Smoking in public
Butt out – social ostracism is working
I just don’t have the willpower. I try and I try, but I can’t seem to get the habit. My smoking problem is that I simply can’t take it up. Every time we go away, I pack this pathetic cigar, and every time I imagine myself firing it up at the end of dinner, and having a damn good smoke. I see myself as a more humane version of Saddam, glorying in my Cohiba, savouring the aroma of the world’s finest tobacco, rolled on the thighs of whatever virgins there are left in Havana.
And then dinner comes to its close. The crickets are crying triumphantly. The pousse-café is drained and it is time for the combustion and inhalation of this stonking great courgette. I ease it out of its case, and pinch it delicately between forefinger and thumb. I sniff one end. I sniff the other end. I take out my box of England’s Glory (also specially packed), and prepare to strike a match.
And then what happens? I don’t know. I am overcome by some sort of akrasia, a weakness of will. Instead of striking that match, I find myself using it to pick my teeth, and the cigar is slipped quietly back into its silo, ready for the next holiday, so that it is drier than a relic from Tutankhamun’s tomb.
What is it with me and smoking? I am afraid it is partly a sense of guilt. The trouble with smoking is that it is not popular, and children in particular seem to be against it. There is a strident, ideological edge to their denunciations, rather like the pre-pubescent cadres of the Khmer Rouge. After a while their moralising is enough to drive the staunchest libertarian to throw in the towel and go for the whisky.
Then I have this dreadful politically correct homunculus that squats somewhere in my limbic pathways. He is a miserable sod, this daemon, but he knows his stuff. As soon as I reach for that cigar, I can feel him tapping his feet and reminding me that 114,000 smokers are killed every year by smoking. “One person in four dies from cancer,” this creep reminds me, and he goes on to point out that lung cancer is especially nasty.
That, I am ashamed to say, is what stops me from smoking: a combination of social pressure and a pathetic terror of death – and I can imagine the snorts of derision from the serious smokers of this world as they read this. Wimp! they say. Milquetoast! Call yourself a freedom-lover! Call yourself a risk-taker! I hang my head before these brave souls. That is why I want now to reassure all smokers that in one way I am on their side. It is precisely my continued failure to take up smoking that leads me to oppose a ban on smoking in public places.
Consider what happens to my will – my decision-making procedures – in that terrible moment between picking up the cigar and putting it down again. On the one hand I want nicotine. I want that life-enhancing buzz, and the luxurious sensation of smoke dribbling down from one’s nostrils. I want that slow spread of pleasure through my brain-pan. On the other hand, I don’t want to be a nuisance, and I don’t want to die, and I am afraid the second set of desires beats the first set, more or less every time. By a combination of guilt, and the unforgettable picture I once saw of a smoker’s lung (imagine a cricket ball made of stilton), I have been socialised into becoming a non-smoker.
In other words, I have exercised a reasoned choice, and across the country people are doing the same in ever-growing numbers. The habit has declined hugely in the past 30 years, from roughly half the population in 1974, to roughly a quarter today; and that change in the numbers means, of course, that the majority is now in a perfect position to tyrannise the minority.
It is extremely difficult, statistically, to contract a cancer from passive smoking – far more difficult than contracting HIV, and no one is going to ban HIV sufferers from having sex. But the general disapproval of smoking is so intense that the trumped-up fears of passive smoking are being used to drive smokers into ever tinier reservations, like poor, deluded redskins bullied from their ancestral hunting grounds. Airlines, hotels, railways, cinemas, pubs, even JD Wetherspoon, has now banned smoking, and I have to admit that I don’t entirely regret it. As soon as you go into a non-smoking pub, you notice the improvement in air quality. The change is happening, and the persecution of smokers seems unstoppable.
The question, therefore, is why does Labour have to legislate, to accomplish that which is already being accomplished by the market? Why does the law have to scurry in this cowardly way to ban that which is already on the way to complete ostracism? A ban on smoking in public places would not only take away discretion from the many establishments that want a smoking clientele – people who want to enjoy a legal substance in perfect understanding of the risks. Above all, a ban on smoking in public places substitutes the discretion of the state for the individual will, in a way that is morally sapping.
If this stuff is legal, then people should be left to make up their minds. They have the facts. We can all read the cartons. If there is one thing wrong with us all these days, it is that we are so mollycoddled, airbagged and swaddled with regulations and protections that we have lost any proper understanding of risk. As long as tobacco is legal, people should be free to balance the pleasures and dangers themselves, as I do with my unsmoked Cohiba.
The slow strangulation of smoking is being accomplished by the millions of decisions of society at large. We don’t need the state to butt in, not least because one day soon I might decide to have a peaceful smoke after lunch in my office, and I want that freedom, too.
116 Comments
Kevin b
This thread only got on to the subject of badly behaved kids in restaurants because of a passing comment from another poster, which I subsequently made a joking reference to, so I’m not sure just why you are jumping up and down on me.
Anyway, I’m even more puzzled why you then went on to talk about wealth and poverty in the context of children in restaurants, and certain peoples desire to exclude all children from these places, because you will find no mention of these topics in my posts.
You then go on to say, ‘By all means genuine disruptive behaviour by children is not to be tolerated’. Well to the best of my knowledge, this is all any of us have been saying.
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John, and to think it was a tongue in cheek comment to start with , who would of thought at this can of worms eh?
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Ahh, Mr Johnson, how witty you are…
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Calm down dear; it’s only a blog.
Sorry for messing with the colour scheme, today of all days, Mac. I look forward to your return, with or without eine tödliche Wunde!
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Oops, wouldn’t accept the “o” with an umlaut.
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*Frantic waving at computer screen* HI MUM! I’M ON THE BORIS JOHNSON WEBSITE!!!
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Tot bin ich nicht; jedenfalls nicht ganz. Difficult to achieve an Umlaut without the requisite keyboard.I gave up a long time ago: I simply employ the diphthong and all is clear.
That beggar Hardy actually took me at my word, the bounder.( exits scrubbing lips with Lye soap.)
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Phew! Mac, you had me worried with the Kiss me Hardy ref the other day
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Nora & Mac
Here are the codes for umlauts:
http://tlt.its.psu.edu/suggestions/international/web/codehtml.html
just type in the xxxxx and it will transmute into the accented letter
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*Animated waving back* to E WENMAN and MUM from Boris Johnson’s Office. Good to have you on the website. Thanks and hope you keep coming!!!
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Thanks for the guiding hand Melissa.
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Keep coming? What sense of that word did you mean? Coz those pictures of Borrie just get me SO excited! And as for “Kiss me Hardy”? Kiss me WHO? In comparison, Boris is the true hero!
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E Wenman, one would think you are an adolescent trapped in first love
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If EWenman is a nom de plume, I would guess that you come from Wales, and that your nearest and dearest friend is not Boris , but Barbara. As for ‘Kiss me who?’ the good captain was the erstwhile chubby partner to Stanley;grandparent to Francoise; and a scion of that well known trio, Freeman ,Hardy, and Willis, footcladders to the rich and the indigent
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Thank you Melissa!
Poor Mac. He must need a whole tub of vaseline for those lips.
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…apologies in advance for any faux pas – that’s what blogs are all about aren’t they? you risk it every time you commit your thoughts to the blogosphere and then never quite know what might come crashing down on you – and yet we all keep risking ….because we must and it is the way forward
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Is that a barely hooded reference to the generally supposed size of my mouth Nora? Size is not the question here.
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Nope. I was talking about the lye soap. See above, yours.
(sniff) Can’t even be nice to someone …
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Leg pull !The said soap was mentioned above, as a contrast to Lie soap, for which this regime so often reaches. (I reckon lateral thought is a terrible affliction…. thinks!! Vaseline: sounds like an American C& W singer.)Seriously , the way to keep the chaps from the lips,is to eat lots of Garlic.
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*Blink* An adolescant, me? Never! Welsh, however, now THAT is perhaps a little more likely. Who knows??? Erm… how did you know about barbara?
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Garlic? Yummy. Now I can leave this:
http://www.kevdo.com/lipbalm/home.html
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Barbara always sounded like rhubarb to me, do you by any chance have a fondness for rhubarb? Particularily welsh with a tub of vaseline smeared over it
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Barbara? A woolly guess.
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Wow… loving the sex sells link. hehe… You have to try it for yourself
. No, I don’t think barbara sounds like woolly guess, although I do see a certain likeness to rhubarb.
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I’m missing something folks – where/what is Barbara?
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My secret lover, apparently. But I am trying to hide this by saying that I love Boris. Again, apparently.
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Is ” Who is Barbara?” ,to be sung to the same tune as ‘Little Bo Peep’, or perhaps more properly to. ” Who is Sylvia”?
And , Melissa, you really don’t want to know. Nur Wortspielerei.
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I don’t think the assumed Ewe man would rue Barbara. It’s the nature of things in some parts.
Teuchters of the world ! Unite.
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Little Bo Peep has a tune? And there was me, thinking it was simply a poem. Someone enlighten me.
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Ewe n Man . Try the tune : “The Girl I Left Behind Me”.
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All a riddle and the only thing I can do is stick to the nursery rhyme for now ~ ;o)
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Melissa: think “sheep”.
There’s so much lateral skidding here it’s like standing on stilts in an ice rink.
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“loving the sex sells link”
I don’t know what this means, but I didn’t post a link to a sex site! So I hope it didn’t get redirected by some Trojan.
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“loving the sex sells link”
I don’t know what this means, but I didn’t post a link to a sex site! So I hope it didn’t get redirected by some nasty Trojan.
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Has anyone wondered what the E is in E Wenman? First guesses = eugene
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Hi , Jason here. I think that Ewe n Man should come clean. I have a bet on , and I don’t want to be Fleeced.
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Nora:
Your link opens a page of links re. Lip Balm.
One of these links is marked “sex sells”, and refers to a well known highstreet purveyor of smellies.
Panic not!!
)
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Like your simile Nora: never heard that one before…
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…am skidding – very true Nora
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Note for The Pedant General: In an earlier addition to this thread,there is an allusion to “Sex” sells: I would point out that at this latitude, this has nothing to do with the hessian containers in which the tatties are delivered; in case you were wondering.
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Cigarette as torch of liberty – interesting idea…
It’s a disgusting habit but not quite as disgusting as making a bonfire of our freedoms.
But it’s probably the wrong ground to make a last Custer-style stand on. ID cards are probably a better strategic bet. Smoking – like fox hunting – just offers too many weak points to the enemies of liberty. BUt I suppose Boris has to do his job and fight the good fight every time.
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To revert to the original smoke theme: Is the old adage true that ” There is no smoke without fire?”
I read today, one day after we assumed the Presidency of the EU, that no less a person than Jack Straw, has declared the Federal State of Europe DEAD. If Federation , as we were so often told, was never on the cards, how can such a non- existent thing die?
Will the funeral take place with wailing and gnashing of teeth? Will the assembled -mourners be led by the French contingent, baskets of strawberries in hand?
Les poubelles de mon esprit.
—————————-
Is the crop of farming money, sown when France was in the lead,
Still ripe for Gallic harvesting; or will it go to seed.
It was fertilised by manure, which France supplied en gros,
Now contrary Frenchman; how does your garden grow?
Mister President ,
Sir, Britain trusts that you intend to continue to make the point about the inequability of balance of payments made by Britain, against amounts received. Can you confirm your resolve in the matter of our rebate?
How can Chirac and cronies, with typical French verbiferocity,(now that IS a new word) claim rural poverty for the limousine driving ‘fermiers’, whilst arguing that Britain should still pay for wastage due to their inefficient farming methods?
Should we pay for the cruelty involved in producing the tonnes of paté de fois gras, and the inhumane rearing of calves for veal, not to mention the cruel transporting of live horses across the channel?
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Macchillieconcarnie
Apropos Teeth, Wailng and the Gnashing of, are you familiar with this old joke?
Father O’Feckwit addresses his trembling, fearful and extremely elderly congregation at Sunday mass:
Fr O’Feckwit: ..AND I TELL YOU THEY SHALL BE CAST OUT INTO THE OUTER DARKNESS WHERE THERE SHALL BE WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH!
Aged Congregation (gums all a-flap): No Teef! No Teef!
Fr O’Feckwit: TEETH WILL BE PROVOIDED!!
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Kevin: You make me sound as I were a certain mincemeat based Mexican dish garnished with beans, but yes, I have heard it before. Doesn’t take away its fun though.
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Eugene… Not quite – but close! In a way! Hahaha. Sex… sells… lipbalm. Does it? Hmm… interesting idea, though. Mr BORIS Johnson, have you ever considered selling this? Sex, or lipbalm, actually. Heee. Smooth those lips the BORIS way.
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E. Wen. Man
How about Ewe Jean: the Ram-ifications are legion, and in view of your possible, or even probable,Cymru connections, not too far fetched
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*Bashing of antlers (do ewes have antlers?)* Ewe? Me? Pah. I have THUMBS.
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Opposable thumbs, I trust? Or Sir or Madam or Person of the Third Sex, are you in actual fact an IMPOSTER??
I say let’s debag the rotter!
(Mob of bloggers with flaming torches appear as if by magic and mercilessly hound the Man of Wen.)
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Ewan or Ewen?
[After Owain Glyndwr?]
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The clue might be in the name used by the man (?)of thumbs.
Def. Wen. n….(1) An unusual growth on the skin: (2) an indolent or benign or encysted tumour , usually on the scalp or neck;(3) A fleshy protuberance: could this, / these, be hidden references to thumbs?
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