High Society

Try as I might, the lure of the evil (and it is evil) weed keeps tapping me on the shoulder and insisting we should get back together. At first it was easy to ignore - remembering all the negatives is a synch when you first split up - but slowly and inevitably the good times start to paw gently at your mind, seductively rubbing themselves up and down your brain. As familiar and comfortable as an old pet. Wouldn't you choose to bring a favourite family pet back to life if you could? This was my weak-minded reasoning and besides, if the old adage is to be believed, the grass is always greener - but I just had to be sure.

This is how I found myself in Kensington Market, the Toronto version - and a more different version you couldn't hope to see. Whereas London's Kensington is synonymous with wealth and sophistication, Toronto's Kensington's main claim to fame is that it is, more or less, the puckered anus of the city. Toronto is the financial hub of Canada and as such enjoys affluence and culture in equal measure, but as with every city there are pockets of iniquity and Kensington Market was less a pocket and more a canyon. Poverty and hopelessness permeated every pore of the place and gaunt spectral faces glared out of dark doorways wherever you went - some were after your money, but most just seemed curious or stoned. The looks are remarkably similar so it was difficult to tell. Funnily enough the place reminded me very much of certain parts of Streatham or Clapham North, the difference being that Kensington Market was eerily quiet. Life here was still chugging along fairly normally and the evidence of that could be seen in the presence of cafes, bars and shops, but those sitting in them appeared glum about something and weren't really talking to each other, choosing instead to stare at me and my travelling companion (a Scot called Luke) as a welcome distraction. God, I'm depressing myself writing this, but I swear it's exactly what it felt like. A strange foreboding sat over the area as though it were cursed and it genuinely made you feel uncomfortable. These may not be the ideal conditions for life to flourish, but as such they were the crucial components that make up places people go to look for stuff you shouldn't be looking for - this was the place I could find evil.

So we set off to the number one haunt of the soon-to-be or already wasted, a cafe in the middle of all this destitution called the Hot Box Cafe. This is a strange one - a cafe right in the centre of town (albeit off the beaten track) where you can go and freely indulge yourself in the same way that hippies have for decades. They're not allowed to sell it there, but you can smoke to your heart (and lungs) content all day long and enjoy a couple of budget comedians slowly getting more paranoid as the heavy smoke in the room starts to passively work its magic. Looking around it strikes me that wherever you go in the Western world, stoners are always made up of the same two types of people. One who confidently embraces all that goes with the Bob Marley, crusty, reggae-based culture and the other (that I'd probably ascribe myself to) who occasionally finds themselves in unfamiliar surroundings nodding to the music, but really looking for an excuse to get it and get out as quickly as possible. Hot Box is no exception to these 'types' and a couple of prime examples were weaving in and out of the plumes of smoke as I entered. The crusty type was about as archetypal as you could possibly imagine. We'll start with the clothes. Every single article was shredded. I don't mean that there was (as is the want of many of today's youth) the occasional smear or tear in the knee or pocket, I mean every garment the guy had on was torn as if he'd had a cartoon-like encounter with a particularly vicious dog. The material flew about him like dirty ribbons making it look a lot like a home-made Halloween outfit and the overall effect was appropriately ghastly. Not that anyone could doubt the chap's commitment to the crusty cause after seeing his fashion sense, but an irrefutable aspect of the subculture - as important as the strange sickly lavender smell that accompanies them or the obligatory dog on a bit of string - is facial hair, and this crustacean did not disappoint. Add a dash of dirty skin covered in inexplicable whelps and a sprinkle of confidence which far exceeds that which it should be given his appearance and, more importantly, the amount of mind-bending substances he was clearly on and you have the epitome of the crusty encapsulated in one being. In short, if you bottled it and wore the man's essence you shouldn't be surprised if you fell foul to the busy hooves of excited antler-clad mammals.

The other type, well, is me. Far less fun to describe, I'm afraid, but take it from me, I wasn't the only me in that cafe. There were many other charlatans about, bobbing to Bob and trying not to look as awkwardly out of place as we all knew we did, and together with all the other mes I felt comforted. I knew there were at least a dozen other pairs of clenched buttocks in the room and it felt good to know that we all clenched in unison for the greater good. The end of the story is a bit of an anti-climax, I'm sorry to say. An enormous-breasted woman in the Hot Box told us that due to strict laws we couldn't buy anything in there, but pointed us straight to where we could, and like that it was over. I suppose the point of this posting was to describe to you an odd little arm of Toronto called Kensington Market. An idiosyncratic abnormality that I think would be rife with crime, if only it could be bothered.

No comments last week means no praise owed from me. Come on, people, I thought we had a deal? Oh, how can I stay mad at you? Goodbye.