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Roger Rabbits with |
I am not a smoker. Nor an ex-smoker. But a sleeping smoker. A hibernating smoker. A cranky old bear that could waken and combust in a cloud of cigarette smoke…given the chance.
Because, even though it’s half a century since I quit, since I finally stubbed out, if the moment was right, if it was late and loud, if there was a glass of red wine involved, if the chat was right and someone was passing round a free, cheeky ‘durry’, I might weaken. Absolutely I might.
Because nicotine is a cruel and highly additive poison. It owns you, doesn’t let you forget, doesn’t let you go. Ever. Big tobacco gnaws away at the soul, so you have to be vigilant.
The man who saved me from myself was a fire and brimstone “stop smoking” psychotherapist who evangelised to a bunch of us tragic and beaten addicts: “You think B&H are your comfort? You think Rothmans are your friends?” he bellowed at us in Bible-bashing style. “Well, your comfort and friends are your goddamn enemy!”
Those were the days, the early 1980s, when “friends” and “enemies” cost $1.08 for a pack of 20. Today they cost the thick end of $50. Anyhow, this psychotherapist clambered from his pulpit and demanded everyone light up a cigarette. Figure that? Smoking at a ‘stop smoking’ class. Like starting an AA meeting with a Jägerbomb. Or committing a quick ‘with intent to injure’ before a restorative justice conference.
Gag, heave, wheeze
We puffed on. Nothing said. Just a heaving of tarred and tortured lungs, coughing, and a low cloud ceiling of cigarette smoke. Disgusting. When a fag was finished, another was lit, and another, and another. Industrial strength chain smoking. People turned green, retched, gasped. And puffed again. Everyone on the brink of self-immolation. Smoking ourselves into submission. We teared up, gagged, heaved, wheezed. And puffed again. I feel quite nauseous at the memory. I can smell it. Distinctly.
Phantosmia or olfactory hallucination they call it – the smell of an odour that isn’t there. But like my gym socks, the smell is there, and will never go away.
It worked though – I went cold turkey on a 20-a-day cigarette habit, 40 on a big Saturday night.
Why all this, you will be asking?
Because last week I was consumed by a cloud of Chernobyl proportions – packed with more than 7000 nasties including arsenic, ammonia and nicotine. Second-hand smoke from a wizened, diehard fagger, hanging off the end of a $3 tailormade at a hospitality venue. Good on you bloke. Thanks for that. Made my feelings known – nothing more sanctimonious than a reformed anything.
Cough and gob
He was unapologetic. He was outside, in a designated area, so he was allowed to smoke. Yup, he was. But his poison wafted where people were relaxing. Trying to breathe. They shamed him into moving where he coughed and gobbed. Nice! And not before he dropped half a still burning cigarette in the ashtray, causing wisps of smoke to drift over everyone and everything for a few minutes. Nicer! Not being holier than thou – I could have been ghastly, nasty, smokey, bad man had it not been for my “tough love” psychotherapist in 1980.
A table away three young vapers were self-immolating. Whenever someone chugged one of those cute, brightly coloured electronic devices, everyone and everything was enveloped by a huge cloud of Blue Razz, or Polar Mint or Vanilla Custard. I was waiting for a K99 – radio code for fire appliance in attendance, scene well involved.
And everyone downwind winced at the sickly sweet by-product. Less harmful than cigarette smoke but still not safe. So another round of complaining and abuse. And another burst of self-entitlement from the vapers.
Never, ever, again
Is there a lesson to be learned from Queensland? It has clobbered vapers.
The sale of nicotine vaping products from retails shops is now banned. They’re now deemed to be prescription medicines and only legally sold from a pharmacy to adults with a valid prescription.
In the UK, they’ve passed a Tobacco and Vapes Bill, which effectively creates a “smoke-free generation”. It’s illegal to sell tobacco to anyone born on, or after, January 1, 2009 – a rolling ban which raises the legal smoking age by one year, every year, starting in 2027. That means anyone born after that date will never be able to legally buy tobacco products in the UK.
Miss a chance?
Had I been born in another time and in another country, that would have saved me a helluva lot money and coughing fits.
Apparently we had similar world-leading “smoke-free generation” legislation but it was repealed – partially, it seems, to fund tax cuts, and mitigate the risk of a tobacco black market. And there were other bullets in the anti-smoking arsenal. Did we pass up a chance?
At the end of my ‘stop smoking’ class, I watched Mr Pointy Head climb in his car where he promptly lit up a fag. Do as I say, not what I do. I am still doing as he said. Thank you.