed leaves or anything to draw your attention, other than the odour of cannabis every time the door opened.


Stoner Tradecraft

I blazed my joint outside a few steps from the door to casually observe how members gained access, pressing an intercom buzzer, and to spy the best candidate to recruit as my new best friend. The fragrance from my joint drew the attention of two dudes on their way in. We conversed briefly, and I passed them a few hits. Bingo! Two new best friends.

Moments later the three amigos were inside. Again the place could have passed for an ordinary cafe. But it did have a comfy sofa and huge flat screen TV for gamers. Some kind of Playstation football tournament had a group of guys in their early 20’s captivated, so the bud bar to the rear wasn’t busy.

My new pals spoke some English and introduced me to the budtender and the gamer gang. They were a good group, but it was a total sausage fest, and I just wanted to cop a stash and hit the beach to work on a story in a sand dune like I always dreamed of.

The Bud Tender was also in his early 20’s and not exactly officious looking so I knew I was cool. As he was about to query me for ID and gathering forms for my new pals to cross the T's and dot the I's on; I seized my opportunity to dazzle him with my last hash coin.

He was mesmerised instantly. Having only ever seen real blonde hash on the internet he was fascinated. I suggested he roll up a spliff and try it out. Then I sealed the deal by breaking him off a nice piece about 0.5g. This had outstanding results. All standard operating procedure was abandoned, and I was issued a membership card and a fat stash of Amnesia Haze in less than 5 minutes.


On The Road Again

Last Friday and Saturday night it rained, more than a spring shower. It actually reminded me of the heavy sustained downpours back home. Trouble again. I was doing some writing late into the evening on Friday when an odd splashing sound struck me as peculiar as I made my way from the living room to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. As I returned, cup in hand I heard it again. This was very odd.

Then I noticed my feet were beginning to feel wet. I looked down and the living room was flooded, pools of water were forming all around me. Frantically I grabbed a mop and raided the previous tenant’s towels and bed clothes from the wardrobe in the bedroom to soak up as much as I could.

The walls of the living room were damp to the touch, and somehow the rainfall was seeping through and channelling across the floor. Needless to say, I have lost plenty of sleep this past weekend. Late night mopping and damming an indoor waterfall with towels is exhausting.

Sunday morning the sun came out. By early afternoon my papier-mâché pad had dried out. Unfortunately, the water damage has ruined the electrics, and the fuse box switches are regularly shorting out. Also, 20GB of data has proved to be utterly insufficient and has run out without warning nor option to extend. Customer service and Manuel prepare to be berated first thing Monday morning.

Finally, I’ll leave you guys with some good news. Lord knows I need more of it, but sometimes you gotta take what you can get. The Catalan marijuana I’ve sampled so far is first rate, and there are literally dozens of cannabis clubs along the Gold Coast. I aim to visit them all and report back to you my findings.

Like the Navy Seals say “the only easy day was yesterday”. Tomorrow I’m hitting the road once again. I’ve finally found safe, habitable lodgings. My exploration of Catalan cannabis culture has only just begun.


Written by: Zamnesia
Zamnesia has spent years honing its products, ranges, and knowledge of all things psychedelic. Driven by the spirit of Zammi, Zamnesia strives to bring you accurate, factual, and informative content.

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