Imagine living in an upscale Essex flat located in the iconic Brooklyn Court of Loughton High Road, where the landlord was none other than a financial advisor from the powerful Rothschild clan named Gary Kessock Phillips. Picture the grandeur, the prestige, and the fast-paced life that accompanied my stay there. 

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But it's not all that it seems, and contrary to what you might think. My experience was tainted as I plunged into the world of drug dealing, specifically dealing cannabis, allowing distractions to tear me away from the high life. Despite earning significantly from this somewhat illegal trade, most of my earnings were unwisely spent on personal substance addiction. It had been a downward spiral. 

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"Wealth isn't always a blessing. When not used responsibly, it can quickly become a curse that consumes every aspect of your life."

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The story was no different for me. I held a promising job with Dickson Manchester & Company, a known insurance broker company where I served as a claims broker. Places like Lloyd's of London were just another day at the office for me. However, I quit this steady life to embrace the more "exciting and rewarding" occupation of being a full-time drug dealer. 

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Education too was a path I tread on briefly. I endeavored to become a Microsoft Certified Systems Engineer, but it was not meant to be. An underlying problem with my long-term memory made it difficult for me to retain the vast amount of data required to succeed. This was the very first time when I realized that I had an issue with my memory. 

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During my stay at Brooklyn Court, one particular incident stayed with me like a haunting memory. On the rooftop, I witnessed a mesmerizing solar eclipse, an event that I can recall with vivid clarity. However, the days that followed cast a shadow darker than the eclipse itself. The escalations that followed, including the demise of my acquaintance Chris Glover due to an overdose, further plunged me into a world of remorse and realizations. 

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In this piece, I take you through the journey of a life dominated by money, power, addiction, and loss — a poignant reminder of the struggles embedded in the seemingly perfect lives around us.

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Awakening in Brooklyn Court, my first thought is how a joint is the perfect way to kickstart my day. Yes, I admit it, I'm a cannabis junkie. But it's not as simple as that. In the whirlwind of financial uncertainty, I've been driven to dealing drugs simply to support my habit. And, I've been successful, in a manner of speaking. As the summer of 1999 kicked off, so did my business, but I was naive to the unexpected cost that would accompany it. If given a chance to change my path, would I take it? Probably not, I did manage to squeeze some fun out of my turbulent journey. Despite my vulnerable state, I'm still here, still willing to get my story out there. In the heart of our progressive society, countless individuals surrender to their struggles, landing them as just another statistic. A statistic the public pays lip service but little more. A wealthy nation is no guarantee of an easy life. In reality, it's a harsh, unforgiving battlefield. Some carve out triumphant victories, while others barely scrape by. However, we're all drawn towards the vision of abundance, a symptom of our consumerist society. My personal antidote to the harsh reality? Getting high. It's my escape from the grim realities of my life and the internal unhappiness that haunts me.

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Hey, buddy! Get this - you can snag an 1/8 for just £15, 1/4 for £25, 1/2 for £40, Ounce £60, and I can set you up with anything even up to a bar for a Monkey. Swing by next month, and I might hook you up with a key for just £1,200. You see, I'm all into this concept of supply and demand, where I supply to meet your demand. It's undeniable that my clientele was always satisfied. They relished the hefty deals and 24-hour access to a fully stocked enterprise. I kicked things off on a modest scale earlier, buying a bar (250 grams) at once, but in no time, I was dealing in Kilos, and multiple pickups each week were commonplace. My shop remained open round the clock, with my day job being my only constraint. Strangely, by day I was a Claims Broker at Lloyd’s of London, and how I ended up here, is essentially down to being undercompensated for the work I did and also being an addict. Having my own cannabis stash was merely a means to sustain my addiction, and this seemed like the only feasible way.

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In my dealer network, I had two key players, Paul Quatremain and Daniel Quatremain - I suspect their parents needed a dash of enchantment given those first names. As time passed, I got to meet their suppliers, another duo of brothers, Dan Martin and Matt Martin. I often wondered how long this chain of siblings stretched but in this type of venture, ignorance is a friend not a foe. I prided myself on my reliability - the commodity was always available when needed. This set me apart from many of my competitors who, bounded by fear and paranoia, operated an erratic supply mechanism, often shrouded in secrecy akin to that of covert governmental operations. Their fear of the police was tangible. They'd often sell out their entire stock in one go to their established network of dealers, leaving themselves devoid of inventory until the next shipment arrived. Such volatility never bothered me and I was never subject to a police raid that I reckon that was a saving grace. I was as comfortable selling to my established circle of dealers as I was to Mildred from next door. Her ilk accounted for half my profits given the hefty price tags involved in retail sales. My profits often exceeded £1,500 weekly - but where did it all vanish? Up my nostrils, offering a temporary, albeit costly, oblivion from my pressing troubles.

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You may imagine that I carefully considered and pursued a career in insurance, but the truth is, it was nothing more than a fortuitous tumble. A job posting for a Junior Broker I spotted in the Evening Standard appeared glamorous, intriguing me enough to throw my hat into the ring. I'd been eyeballing and applying for multiple positions prior to landing this gig. Barely a month into my role as a Claims Junior, I used some of my precious time off to attend another job interview. Now, the sensible among us may have attributed their absence to a doctor's appointment or a similar plausible excuse when presenting this to their new employer. But I, in my forthright manner, told them the blunt truth. Little did I know that this act of honesty would be the first step towards my downfall.

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The interview was with CSO Valuations, a well-established entity managing the entry and transformation of raw diamonds in the United Kingdom. They were the critical link, shaping and regulating the flow of these gems into the market in such a way that it maintained the prices of diamonds. As part of the interview process, I had to take several tests revolving around diamond-cutting technicalities and shape awareness. Based on the second interview invitation I received – I must've aced them. Though invited, I never did partake in the second interview. I refrained from risking offending my current employers in the insurance sector. In retrospect, I recognize that decision as a potential turning point – an opportunity for redemption that I didn't seize. I missed it, and this was perceived by many as a demonstration of my weakness. They are likely right. In my journey of life, I have always tried to act with responsibility and show respect towards others. Ideally, I should have consistently prioritized my own aspirations just as everyone else does. But then, I've never been one to swim with the tide, and I'm far from being just like everyone else.

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Switching careers was the plan, leaving behind my insurance job and dedicating my time to become a Microsoft Certified Systems Engineer. I devoted myself to rigorous study but the issue of retaining the necessary information became increasingly clear. It was as if my brain was filtering the data straight to short-term memory and bypassing any chance of it securing a place in my long-term memory. Exams turned into humbling experiences of failure. The struggle was exasperating, like nothing I'd contended with before. It felt like my cognitive prowess had been in decline since my high school years. As my debt from the costly course escalated into thousands, it was an ominous realization. Debt begets debt, and soon, you blink, and you're drowning in financial obligations you can't fulfil. I dealt with this daunting scenario in the worst way possible — by retreating further into my double life as a drug dealer. Attempting to tread these divergent paths clouded my sense of self. Who was I? The corporate city worker or the drug dealer living an enticing yet dangerous life? I craved for professional stability but found no fulfillment or validation in my insurance job.

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The company I worked for began to lose its integrity, leading me to distrust their motives. Despite my dedication and efforts, I felt valued little more than a replaceable cog in their corporate wheel. Even casual outings with my last manager were tenanted with unsettling information about potential outsourcing of our claims department to a law firm. Caught between a rock and a hard place, I was coerced into painting a negative picture of a colleague, Elizabeth Berman Wright, leading up to their dismissal. I wasn’t proud, but deep down, I believed my colleague was better off away from the toxic environment. This event was something of a trigger, nudging me towards severing ties with the company, effectively gambling my career on the less than stable grounds of drug dealing.

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You might not believe it, but there was a time when I wasn't in the drug game. My initial stint was in the insurance industry, but the pitiful salary fast track me into the world of illicit dealing, a transition that happened approximately a year into my role. Around this time, I was working my way through my MCSE, aided by a Career Development Loan I'd secured to cover the course fees. The institution handling my learning was Seetec, based just off Liverpool Street. My intellect was seemingly up for the task, but my brain didn't cooperate. Failure became my consequent shadow, unable to grasp anything, a stark difference from my previously academically successful self. It seemed as if my long-term memory was on a permanent vacation, leading to my inability to finish the course. With my head hung low in shame, I had to tap out. The disappointment was particularly stinging because I had made known my plans to everyone - my family, my employer. Bragging about my laid-out path to a technical career that I ultimately couldn't accomplish. At that moment perhaps, I transitioned from dealing to fuel my addiction to a full-fledged drug supply business. I wish I could remember when that line was crossed, but it's a blur now. All I know is that I never planned this outcome. I just needed a way to finance my high.

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When I started dealing, I was no mere rung on the Insurance ladder. I had clawed my way up to a Claims Broker, but I was still stuck on a junior's salary. I never truly found my footing in the Insurance Industry. Everywhere I looked, I saw tightly wound wallets. All I wanted at that point in my life was to see cash flowing, but I felt stunted. As I reflect on it now, I realize I could've switched lanes within the industry, pursued a career as an actual Broker, possibly even an Underwriter given enough dedication and hard work. But my young, restless mind was in knots, unable to navigate what now seems like clear waters. Towards the end of 1999, I found myself deep in the belly of financial despair. Credit cards maxed out, loan repayments mounting, catalogue purchases piling up, and overdrafts looming overhead. I could've cleared this whole mess with the illicit profits from my side hustle, but I hesitated. Dealing in cash only invites suspicion, and I, a drug dealer, did not wish to stand out. So, in this sea of debt, I chose the quickest escape, the wrong escape, and just a few months short of the millennium, I let my day job go. A job that brought me more tears than joy. In August of 1999, I opted to pull the plug on my career in Insurance. Citing a fake back injury, I pushed the company into releasing another chunk of my salary. My naïve mind tricked into believing that I was walking away from a prestigious job to play a part in the drug trade.

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At that point in my life, I had let go of all my responsibilities, from work to settling my debts. My days were filled with endless tokes of a rocket, complemented by routine doses of Haagen-Dazs and an array of takeout meals. Money was no object – it was simply everywhere, and I had more than I knew what to do with. Regrettably, most of it was spent fuelling my addiction to cocaine. Looking back, I reckon I must've blown through tens of thousands of pounds on drugs in 1999 alone. Regardless, since I hadn't worked hard for the money, I couldn't value it. Many hardened criminals will agree that ill-gotten wealth is quickly squandered because it lacks any real value to its possessor. However, such an easy life is invariably bankrolled by others. I rarely thought about the string of people I was selling drugs to, many of whom were likely forgoing basic necessities to sustain their addiction. Even while deeply engulfed in the murky world of drug dealing, I found it impossible to ignore the social footprint I was leaving behind.

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Experiencing the total solar eclipse in 1999 from the rooftop of Brooklyn Court alongside my flatmate, Graham Finck, was genuinely a phenomenal event. Unmindful of the turbulent future that was lying in wait for me, we secured a vantage point, courtesy of an accidentally unlocked rooftop hatch. Little did I anticipate the impending lessons that life had in store for me. 

 

It was the onset of the bank holiday weekend in August 1999—an ordinary Friday night that was about to turn anything but ordinary. Wrapping up my day's trade, I planned to turn in for the night. My flatmate, my old buddy Graham Finck, had his gang over. All seemed at peace as they were engrossed in the lingering fragrance of cannabis. That's when a knock on the door shattered the tranquility – an unexpected intrusion that shook me. In my line of work, business rarely came knocking unannounced; it typically came buzzed through on the phone line. Before I could get to the door, George Munday, one of Graham's buddies, beat me to it. Disastrously, he opened the floodgates of my impending nightmare. Two intimidating figures forced their way in, one gripping a bat, the other an imitation firearm both concealing their faces. Intuition also suggested concealed knives. An armed robbery right under my nose! Even when faced with a fake gun, one can't afford to lower the guard as anything can be modified into a tool of menace. 

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Initially, my defiant spirit wouldn't give in to their demands. Alas, the persistence of the clock was matched only by their obstinacy. Gradually, I found myself retreating. Their initial demand was my stock, and perhaps naïvely, I hoped it would end there. Once the stock was taken, all bets were off - they now also wanted cash. 

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The thought of knocking down the robber with a golf club from the living room crossed my mind but was swiftly overwhelmed by my fear. Eventually, I led him back to my bedroom from where they had taken my stash of drugs. Here, I struck a desperate bargain: "Take my cash, and quickly leave my flat." I handed over my secret stash of cash, valued at almost a grand. To my relief, they honored the deal - they fled the scene at once, without inflicting bodily harm or leaving any additional scars. Their rushed escape even caused them to drop most of the drugs. In a twist of fate, it turned out the intruders were guys I knew—Martin Bean and Charlie Atkinson. While the option to take revenge was handed to me on a silver platter, I refused to go down that path. 

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People were egging me on to retaliate, to walk down the road of vengeance. But that was a path I chose not to tread. That night marked a turning point, a harsh realization that I had strayed onto a path unsuitable for me. I was in over my head, on the verge of turning into a person I never wanted to become.

 

Reflecting on that period, despite being a grown man, I was essentially a child in terms of life experience, and far from being someone to look up to. Life, as it often does, handed out lessons the hard way. If a chance were given to revisit that time, I'd love to impart those crucial lessons to the man I was back then, hoping perhaps to cushion the blows that were to come. However, being the headstrong individual I was, I'm not sure I would have heeded the advice given by my future self. 

 

Key to assisting someone is the individual's own acknowledgment of their need for help. Any attempt to help before that realization springs forth can feel like sermonizing, something I was particularly unwilling to tolerate back then. Unfortunately, it was a series of harsh life knocks, delivered by the universe, that eventually brought me to my senses, albeit at a great personal cost.

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My paranoia skyrocketed following the theft, an anxiety likely amplified by the hefty quantities of hashish I was consuming. On one particular day, Graham returned home, having just towed a vehicle from some place, with a van. He entered the apartment, leaving Jamie Carter and Chris Glover downstairs, with the entrance door ajar. Compelled by my overwhelming fear of intruders, I felt obliged to guard the place, despite it being broad daylight. Stationed on the Brooklyn Court's second-floor landing at number 14, I looked down at the pair - the van and towed car. My attention, however, was drawn away to Chris Glover. He appeared unsettlingly pallid, leaning more towards a bluish-grey hue than any natural color. The thing that struck me the most was his disconcerting stare, fixated on me with what I could only describe as a trace of surprise. I gestured, waving back at him. Yet he seemed to dismiss my acknowledgment, standing stock-still with an unchanging expression.

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In the period preceding this, I frequently frequented the Royal Standard pub. This place held a special place in my heart as my regular hangout for years. I was out with my friend Juice and a few others on one such night, when we found ourselves in an unfortunate run-in with a gang, among whom Chris Glover was a member. As the pub closed its doors for the night, the brewing tension erupted onto the quiet Loughton streets, with everyone from both groups getting entangled in the ensuing chaos. This gang, it seemed, had come with the intention of inciting conflict. Despite their obvious aggression, none of them was armed - a stark contrast to the knife-infused culture we observe today. It turned into a messy tussle, two groups of friends in heated combat. The situation threatened to become dire when a known acquaintance, Vicky Andrews, found herself shielding a friend with her own body from their persistent attempts to assault him while he was down. During the skirmish, I found myself standing opposite Chris Glover. In an adrenaline-charged moment, I gave chase when he decided to make a run for it down Smart’s Lane. A chase, I admit, wasn't the smartest move on my part given the risks of an ambush. Yet, induced by alcohol, I found myself trailing Chris Glover for a good 100 yards down the lane. Chris, in a state of fear and in an attempt to falsely display his strength, tried to smash a car window by punching it with his left hand. He failed miserably, leaving himself looking foolish. I advised him to cool off and left him standing there, his bewildered expression etched in my mind as I later recalled the incident from my apartment in Brooklyn Court. 

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A shock-wave trembled through our community when we heard about Chris Glover's tragic demise from a heroin overdose. It was particularly haunting for me, as I last saw Chris mere days before, during an uncomfortable encounter when I remember noticing his unnervingly pallor complexion. Foolishly, I attributed it to his chronic heroin use. While I didn't attend his funeral, I did participate in a wake at 14 Brooklyn Court with many familiar faces like Rowland Philpot. His tragic story unfolded more - after overdosing away from home, his body was transported back to his house and left on his sofa in the wee hours, leaving his family to discover his passing. Although it might seem inhumane, the sunny side seems the other perspective, understanding the paranoia that engulfs heroin users and dealers about involving authorities, even during times of emergency. Instead of alerting an ambulance, society has deemed to prompt investigations into such incidents, resulting in unfortunate instances where deceased addicts are discarded in public spaces like an acquaintance who overdosed and was found some time later in a wooded area by two primary school-going children, he was Tony Carr. This speaks volumes about the dire necessity for a reformation in societal norms surrounding this grim subject.

            

Following Chris's tragic demise, I found myself in an introspection mode, reflecting on the trajectory of my own life. I wanted to disentangle myself from the drug trade, but I'd severed all ties with my previous employer and found myself unemployed. My life was in a state of disarray; not only was I entwined with cannabis, but I was also immersed in regular cocaine usage. My life seemed like a tangled knot, and I was clueless about where to start unravelling it. However, I felt that moving away and starting afresh could offer me a way out - but was it going to be as straightforward as I hoped?

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All the Trapping's by Michael Ezare Barrett

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There is a world behind closed doors,
Where darkness claims and light implores.
Dreams are bought, and futures sold,
A life of highs, so stark, so cold. 

 

In smoky haze, reality blurs,
Promises broken, pain concurs.
Friendships fade like morning mist,
Addiction's grip, a strangled fist. 

 

The mirror shows a hollow face,
Time slows down, a ruthless race.
Whispers of what might have been,
Lost in shadows, drowned in sin. 

 

“Money made, and money spent,
No savings left, no rent money sent.
Nose to line, a path to pain,
The cycle starts, and will remain.”

 

In fleeting joy, the sorrow’s deep,
Nights awake, no restful sleep.
A risky game, a deadly dance,
Caught in addiction’s cruel romance.

 

• Trust betrayed, and hearts in strife,

• Moments lost, a stolen life.

• The sun is dark, the light's a lie,

• Chasing highs that never satisfy.

 

But know this truth, engraved in stone,
In finding help, you’re not alone.
The battle’s tough, but freedom calls,
Break the chains, tear down the walls.