
In the shade of Stoke-on-Trent’s derelict pottery kilns, hidden from the surrounding town through dense layers of undergrowth, Dave is hunched over a giant glass bong encrusted with plastic jewels, pinching a baggie of dull grey powder.
“I f***ing hate it,” he says, jimmying the corners so that flecks of dust tumble into the bowl. “That is about £10 worth. For a person who can’t handle it, who hasn’t got a strong mind, that would discombobulate their head to f***.”