THE image the public has of the drug dealer and of the drug problem is an erroneous one.

It is an image rooted in class prejudice, racial prejudice, and ignorance.

The stereotype of the strange-looking figure, with strange hair and strange clothes, who haunts back streets and seedy bars and clubs of inner city areas, is deliberately promoted by political and financial vested interests.

It is allowed to exist for the purpose of social control by the establishment.

Yes, the police are 'fighting a losing battle', but this actually suits both police and politician because, despite inevitable protestations to the contrary, it keeps them in a job.

They can then exploit the high profile of the drugs problem for political gain, thereby justifying the oppression of certain minorities in the name of 'law and order.'

The politicians prefer to turn a blind eye to the real, and most common problem, with which people like me must struggle every minute of every day.

Fact -- I am a drug addict but I'm 'respectable'.

I'm not a traveller, or black. I'm not young, I don't live on a council estate and I'm not scrounging off the social security.

As New Tory Tony puts it, I'm a Middle Englander.

I have to admit, after all these years, that I'm a drug addict, because things have got to the point where, last Tuesday, I was actually afraid to go into town, despite needing to return some books to the library.

I knew one of those dealers would be there, just around the corner, waiting for me and that I would be unable to get home without having my 'fix'.

Inevitably, having been to the library, I sought out the nearest dealer -- it's easy to get it on the streets of Bolton.

Those people conduct their business openly, under the noses of police and public.

But most of those dealers are the epitome of 'respectability'. They go to church, go on holiday to exotic locations, they drive flash cars and pay their tax -- on time! Some of them even organise raves and donate the proceeds to charity.

And so, the licensing authorities prefer to turn a blind eye to the thousands of young alcoholics -- some still of school age -- who stagger around the streets of Bolton, stoned out of their minds, every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night until the early hours of the morning.

But, woe betide the pensioner who is suspected of having the odd spliff, or a cannabis plant on the window sill!

It is because of the prejudice and hypocrisy surrounding this issue that a relative of mine is able to tell me, day after day, about the hospital ward where she works. which is full of young women who are dying in pain and despair, surrounded by their distraught families, front the same addiction against which I have been fighting for years.

The social and economic cost to the community of this disease and the sadness which strikes every day at the hearts of millions of families throughout Britain, is incalculable.

But it is not incalculable is it? Her Royal Majesty's faithful servants are able to calculate exactly how much money pours into the national coffers from the proceeds of the trade in alcohol and nicotine induced misery.

Perhaps a representative of the Bolton Area Health Authority could inform the public via the BEN of the number of people from this area to have died in 1998, from alcoholism; smoking tobacco; ingesting cannabis and ingesting ecstasy, and of the financial cost of each cause of death to the BAHA for 1998?

If only I could grow a little cannabis in my garden, along with the garlic and oregano, I could put some into the cooking and I might be able to alleviate the symptoms of the arthritis which caused me to be pensioned-off early, at great financial cost to the community and to my family and which now stops me from doing the things I used to do.

But I can't -- it's not legal. See you down the pub.

I'll see if I can find one that serves coffee.

An alcoholic

Name and address supplied