Drugs, harm and the law: are we still classifying risk correctly

I joined policing in 1990 (wow - how time has passed), at a time when drug policing felt comparatively straightforward. Substances were categorised, harms were broadly assumed, and the job was to enforce the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 as it stood. The law was already ageing, but it was treated as settled ground.

By the mid-1990s, that certainty was already beginning to fray. In 1995, I was involved in investigating 2 drug deaths linked to ecstasy use. At the time, ecstasy was often seen socially as a “party drug” — something perceived by users as relatively low risk. What those investigations exposed was a very different reality. Variable purity, dehydration, overheating, and a lack of understanding about dosage all played a part. The harm to the individual was immediate and irreversible. The wider harm followed quickly: devastated families, pressure on emergency services, lengthy inquests, and communities asking why the risks had not been better understood or communicated.

Those cases stayed with me, and they still shape how I think about drug harm today.

More than three decades on, having worked as a detective in major crime, specialist drugs squads, and international policing, and now as Course Lead for Policing, Law Enforcement and Investigation at the University of Lancashire, I increasingly question whether the way we classify drugs in the UK genuinely reflects the risks they pose in 2026 — both to those who use them and to society more broadly.

The original aim of drug classification was to reflect relative harm. In practice, classification has often reflected political priorities, historical moments, and public anxiety rather than evolving evidence. That gap between classification and lived harm has widened over time.

GHB is a clear example. Despite its association with drink spiking, sexual exploitation, and serious assault, GHB is only classified as a Class C drug under the Misuse of Drugs Act. In real-world terms, it is one of the most dangerous substances currently in circulation. It acts quickly, is difficult to detect, and leaves individuals acutely vulnerable. The harm is not confined to the person who consumes it. GHB facilitates predatory offending, places heavy demand on policing and health services, and causes long-term trauma. Yet its legal classification does not obviously reflect the level of risk it presents to individuals or the wider public. (there is a further article on drug spiking on this portal)

Cannabis presents a different kind of anomaly. Its harms are real, but uneven. Over the years, I have dealt with cannabis in contexts ranging from low-level possession to organised production, mental health crises, and increasingly, drug driving. In 2026, one of the most significant risks associated with cannabis is impairment behind the wheel. That risk extends well beyond the user, affecting passengers, pedestrians, and other road users. Yet the law still struggles to communicate this clearly or consistently, leaving a disconnect between legal status, perceived safety, and real-world harm.

This raises a broader question that students often ask in lectures: how do we meaningfully assess risk? Is it the likelihood of death, the scale of social harm, the link to exploitation, or the burden placed on public services? Alcohol, for example, sits outside drug classification entirely, despite its clear links to violence, domestic abuse, and long-term health harm. Meanwhile, some substances closely linked to serious violence and coercion remain poorly understood outside specialist circles.

Internationally, I saw approaches that were more flexible and more honest about this complexity. Some systems separated personal use from organised exploitation more clearly. Others treated drug harm primarily as a public health issue while reserving enforcement for supply and coercion. In the UK, we have tended to respond more cautiously, often layering new legislation onto old frameworks rather than rethinking the foundations.

The Psychoactive Substances Act was intended to address emerging threats, but in practice it created further uncertainty. Broad definitions pushed markets online, complicated enforcement, and left officers making difficult decisions in legally grey areas. That uncertainty rarely benefits those most at risk.

From a teaching perspective, this is where frustration often sets in. Students understand the law. They understand the policy language. What they struggle with is why, despite decades of experience, the system still seems slow to adapt to how harm actually manifests.

Looking ahead to the next ten years, the challenge is not simply whether drugs should be legal or illegal. It is whether the UK can develop a genuinely harm-focused approach that reflects modern risks. That means being clearer about substances linked to exploitation and violence, more honest about impairment and public safety, better at public education, and more willing to learn from international evidence rather than defaulting to tradition. This is not about being permissive or punitive. It is about accuracy.

When I joined policing in 1990, enforcement was the dominant response. The investigations I worked on in 1995 showed how quickly assumptions about “low-risk” drugs can unravel. In 2026, the stakes are higher, the markets are faster, and the harms are more complex.

If we want safer communities by 2036, drug classification needs to reflect how harm is actually experienced — by individuals, families, and society as a whole. When the law lags behind reality, it is not just credibility that suffers. Trust does too.

Ken Kirwan:Editor Eyes on Crime