Sunday, 25 June 2017

New Directions and the dangers of individualism

A few weeks ago I was at the annual conference of the wonderful New Directions in the Study of Alcohol Group (NDSAG), which also hosted the launch of the Addiction Theory Network, including such luminaries of the field as Nick Heather, Marc Lewis and David Best, amongst others.  I could highlight any number of speakers from the conference, from John Hill’s personal reflections on a career in the field to Marcantonio Spada’s discussion of metacognitive beliefs, or Lucy Rocca’s discussion of her own recovery story and the establishment of Soberistas, through to Reinout Weirs’ discussion of free will.

Throughout, I felt there was one core theme.  Whether we were talking about the experiences of commissioners, providers or service users, there was a real emphasis on people’s individuality.  We shouldn’t be searching for one single definition of problematic drinking, or one solution, or one structure for implementing this.  We need to, as other people put it, treat people as people with people.

Despite these continuities, this theme was expressed in a range of ways.  And so I argued that we sometimes focus too much on where or how to cut the commissioning ‘cake’ – should treatment be housed in the NHS, or local authorities, for example – when the best and most efficient thing to do is to accept the situation and focus on getting the right people in the right jobs to deliver the most effective and efficient service possible.  But this also led to discussions of what treatment itself should look like.

Lucy Rocca noted that lots of the people who engage with her site – notably middle-class women – wouldn’t feel comfortable or confident accessing ‘mainstream’ community treatment services.

Rowdy Yates noted that we should look at the particular assets an individual has in terms of ‘recovery capital’, and make sure that we’re topping them up at an appropriate rate – if we deal only with the ‘drug’ issue someone has, reducing cravings for example, but don’t deal with their social relationships, then we’ll be reducing their chances of recovery.

Marcantonio Spada emphasised that in applying a particular treatment (CBT), we have to be aware that people’s beliefs about their brain, body or ‘thinking’ will influence its effectiveness.  If we think ‘I need to control my thoughts at all times’, then this presents particular challenges.  We can’t simply apply a single programme and imagine it will work for everyone.

Similarly, Phil Harris noted the importance of the life course to argue that we need to ask of any approach to treatment not simply ‘does treatment work’, or even ‘does treatment work for this person’, but ‘at what moment’ does it work.

Sarah Wadd, with particular reference to older people, noted that there are many reasons for drinking, and therefore we shouldn’t imagine there could or should be one approach to engaging people or changing their behaviour.

This point was taken up by Doug Cameron in the Q&A after the session launching the Addiction Theory Network.  If, as the panellists had suggested, the ‘brain disease’ model of addiction is so flawed, why hold onto the idea of addiction at all?  The DSM definition of what it calls a substance use disorder lists a whole range of criteria for diagnosis – some or all of which may be present, suggesting something more akin to a spectrum.  And indeed that is the public health model of approaching substance (mis)use.  And of course a consequence of identifying a whole spectrum of issues is that a strong case can be made for making a available a whole spectrum of interventions.

But of course in reality there hasn’t been a spectrum of treatments for substance misuse – and some would argue that under the NTA, there was very little on offer for alcohol users at all, let alone tailored variety.  So in some senses it’s fair that this issue of variety and nuance should be raised.  However, thinking, as I often do, in a rather self-centred way, it felt a bit harsh on commissioners to be hearing these calls for accessible, tailored treatment at a time when funding for this service area is being cut by at least 20% in line with the public health budget – and that’s if addiction services have made their case strongly enough to local politicians ahead of the myriad of other things that could be badged ‘public health’ interventions.

I started to wonder what we’re hearing (and making) these calls now.  It would make sense if the cracks in the system were starting to show because sufficient money was no longer coming in to cover them up.  That is, as services are stretched, some people end up getting a less good deal than others.

Some would argue this is happening in relation to drug treatment, particularly with the recovery agenda, meaning that those with more complex needs, or who are less likely to make quick progress, are selected out of a system that is primarily interested in achieving ‘successful completion’.  Personally, I think there’s no need for this to happen, and I think it’s a mischaracterisation of most treatment systems.  But more importantly in the context of New Directions, this just doesn’t apply to alcohol.  As those who complain about alcohol treatment being the ‘poor relation’ to drug treatment make clear, alcohol treatment hasn’t had that level of funding to paper over any cracks.

In one or two instances, it’s possible that this increased focus genuinely represents a change in need.  Perhaps middle class women are drinking more, in greater numbers, than in previous generations, and that’s why Soberistas has found plenty of users.  And similarly, people in and approaching retirement today are drinking more than their counterparts 20 or 30 years ago, and so again it’s only fair that we consider whether current services match tis potential emerging need for treatment.

At the same time, there’s something about the timing of the investment and the research and policy positions now being developed and outlined.  We had a period of well-funded, clearly-defined, centrally-controlled treatment.  Now the NTA is no more, and there is more local autonomy, there is the opportunity to consider whether things could be done better – with a real prospect of actually implementing alternative approaches.  And this opportunity is further strengthened by the fact that there’s over a decade of data and experience of what that ‘monolithic’ approach delivered.

I’d suggest this idea of focusing on people as individuals is part of something bigger.  New Directions has always prided itself on ‘providing a safe environment for original thinkers and speakers since 1976’.  And this means an emphasis on careful thinking, as opposed to comforting but superficial beliefs.  Wulf Livingston highlighted issues around language in the field.  We talk about substance misuse, but not all substances are drugs, and of course as I’ve written before, the word ‘drugs’ is pretty meaningless in any case.  And what about that word ‘misuse’?  Is it misuse to use substances that are narcotic, psychoactive or in some way affect one’s brain, for precisely that reason: to alter one’s mental state?

So if you’re interested in looking at the detail and nuance that lies behind established orthodoxy, I’d recommend joining the New Directions group and coming along to the next event or conference.  The principle was wrapped up in Nick Heather’s point about the next stages of evaluation of apps and online interventions: let’s conduct research that’s designed not simply to find out if they ‘work’, but rather to identify the mechanisms behind any effect – why they work.  There’s plans for an event for early-career researchers later this year, and then next year’s conference is a one-day event in Sheffield.

But to finish by returning to my self-centred perspective, I want to ask again about that focus on individualised treatment in today’s environment.  I am still slightly worried by this focus: that it may become a stick to beat the sector with.  That it is a way of directing attention away from those who remain the most at risk, the most in need.

Of course it shouldn’t be, and this wasn’t the intention of those who were raising these important points at New Directions.  But it’s maybe a way of responding to the cuts.  It’s difficult to legitimately rage against the cuts that are hitting the sector under the guise of a neutral, research-led approach.  However, it’s perfectly possible and reasonable to point to how current provision isn’t universally effective, and doesn’t meet the needs of all groups in society.  And perhaps there’s something positive about focusing on groups that do have some political capital in society: older people and the middle class.  The current state of the sector is, of course, a political decision (at both a local and national level), and so it will require a political solution.  Maybe I should learn to stop worrying and love the criticism.

But the running theme of the conference was to emphasise complexity, or nuance, ahead of simple ideas.  To look at the individual nature of the people involved in treatment and commissioning, to think beyond orthodoxy, beyond the disease model of addiction to more complicated, entangled idea of choice within constraints.  And that’s why I’m not sure I can stop worrying and simply love this nuance.  Simple ideas are attractive and easily understood.  ‘It’s complicated’ is a much more difficult sell.

Tony Moss suggested that if the Addiction Theory Network wants to replace the disease model, then it needs something to replace it with.  If we trace the history of thinking about problems related to alcohol there is a tendency to see the problem as either within the ‘demon drink’ (as in much temperance narrative), or within people who have, as Mark Gilman has put it, have ‘got the spots’ – the people who fit the AA model of having the ‘disease’ of alcoholism.

If the model being presented instead emphasises that both structure and agency are implicated, then this is, unfortunately, quite simply a more difficult idea to communicate.


And therefore, as so often, we come back to that difficult conundrum in relation to policymaking and public engagement: how much to participate in what is effectively a game, where the ‘winning’ positions and answers are not necessarily the ‘best’ or ‘most true’.  And there, just as with the question ‘what is addiction’, I don’t have any easy answer.

Monday, 19 June 2017

Who can buy an alcohol service?

This is a slightly longer post than usual, as it’s (almost) the words I spoke at the recent New Directions conference in Weston-super-Mare.  For those who haven’t been to New Directions before, I strongly recommend it.  There’s always an excellent line up of speakers, this year including Marc Lewis, Nick Heather and Lucy Rocca to name just a few.  One of my favourites, who I hadn't seen before, was Marcantonio Spada, from London South Bank University, talking about how our beliefs about how we think and how our brains work actually affect the reality of how we think and what we do: metacognition.

I was asked to speak in a session called ‘Can we have traditional alcohol services?’, under the title ‘Who can buy an alcohol service?’  So here goes…

***
Morning everyone.  I feel like I should start this talk with something of a disclaimer, maybe get my apology in first. In fact, three apologies. First, I'm going to talk to this title of ‘Who can buy an alcohol service’, but I’m not entirely sure what it means, so I'm going to use it an opportunity to present some kind of ‘state of the nation’ reflections from my job as a commissioner of substance misuse services in Dorset

Second, I'm worried about the length of this. But I shouldn't be much more than 20 minutes.

Finally, I don't explain too much of the nuts and bolts of commissioning, or who does what - it's part of my shtick that it's complicated, so maybe I don't want to destroy the mystique. But equally, please stick your hand up or shout out if I'm talking about something you'd like explaining. In my job, it's an extremely unfunny running joke that we talk in acronyms we can't actually spell, left alone explain. Fundamentally, I'm a commissioner, which means my employer - Dorset County Council or Public Health Dorset - pays the NHS or charities to provide treatment for what, despite Wulf's powerful and persuasive points yesterday*, I'm going to simply call 'substance misuse'. And that should really be a fourth apology, before I've really started.

Oh, and a fifth: I'm talking only about my experience, which I'm aware is very English. It's not even British. The systems in Wales and Scotland - not to mention Northern Ireland - are notably different.

But back to that title. The simple answer to this title question is: loads of people.  I think it’s a truth universally acknowledged that at the moment commissioning responsibilities are hugely fractured within the public sector.



This diagram, which I showed when I spoke at New Directions last year, is meant to be a helpful explanation of the NHS in light of the Coalition Government’s reforms – which included the transfer of all commissioning funds for substance misuse treatment to local authorities.  I don’t find this helpful – apart from to illustrate the mind-boggling complexity of the current arrangements.  And it doesn’t even cover some crucial elements that potentially relate to substance misuse, such as housing, or employment.

And this is where we might think we could run into problems.

I’ve written and spoken before about how the shift of responsibilities for drug and alcohol treatment from the National Treatment Agency to Public Health England wasn’t just semantic; there is potentially a genuinely different worldview associated with these different organisations.  And the different commissioners might have very different ideas of what the ‘problem’ with alcohol is, who the relevant potential ‘clients’ are, and what a positive ‘outcome’ would be.

But my comment last year was that we shouldn’t see this chaos or complexity as necessarily a bad thing.  Perhaps it would be neater and easier for commissioners and providers if we had straightforward, simple structures for ‘alcohol’ services, but of course life – including addiction, or dependence, or problematic use – is more complicated than that.  I’m going to stick my neck out and say that it doesn’t make much sense to look at alcohol use, or addiction, as separate from other elements of a person’s life.

Once we’re thinking about a person’s life as a whole, are the problems, the clients, or outcomes really that different for different organisations?

And I’m not going to deny that this is an issue, particularly when resources feel scarce.  There are arguments about who should be funding alcohol liaison nurses in hospitals, for example.  The acute trust or CCG might state that this is surely about public health, but the local authority Public Health team is likely to reply by saying that it’s the hospital that will save money by having fewer admissions, so shouldn’t they be the ones investing to save?

But my point is to ask whether we’re really as far apart as it might seem.  Whenever I sit down with commissioners or providers – be it in relation to the police, housing, or mental health – it’s immediately clear that even if we’re not talking about exactly the same people (and we often are), then we’re talking about many of the same causes, symptoms and solutions: stable housing, strong personal relationships, stable employment, and so on.  All these things boost people’s chances of turning their lives around.

That is, when it gets down to serious discussion, we're actually pretty agreed about what a positive outcome is, and how to get it.

This is the attraction of a programme and slogan like ‘Jobs,Friends, Houses’ and the idea that addiction is simply an absence of social connection – an idea recently popularised by Johann Hari, citing the research of Bruce Alexander, who spoke at this conference last year.

And this is why I’m sometimes sceptical of the idea that there should be ‘alcohol’ services, or that we should think of ourselves as part of an ‘alcohol’ sector – or even a ‘substance misuse’ sector.  We need to make sure services are linked together and think about the ‘whole’ person, or the ‘whole family', to use the buzzwords of the moment.  As Nick Heather put it last year when discussing this, ‘addiction is a problem of living’.  You can’t separate it out from other aspects of life; it is part of life, part of living.

But one of the problems with that approach is that there isn’t a neat distinction between cause and effect, or symptom and disease, as there would be in an ideal medical/scientific model.  What I mean is: substance misuse can be both a cause of and caused by unstable housing, relationships and employment.  These are potentially part of a complex cycle (which may be vicious or virtuous).  So it might be that for some people, a housing first approach, or ensuring stable accommodation, starts them on the road to recovery.  But for someone else, this would be at best a harm reduction strategy, and no real change can be brought about without addressing alcohol use head on, and the primary problem.  Without being flippant, there isn’t one definition of an alcohol problem; there are myriad (in fact infinite) problems where alcohol is implicated.

All I’m trying to say here is that although different people and organisations might agree on outcomes, on a broad definition of what the ‘good life’ might be, this doesn’t mean that services can just be reduced to generic ‘life’ support.  There is a need for something alcohol specific.

So if there’s a need for alcohol services, that brings us back to that question of who can (or should) be buying them.

As I said at the beginning, there’s loads of organisations that can buy something that could be badged as an alcohol service.  And I’m not really precious about this.

But I want to make two critical observations or suggestions about the way things work at the moment.

First, I think debates about the perfect place to house budgets or responsibilities in relation to alcohol are a waste of time. (Though I still often engage in them!)

I might have a view that local authorities aren’t the best place to house commissioning of structured treatment that involves prescribing, but there it is, and to be honest it doesn’t make a great deal of difference what building I have to work in.  The politics and debates will be different, and the pressures and priorities might change, but they won’t go away.

I could complain about how it’s difficult to harmonise or integrate local authority commissioning with the CCG, or NHS England, or the Police, but fundamentally these barriers will always exist - and they even exist within organisations.  Even though Public Health is now nominally part of local authorities, this doesn’t mean that there is wonderful integrated commissioning with housing and homelessness support, or social care, or children’s services.  These things are pot luck, perhaps a ‘postcode lottery’.

And that’s the crucial bit.  They’re down to local decisions and working relationships.  That is, the fundamental issue isn’t the structure, but the people.  We know this in treatment: that potentially the single most important thing in your treatment is the therapeutic relationship with staff.

But we don’t talk about it so much in broader policy terms.  Politicians and broader policymakers and influencers such as think tanks seem to think that we’re justone grand reform away from having the perfect structure to address a problem.  If only we had truly ‘joint’ commissioning, or ‘integrated’ budgets.

But this is a fight with an imaginary enemy – or at least an eternal, elusive enemy.

We’re talking about substance misuse, or as I mentioned earlier, all aspects of life.  And that means that there can never be a single, perfect way to cut the cake, and equally you can’t just commission ‘life’ support services (if you’ll pardon the pun).  To take a simple example: first aid, x-rays, possibly surgery, casts, check ups and physiotherapy might all be part of healing a broken bone – but they’re not delivered or managed by the same person, or the same service, or in the same place.  The key is to make sure the different organisations and people talk to each other and work together, for the good of the patient.

And the same is true for commissioning or providing alcohol services.  The organisational boundaries will never be perfect; it’s about working to ensure whatever system is in place is as efficient and effective as possible.

So that’s the first point: let’s not imagine that there’s a perfect solution that we just have to reform for in terms of organisational boundaries or responsibilities.  In my experience, the reality is that pooling budgets and joint commissioning are a pipe dream in any case, even for relatively small areas or themes.  Any form of ‘joined up services’ is best implemented by simply getting on with it at the coal face and coordinating front line services in practice.

So there we go, that’s the first word of the title out of the way: the ‘who’.  The answer (or dodge) being that I don’t really mind, but at the moment there’s loads of people.

I promise I’ll get onto the other words.

And to be honest, I’ve already covered ‘alcohol service’.  It’s too narrow, but equally some type of service that’s specific to alcohol (or at least substance misuse) is necessary.

So what are we left with?

The key bit is that word ‘buy’.  There’s no doubt that we currently do ‘buy’ services from either the NHS or third sector organisations – or in fact in some cases, as in Bath and North East Somerset just up the road, from private providers like Virgin.  But I want to suggest that the word ‘buy’ in this context is misleading about what’s happening, or what perhaps could or should happen.

We think of commissioning as buying, and of buying as being something to do with this mythical idea of a ‘market’, or at the very least ‘competition’.  But the reality is nothing like buying breakfast cereal in a supermarket.

My job isn’t really about procurement or purchasing.  In fact, there’s a procurement team within the council who deal with the actual purchasing and contracting – which only happens every few years in any case.  My job is to help design services and work with managers to ensure the right sort of things are being done and we’re getting the outcomes we all want.  In fact, you’d probably best describe it as being either some kind of manager or a service design and development officer.  But I suppose we call it commissioner because that’s the popular or fashionable language.  And in reality, my actual official job title is the meaningless ‘Senior Health Programme Advisor’.

Commissioning, as defined by government, academics and think tanks, is about much more than buying, purchasing or procuring – however you want to label it.



If you look at the model of commissioning from the Institute of Public Care at Oxford Brookes (where I did my commissioning qualification), you’ll see that the actions of ‘analyse, plan, do, review’ could equally apply to any form of service delivery.  Maybe that inner circle wouldn’t apply, but if you just look at the outer ring relating to commissioning, it’s hard to imagine any sensible service not operating something along these lines: think about what you might do; do it; see how well it went.

So in some ways, this model of ‘commissioning’, where we emphasise procurement, isn’t actually that important.  In itself, it shouldn’t really change the assessment of need in the local community, or the design of services.  (I’m not making any comment here about how those things are shaped by local or organisational priorities, and the fickleness of politics in funding decisions.)  And as anyone who’s been through one of these processes knows, there’s a lot of discussion about transfer of staff from one provider to another, and you can often end up with much the same people doing much the same job, but perhaps under a different organisational banner.

But, based on a procurement process I’m in the middle of at the moment – and so can’t say too much about – I think there are potentially significant effects of this approach.  Fundamentally, a huge amount of my time over the past year has been spent:
  • writing reports for committees to approve certain budgets and processes;
  • writing service specifications for new contracts;
  • writing evaluation questions for prospective providers; and then
  • conducting evaluations;
  • organising and marking interviews; and
  • writing feedback.

There are positives to this: it means we can re-shape services, and we’re planning carefully for that.  But it comes at a cost – even if that cost is simply that we have to spend less time on the usual quality assurance or service development work.

And this is where the market analogy breaks down.  That just isn’t the same as any market I’ve ever shopped in.  You don’t buy years’ worth of Weetabix, find you don’t really like it or it’s leaving you hungry by mid-morning, and then just say: “well, I’ll just have to stick with it for another year or 18 months till I can buy something else”.

I know this is a flippant example, but it is actually relevant.  Within this model of procurement and commissioning, there is undoubtedly waste and miscommunication.  Some people have suggested to me that there would be much less stress and miscommunication if the whole process was less formalised.  In fact, if it was simply an ongoing conversation as it is outside of procurement periods.  And rather than setting up evaluations as a kind of exam, or jumping through hoops (“we’re not going to specify who our key partners are; it’s a test to see if they know”) commissioners and providers could just have a direct conversation.

And in fact we can run procurement more in that way.  There are ways we can do this whole thing called ‘commissioning’ better.  For example, the idea that local authorities must go out to tender every three years is a myth.  Commissioners can be more creative – particularly in the current climate where all bets are off about the future of local government funding and NHS commissioning practices.  The current regulatory framework allows for decision to be postponed in exceptional circumstances, and if the circumstances today in terms of changing budgets, shifting commissioning responsibilities, local government reform in many areas, and so on aren’t exceptional, I’m not sure what would be.

Moreover, decisions don't have to be made on the basis of price. We've set a budget, and we’re judging providers on how they're planning to spend that money (how much goes on ‘front line’ service delivery, for example), and how credible those plans are.

And this is my plea, then, to finish this rambling presentation.  Or rather, my two pleas.

First, we all need to campaign to make the system better, by which I simply mean ‘more efficient’ – which is ironic, given that commissioning and the supposed ‘market’ model is meant to be efficient by definition.

But as I said earlier, changing the system isn’t terribly useful in itself.  Usually the most efficient thing is to work within whatever is in place in the most sensible way possible – particularly given that what really matters is the people involved.  If you’ve got the right people, and they’re motivated, they can make good things happen.

And that’s the second plea.  We all – whether providers, commissioners, or interested observers – need to work in ways that make that system as close to optimal as it can be.  Let’s be pragmatic, canny, and calculating.  For example, why drive some charities out of business by competing in a zero-sum way?  Providers should be working in partnership, and not simply seeking to hoover up additional market share.  I know that’s easy for me to say, as I’m not a ‘business development’ officer whose salary is dependent on bringing in new contracts.  And I know commissioners have been guilty of setting up these conditions in which that kind of competition happens.  But both commissioners and providers can work differently.

And that brings me onto my final point, which I think the organisers of the conference were wanting to get at with this session, entitled: ‘Can we have traditional alcohol services?’  I think it’s getting harder to imagine, with the financial pressures as they are, that it would make sense to commission or provide a standalone alcohol service.  Increasingly, there are pressures to reduce transaction costs, which means commissioning one contract across an area, and let’s not forget that ‘joint commissioning’ is the flavour of the month.

But that doesn’t have to mean having just one agency.  It’s very possible that partnerships can exist, whereby a specific service or organisation with something to add provides the bit of the treatment system where they have expertise – say in club drugs, or perhaps alcohol, or even a specific element of alcohol – for example engaging increasing risk drinkers, rather than fully fledged dependent drinkers.  They might have specific expertise, or a local profile and reputation.  That could be what makes them particularly good at doing this on a relatively small, specialised scale.  And actually that specificity and expertise could be provided under a different banner or service, but by the same overarching organisation.  Wouldn’t that still be a dedicated ‘alcohol service’?  It’s not inevitable that specific or local expertise will be wiped out by ‘the market’.

So in conclusion, let’s not paint commissioning in simplistic terms as a form of magic market, or the devil’s work.  It’s just a word, and a broad set of principles that are reliant on people doing sensible things.

Of course, the context is the reduction of public sector budgets, and the idea that local authorities will be self-sufficient and fund all public health services (including substance misuse and sexual health) through business rates in a couple of years.  But that’s a tale for another day.  For the moment, I’d just answer the question: ‘can we have traditional alcohol services’ by saying, ‘Yes, if you actually want them enough.’  Whether we should – well, that’s a question for someone else.

Thank you.


* We talk about substance misuse, but not all substances are drugs, and the word ‘drugs’ is pretty meaningless, as Toby Seddon (amongst others) has pointed out.  And what about that word ‘misuse’?  Is it misuse to use substances that are narcotic, psychoactive or in some way affect one’s brain, for precisely that reason: to alter one’s mental state?

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Reflections on the Psychoactive Substances Act one year on

One of the most interesting developments in UK drug policy in the last few years has been the introduction of the Psychoactive Substances Act (PSA), which came into force just over a year ago in response to the emergence of 'new psychoactive substances', often known as 'legal highs'.

As this anniversary has come round, there's been quite a bit of media and policy discussions about how well it's worked, and whether it can be viewed as a positive development.

I've been involved in several discussions about this.

First, there are several recorded interviews or snippets of mine that have been broadcast on BBC Radio Solent:


Second, I've commented on an excellent event, the Psychoactive Supper, held around the time of the introduction of the Act.  The organisers put together a short film describing what happened, and then asked me and the excellent Neil Woods of LEAP to comment on it.  You can find this if you scroll down a bit here.  What I try to do in this piece is describe how the supper highlights the inconsistencies in the Act, and reflect on how well the Act may have worked in practical terms.

But if you want a more complete outline of my personal (optimistic) opinion, please read my recent piece on VolteFace, which was itself prompted by the most recent meeting of that group of academics.  I set the scene for a discussion of the Act by suggesting that we're kidding ourselves if we think we can have a perfect, neat, objective drug policy based on reducing 'harm'.  Harm is a really complicated concept that we can't use to put a single value on a substance, and if we try to identify substances we're going to legislate as 'drugs' then we've already begged the question: what is a drug?

And so I think the PSA is a potentially positive development because it's more open and honest: substances are banned and controlled not on the basis of some objective idea of harm, but simply because they alter our mental state - because they are psychoactive.  That means there's much more scope for discussion and disagreement when compared with a debate about drugs and 'harm'.  It's hard to disagree that something scientifically decreed to be 'harmful' should be closely regulated, and even illegal, but it's not so clear that everything that alters our mental state can or should be outlawed as a matter of course.

I look forward to the possibility of that more open debate about the aims and effects of 'drug' policy, but being very aware that public debate doesn't always lead to the kind of clear and open discussions I'd prefer.

I hope some of this at least is of interest.  I think there's no doubt that in terms of policy relating to alcohol and other drugs - or whatever we're going to call psychoactive substances - we live in interesting times.

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Is research really something special?

As I've mentioned before on this blog, I've been pretty busy over the past few months, as we've been re-procuring almost all of the substance misuse treatment services across Bournemouth, Poole and the rest of Dorset.  So I can only apologise that several of the posts I'm writing currently are responses to events held or pieces published some time ago.  But as I always say, with a historian's perspective, the fundamental issues related to alcohol and other drugs don't really change - and certainly not in a month or two.

So here goes with some reflections from the Alcohol Research UK conference a month or two ago.  Unlike its usual format of what I think of as a kind of 'state of the nation' set of presentations from big names in the field or simply those with significant findings that need communicating to the wider sector, this year it had a very specific focus: public involvement in research.  In some ways I missed the standard approach, getting my latest update on the state of research in relation to alcohol harm.  But there were clear strengths to this approach.

First, there's no doubt that involving service users and the wider public in research and service provision is too often a token exercise, and this is something we're acutely aware of in Dorset: although we've included service user panels in our recent procurement exercise, and there are service user reps are included contract review meetings and relevant decision-making boards, there's still more we can do, particularly in relation to day-to-day business.  And this conference was full of pointers about how to start thinking about this process, from philosophical insights to practical tips.

Second, there's simply something positive about being encouraged to look at an issue from a different perspective.  In this case, I started to think about the broader point of how we often divorce research from practice.  A key presentation came from Simon Denegri of the NIHR, which funds a considerable amount of health research in the UK.  He emphasised the increasing importance placed on service user – or patient – involvement in research in the UK.  This should help shape the entire process of research, right from the initial setting of priorities for researchers and funders.  One of his insights was that actually, most patients expect there to be research going on in relation to healthcare, and so wouldn't be surprised to be asked to be involved.

This is an important insight in terms of more than the culture around healthcare research.  The reason people wouldn't find this strange is that they expect there to be work going on to ascertain what treatments work, and how they can be improved.  This is partly because medicine is so closely related to science, and the model of drug trials, and Randomised Control Trials (RCTs) fits so well, but that's no reason why we shouldn't expect people to apply the principle more broadly – to the full range of substance misuse treatment services, for example.

If we think of research at its simplest level, it's just trying to answer questions, which is exactly what we spend a lot of time doing whether at work or home.  How can I put up these shelves?  What sort of meal can I make from these ingredients in the fridge?  How can I swim faster?  In each case, we probably have a think using the knowledge we've already got, maybe consult a book or the internet to see what other people have found, and maybe we just give something a go and see how it works out.  All of these are part of any 'research' process.  And most fundamentally, all those example questions I've given have an implicit purpose: someone wants to be able to store books, or eat some tasty food, or win a swimming competition.

Now think about 'alcohol research'.  If we take Alcohol Research UK's overarching mission, the aim is to reduce alcohol-related harm.  And research can't do this on its own.  In fact, it needs policy and practice to 'do' anything, to make any difference.

Let's return to those 'research questions', such as how to make something for dinner.  Those are precisely the kind of questions practitioners should – and do – ask of alcohol treatment.  How can we optimise treatment for this client?  And they'll be working on all those bits I outlined: knowledge/experience they have, consulting maybe findings.org.uk or similar resources to find out what others have done to achieve success, and maybe just trying something and reflecting on how it goes.

And this is precisely the same model as commissioners are encouraged to follow: analyse, plan, do, review.

Institute of Public Care, Oxford Brookes University.  See http://www.scie.org.uk/publications/guides/guide45/files/Workshop_Handout_1_IP__Commissioning_Framework[1].pdf?res=true 


And wouldn't people in treatment or out of it find it strange if we weren't doing this?  If we weren't reflecting on our current practice to find out who needs support, what we think works for different groups, and how well we're delivering this?

This might seem like a bizarre discussion.  Like I've set up some kind of straw man.  And perhaps I have, but if so then it's a straw man that I've genuinely believed in – or at least been scared of – and that seems to inform thinking in universities, the NHS, and wider treatment services.

I benefited from a grant to do a PhD at Bournemouth University, and the only reason that grant existed was Vice Chancellor Paul Curran’s idea to transform Bournemouth into a 'research led' university, where it had previously been seen as a teaching and training university, according to the established wisdom: our department in particular trained people to be nurses and social workers.  I was part of the grand vision to sweep away old experts in teaching with a new cadre of young researchers.

I won’t reflect on how well that worked out, or whether it was even a good idea in the first place, but I’m very grateful for the opportunity it gave me.  My point is simply that the division between teaching and practice on the one hand, and research on the other, was an unavoidable aspect of how this issue was framed, and how it played out.  And similarly, at conferences in this field it sometimes feels that academics and practitioners don’t just talk different languages, but are different species.

(I’m assured this wasn’t always the case; that addiction studies and conferences like New Directions in the Study of Alcohol used to be filled with research active clinical psychologists – and I believe it.  Flicking through the 2002 New Directions journal (another illustration of the fact that the key issues and dilemmas don’t go away) you can read reflections on practice by Doug Cameron and Richard Velleman, amongst others.)

But in fact, any practitioner worth their salt would have been asking those questions I just outlined, and developing their practice accordingly.  And any researcher worth their salt should have been trying to answer them.  That is, there is no great divide in philosophy, epistemology or anything else between practice and research.  Some of us just choose to get precious about – or frightened of – this word ‘research’.  In fact, it really just means finding out, and we shouldn’t be dividing it off from practice; we should be embedding it in practice.


As I say, this may mean nothing to some readers, or seem like a straw man argument, but I would argue that if we embed a culture of being curious, seeking knowledge and looking for innovation into our practice, then we are de facto ‘researchers’ – and this is an approach that isn’t typical of services and commissioners today.  And if providers and commissioners are de facto researchers, so should those accessing the service be.  Then, as in healthcare more broadly, it wouldn’t seem odd or unusual to ‘involve’ service users – in fact it would be strange not to.

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Is drug policy about drugs?

This week, I’ve been at a mini-conference to discuss prohibition through different periods of history and across different countries and societies.  Although I did (part of) my first degree in history, anything I write now is more based on what ‘I reckon’ rather than any genuine knowledge, historic or current.  So it’s not clear what I was doing there, but they let me in anyway.

(I should say at this point, as I did when I wrote about the original conference, that this is an amazing group of academics, and there’s a load of fascinating work going on at Warwick University more broadly.)

My contribution was born a year ago as a response to the 2016 Psychoactive Substances Act.  Unsurprisingly, at that point (and now), it was hard to find too many academics in history or social policy prepared to defend the Act.  So, being the attention-seeking contrarian that I am, I saw my role (or my way of getting a paper accepted) as being to be a bit more positive about the Act.  I suggested that it could be a catalyst for change in drug policy, as it reframes the debate from being about harm to being about psychoactivity itself.  But that’s a post I’ve kind of already written (though I can write it much more clearly, and will do sometime).

So what I want to do here is to reflect on what we were trying to do as a whole.  The idea was – and is – that we can usefully say something about the idea of prohibition through the ages.

But I was constantly reminded of a paper I saw at the wonderful ADHS conference a few years ago.  There, Lauren Saxton talked about how alcohol was understood to lead to infertility amongst women in France in the nineteenth century (because that was their major national concern), whereas at the same time, with the same substance in Britain, we were concerned that alcohol was leading women to have more children than they should do.

The point being: alcohol (or any other ‘drug’) has a meaning and set of concerns that are hugely dependent on the wider context.

So what’s that got to do with prohibition?

Well, hearing these accounts from France, Indochina, Mexico, Russia, America, Portugal, as well as the UK and the international community more generally, I started to think about how alcohol or any other drug offers something of a lightning conductor for any other concerns the public might have, be they in relation to race, gender, class, nationality, religion, productivity, industry, modernity, or anything else.

In some ways, use of morphine in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century could be seen as rational, pure, clean and reasoned, with the use processed ‘white drugs’ (like heroin and cocaine, as well as morphine) administered with precise dosage using the technical innovation of the syringe.  This was what Christopher Hallam was telling us the ‘bright young things’ of the interwar period were doing – elite, well-educated, white aristocrats.  ‘Brown drugs’ were less processed substances like hashish and opium, perhaps seen as ‘dirty’ and were more associated with the working class or ‘foreigners’ like Chinese immigrants.  (The white/brown binary here really is pretty transparent.)

But others, like Susannah Wilson, noted that in some cultures and periods, that scientific/natural binary doesn’t always have ‘science’ on top.  Of course, doctors can use it to defend their own use, as they did in nineteenth century France, but the precision and technical approach to drug use can be seen as new and frightening.  Soon, you get onto a discussion of the optimism and fear that equally surrounded ‘modernity’.  Is change exciting, frightening, or both?  Are ‘natural’ ingredients better than chemically pure, processed ones?  You’re probably thinking that it depends on who you are, what you’re doing and what you’re trying to achieve.  And so it is with drug debates.

Similarly, the idea of prohibition can symbolise any number of things.  It can be, as Mark Lawrence Schrad argued, an opportunity for emerging nations (such as Turkey, even when ruled by heavy drinker Ataturk) to expel foreign industries and express a new anti-colonial identity.  Or it could be an opportunity for the Protestant Ethic to express itself.  (And I should reference the work of Henry Yeomans at this point, as I didn’t do in that post.)  Or, in the early twentieth century, it could be a way for a nation to show it was part of the international club, which Cecilia Autrique noted was part of Mexico’s motivation in developing drug policy in the early to mid twentieth century.

Alternatively, rather than being anti-colonial, prohibition has been justified by discourses of anti-orientalism (that drug use is somehow characteristic of ‘weak’ nations like the Chinese, or Arabs, or whatever culture is viewed as negative in the time and place in question).

But even here, things are complicated.  Aro Velmet explained that the same forms of drug use were seen as appropriate to French Indochina in the early 20th century, because of the culture and climate – not just for people from that culture, but for French people living and working there – but inappropriate if they were continued on returning to France.

So amongst all this I started to wonder whether there was any coherence at all.  Notably, as James Nicholls has pointed out, there’s no straightforward position on the issue of ‘alcohol’ that can be produced by reference to even the relatively narrow definition of nineteenth century liberalism.  JS Mill argued that it wouldn’t be real freedom for us to abstain from alcohol if it was just what was required.  And yet TH Green maintained – invoking the same argument that led Mill to reject slavery, that we shouldn’t be given the opportunity to become dependent on alcohol – we’d be better off if alcohol was never available.

And as Mark pointed out, this is a more nuanced debate than we often acknowledge: the key organisation in the US was the Anti-Saloon League, rather than the Anti-Drinking-at-your-own-pace-at-home League.

So, given all our discussion, is really anything linking these themes at all?  I’m reminded of my concern about whether there is any point in trying to develop an ‘alcohol’ strategy.  ‘Alcohol’ or ‘drugs’ or ‘prohibition’ might be a lens through which to look at society, but what we end up actually looking at are the familiar themes of politics, identity, and so on.  It’s no surprise that a discussion of drug policy in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries ends up as simply a discussion of racism, anti-colonialism, nationalism, gender, class, and so on – the ‘fundamental’ issues of societies in that period.

So is there any point talking about ‘prohibition’ as a general concept (or more importantly as a useful academic concept)?

Well, only in as much as James Nicholls suggests alcohol is a useful lens through which to understand how people think of and enact liberalism (in principle and in practice).  But maybe what that means is that there’s not much point studying the phenomenon of prohibition in itself, or trying to understand what motivates people to ‘prohibit’.  Perhaps, just as with ‘alcohol’ and/or ‘drug’ strategies, the ‘take-home’ point should be that we need to think about what these substance-specific ideas tell us about life more broadly.


So, in answer to the title of this post, I’d say no, ‘drug policy’ isn't really about ‘drugs’.  But it's worth pointing that out. And as ever, I look forward to a more open, honest discussion.  And I’ll be writing again soon about how the 2016 Psychoactive Substances Act can be part of that more open and honest discussion.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Alcohol, productivity and morality

Work has been pretty busy lately, so I hope readers will forgive me posting about what might seem to be ‘old news’.  But, as anyone who’s studied policy relating to alcohol or other drugs for any length of time will surely agree, the issues tend not to go away, but cycle round to be viewed in a new light.  And it’s precisely that sense of history that’s prompted this post.


The blog started with a neat ‘parable’, credited to economist Frederic Bastiat, of a shopkeeper whose window is smashed, who tries to look on the bright side by saying that at least replacing the window will keep the glazier in business.  The point is, of course, that the shopkeeper would have been able to spend the same money on something else had the window not been broken, and kept maybe a cobbler in business while seeing a tangible improvement in his own life.  And similarly, it’s claimed, we shouldn’t worry about harming the economy if we reduce alcohol consumption or even the money spent on alcohol, as this can simply go on something else.

My initial reaction was to take issue with Aveek on two points.  First, whether the alcohol industry is really anything like the glazier in the story.  Isn’t the role of the glazier played by the police, NHS, or alcohol charities, repairing damage caused by alcohol?

But I suppose if the alcohol industry really is the glazier, then we’re not suggesting that all windows/alcohol are bad, or a waste of money; simply those where the spend is the result of some kind of damage.  By my understanding, the analogy would then run that we shouldn’t be vandalising (or consuming somehow irresponsibly), but windows/alcohol can be useful, beautiful, and part of a healthy economy.  Windows in themselves aren’t undesirable or immoral.

And this got me thinking: maybe I’m over-thinking this.

Aristotle! if you had had the advantage of being ‘the freshest modern’ instead of the greatest ancient, would you not have mingled your praise of metaphorical speech, as a sign of high intelligence, with a lamentation that intelligence so rarely shows itself in speech without metaphor, — that we can so seldom declare what a thing is, except by saying it is something else?  (Eliot, The Mill on the Floss)

So let’s aside whether the alcohol is like glass, and focus on the second area where I was going to take issue with the argument: that economics has anything to do with this at all.

Setting aside Aveek’s personal position, as everything I’ve read by him suggests he’s open, honest and sincere, I started to wonder how well this argument fitted with whatever corporate view the IAS might have.  I just wasn’t convinced that their hearts would really be in it.

I started to think of why I set up this blog in the first place: frustration at the disingenuous nature of much public policy debate in the two fields I’ve worked in.  Drug treatment was justified by painting ‘addicts’ as dangerous, and higher education funding was justified by boosting economic productivity.

Neither actually gets to the heart of why I think these things should be supported.  Drug workers haven’t come into the field to reduce crime, and most academics don’t see their vocation as being to enhance graduate ‘employability’ or develop a productive ‘spin-out’ company.

Moreover, from a pragmatic point of view, I’d worry that when economic times get hard despite the continued existence of Oxford University, or acquisitive crime becomes less of a hot-button topic, the power of those narratives falls.  You haven’t won the fundamental argument that these policies are a ‘good thing’.

Similarly, I wondered, was economics really why the IAS opposed alcohol, or certain forms of alcohol consumption?  What if the data shifted and suggested that alcohol was a genuine boost for the economy?  (That’s certainly a tactic being used by people seeking cannabis policy reform.)  Would that change their minds?  Of course not.  So I was going to write about how the IAS is using economics disingenuously to justify what is really about morality or public health.

But then I realised I was doing exactly what I complain about other people doing: simplifying the argument into an either/or, or looking for the single factor that ‘explains’ their position.

I stepped back, and started to think about how, in reality, we tend not to separate economics from morality.  Whether it’s debates about benefits or executive pay, the argument can rarely be boiled down to a question of objective market factors.

And the same applies to this issue of alcohol and morality, health and economics.  There’s a long history of ideas of productivity being linked with discipline, morality and temperance – just think of the Protestant Ethic and the strong influence of non-conformists in the temperance movement.

In fact, the IAS has its roots precisely in that tradition, being an outgrowth of the UK Alliance, itself founded by non-conformist advocates of temperance.

(I’m hoping I don’t get pulled up too much on my knowledge of Victorian religion and the temperance movement – I’m just making a broad point.)

So my point – apart from illustrating how I argue against myself in my own head – is simply to note how several motivations and perspectives might well come together at once.  When we think about productivity, we might well be thinking about morality too, and that might be tied up with an idea of a healthy, active body as much as an economically productive mind.  It really is a coherent vision of how we could all be fitter, happier and more productive if we only drank less.


The only problem with this is that, precisely because the worldview is coherent and consistent, it challenges the idea that these debates about economics are somehow objective.  This is, as ever, a discussion about ‘the good life’, to return to Aristotle.  And, inevitably, we won’t all share the same vision of what that is.

Monday, 13 March 2017

Stigma and drug regulation

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about stigma and words relating to substance use.  Carl Hart recently wrote a piece arguing that understanding ‘addiction’ as a ‘brain disease’ contributes to social injustice, and when NACOA recently launched a manifesto for ‘children of alcoholics’, the write-up by Alcohol Policy UK got me wondering about that much debated word ‘alcoholic’.

Stigma is often cited as a reason to introduce drug reform.  It might be unfair, but sometimes I get the feeling – as Julian Buchanan suggests in that post I just linked to – that some reformers think stigma itself would be undermined by legalisation.  I think, aside from ignoring the experience of alcohol and ‘alcoholism’ in particular, this misunderstands what stigma is and where it comes from.

Plenty of research on drinking – including my own – suggests that there is huge stigma around certain forms of drinking behaviour, both amongst drinkers and policymakers (local as well as national), even though (or perhaps because) alcohol is legal.

I used to think (when I was working solely on alcohol policy) that it was the legal status of alcohol that brought out particularly odd, self-deluding arguments, as we each try to contort our reasoning to claim that it’s not our own drinking that’s problematic, but someone else’s.  We can’t condemn people for drinking per se, so we have to look for something else to dislike.  So if the government says drinking 14 (or even 21) units a week is a bad idea, we counter by pointing out that we haven’t caused any nuisance or engaged in any crime, unlike some people, and we spread out our units across the whole week.  But others would use precisely the same definition to argue that, even though they drink pretty heavily on one night of the week, they’re not drinking that much per night on average, and they certainly don’t drink every day, which would be a sign of a problem.

It’s true, this feels odd, and I got tired during my research of hearing people say that they didn’t drink to get drunk, but noting that this did – just coincidentally, obviously – happen when they went out with their friends.  I think at some level I felt this was dishonest: if you don’t drink to get drunk, but engage in the same practice almost every Friday night, and it always happens when you do, then surely you do intend to get drunk at some level?  And what’s wrong with admitting this?

But actually, having looked at drug policy, I can see this in a different light as somehow more open and honest.  Government and drinkers alike don’t actually condemn physiological intoxication, except where it relates to your ability to drive a car.  How could they, given this is seen as an inherent property of alcohol, which is legal?

(In fact, they could quite easily: through our weird attitude to ‘rationality’ and laws such as serving people who are drunk, drunk and incapable, etc.  But let’s set that aside for just a moment.)

When people deny that a certain level of consumption is problematic in itself, and that really we should care about behaviour and the setting of this, they are quite honestly getting to the heart of the matter.  It’s perfectly honest to say what’s actually a problem is violence, or disorder, or even simply being immodest.  What would actually be dishonest for most drinkers would be to suggest they’re offended by some ‘inherent’ or ‘objective’ property of a substance, or intoxication in itself.

But that’s precisely the basis of much drug policy debate: not just that drugs are ‘dangerous’ but that they are somehow morally questionable in themselves.

We like simple arguments: x causes y.  Famously, we’re not good at understanding the idea of risk and uncertainty, let alone accurately judging it and responding accordingly.  This is why debates about alcohol guidelines get lost in the mire of whether there is a J-curve of risk, and reports suggesting one way of dealing with harm related to cannabis get sucked into a fruitless debate of whether cannabis can ever be harmful at all, even when both sides are deliberately trying to avoid it.  (I was going to link to another thread on Twitter at this point, but I see it’s been somehow deleted – certainly not by me!)

And so we like the idea that we can define ‘drugs’ in general – or even specific substances – as dangerous (or not), or at least on a spectrum.  And Public Health campaigners like the idea that alcohol is inherently problematic: it’s no ordinary commodity and there’s ‘no safe level’ of consumption.

I appreciate that these are partly campaigning tactics: it’s easier to state that something is inherently ‘bad’ rather than look at nuances of social and cultural context – drug, set, and setting, to use some out-of-date terminology.

But the reality is unquestionably more complex.  There simply aren’t ever fixed, objective characteristics of a substance in any way that’s relevant for policymaking – and I don’t just mean the panic around crack cocaine that Carl Hart (amongst others) has so clearly debunked.

This is where the idea of alcoholism or addiction as brain disease is relevant.  Carl Hart, as I mentioned, sees this concept as perpetuating social injustice.  The point is that according to this theory, the fundamental issues of ‘addiction’ are due to how a chemical interacts with the brain.  This is understood as a (not very) simple ‘fact’ of neuroscience.

If that’s how addiction is understood – or what it’s reduced to – then as Hart points out, this means the issue (and therefore the ‘solution’) either lies with the substance or the brain.

For the past century, we’ve tended to see the solution regarding alcohol as being to address the brain.  Or, rather, the specific brains that have a problem with alcohol.  This is still the dominant view of addiction or alcoholism today.  We talk about certain people as having ‘addictive personalities’, and most people’s view of alcohol would be that controlled (or ‘responsible’) drinking is possible – but not for everyone.  ‘Alcoholics’ are effectively defined as the people who can’t simply have ‘one or two’ drinks.  As Mark Gilman puts it, some people ‘have the spots’.

But for ‘drugs’, we’ve tended to take the opposite position: that the danger is in the substance itself, not just that certain people are susceptible.  That’s certainly a good rationale for keeping drugs illegal: if one hit of heroin, crack or methamphetamine can lead to addiction (and sensible, well-educated, scientific people have insisted on this when I’ve suggested otherwise), who would allow people to buy and consume it?

But the crucial word there is ‘can’.  Even if it were true, it surely wouldn’t apply to everyone.  But as soon as we admit this, we have to think in shades of grey, rather than black and white, unless we simply fall back on the idea that some people ‘have the spots’.

Now this blog is really here as a way for me to write what I ‘reckon’, without having my argument fully formed or evidenced as I’d need in a professional or academic context.  And as I thought – reckoned – about this idea of addiction-as-brain-disease, another currently popular idea came to mind: that policy regarding a range of substances is converging.  Virginia Berridge most notably, but also Mark Monaghan and Henry Yeomans (this is the paper I’m thinking of), have written persuasively about how several jurisdictions seem to be categorising substances like cannabis and tobacco in similar ways – legal, but highly regulated – and this is related to a convergence in how we think about them: as legitimate consumption choices, but with some risks attached that merit the state getting involved.

It’s easy to attack someone on the simple basis that they use a particular ‘drug’, of the use of that substance is somehow inherently ‘wrong’.  However, if this convergence thesis is accurate, and we are increasingly seeing caffeine, nicotine and alcohol and other substances as ‘drugs’ in some sense, it becomes harder to maintain that simple but comforting fiction that ‘drugs are bad’ (mkay).

And bearing in mind our tendency to like  clear arguments and positions, if it’s not the substance that is the source of the problem – an assumption which can’t be so easily sustained if ‘we’ use ‘drugs’ like caffeine and alcohol too – it must be the person; the ‘addict’ with a ‘diseased’ brain.  These substances don’t cause everyone problems, so we should look out for the specific people who are likely to find them difficult to manage, probably due to some genetic predisposition.

This is remarkably similar to the idea of condemning young drinkers who don’t know their limits, rather than identifying alcohol or licensing policy as the issue.  (I’m not saying one of these is wrong or right; just pointing out that they’re different analytical approaches that lead to different policy ‘solutions’.)

And in both cases, whether relating to ‘drugs’ or alcohol, as Carl Hart suggests, we could do with a bit more social context to understand why some people are more likely to face problems than others.  Might this have something to do with wider social factors like housing, employment and wealth?

This is a potent reminder that policy ‘convergence’ and the call of ‘legalise and regulate’ won’t address stigma, which comes from somewhere deeper.  In fact, as the stigma surrounding particular substances reduces, you might even argue that the stigma attached to individual ‘flawed consumers’ could increase, as they bear the blame for running into problems or consuming them in the ‘wrong’ way, rather than being able to blame the substance itself.


The bigger task, then, is to try to inspire more nuanced thinking, as Carl Hart suggests, that moves beyond seeing problems as either the result of a ‘drug’ or an ‘addicted brain’, and looks at both of those in the wider context of the society we live in.  I hope this blog contributes something at least to that idea.