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I'm a professional middle-class woman who smokes shitloads of weed. Where's my Daily Mail article?

By Joanna Kramer, aged 42, a mother-of-three from Alderley Edge

MIDDLE-class mums on cocaine one week, middle-class mums on Tramadol the next. I’m blasting skunk nightly. Where’s my f**king Daily Mail article? 

I have a responsible job as a GP or head of HR or some shit like that. I have beautiful children who go to good schools. My husband works in finance. I’m white, in case you didn’t get the hint from the last three sentences.

But while all these coked-out yummy mummies are drowning in demonising coverage and the tranq-addled are finally getting their due, what do I get for rolling a fat one nightly and smoking it in the extensive gardens of our five-bed £750,000 home? Ignored.

What, is cannabis not dangerous now? No Daily Mail worthy of the name ‘bigoted hate-sheet’ would ever believe that. I remember the outrage when it was a Class B substance, when it knows full well it’s responsible for all street violence.

And more than that, it’s a risk to others. Small children with good academic grades could walk past, inhale a lungful of lemon haze and become addicts for life. Not round here because nobody lets their kids out, but in theory.

Where’s the condemnation for me working at home and doing bong hits between Teams meetings? Where’s the indignation at my buying weed off Instagram? This garden office cost 27 grand and it’s basically a drug den. Nothing.

I wouldn’t mind if I’m not hot, but I am. This is one MILF who’s followed by envious eyes up and down the aisles at M&S Food. Titillation, respectability and depravity on one sexy package.

Whatever, Daily Mail. Disappointing that you’re betrayed your core values, but your loss. I’ll comfort myself by doing edibles on a playdate.

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Sam Fender, and other artists whose songs are impossible to tell apart

BEING afflicted with same-song syndrome isn’t necessarily a barrier to success. These artists have discovered what works and are in no hurry to change it:

Sam Fender

Shouting in a tone of mild panic, always propelled by the same driving drumbeat, Fender races through his one song as if he desperately needs a crap and knows a sax break will cover it. Lyrically, he lists things he remembers like a musical Peter Kay and appeals to much the same audience.

AC/DC

Making 17 albums of single power chord riffs is a wilful lack of creative flair only an Australian band would have the balls to base a career on. Listening to two different AC/DC albums is like visiting the Burger King in Corley services and then visiting the Burger King on Swansea Union Street. They’re identical and to you, that’s consistency.

Nirvana

There’s a quiet bit during which life is shit, then a loud bit during which life is shit. The guitars always have the same texture because depression and/or heroin removes all motivation for knob-twiddling. Kurt Cobain ultimately shot himself as one final loud bit for the outro.

The Smiths

It’s a shame about Morrissey, because you really liked The Smiths. You’re particularly fond of that song with the jangly guitars and the witty, relatable lyrics about how sad you are because nobody loves you. Oh hang on, that’s all of them. Like a sulky teen refusing to leave his bedroom, The Smiths took a sound and sat glowering in it for five years.

Katy Perry

There’s a generic chord sequence and an anthemic, empowering chorus so it must be a Katy Perry song. But which one? ‘Baby you’re a firework, so you’re gonna hear me roar!’ Is that all one track? It’s what your eight-year-old daughter is singing, and if she can’t tell the difference why should you?

Mumford & Sons

Why bother writing lyrics when you can just quote Shakespeare and chant ‘Ohhh!’ for four minutes? The novelty of the banjo propelled them to flukey stardom so Mumford & Sons had valid commercial reasons for never varying their formula. Fans will disagree, pointing out that some songs go ‘Ahhh!’ instead.

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