My pal’s old dad is a chain-smoking retired butcher who found a novel way of drumming up business during the last big recession.
He added a little neat nicotine to his daily dough-making and within a fortnight he had the whole neighbourhood hooked on his steak and kidney pie.
There were other by-products of having a cigarette dangling permanently from his lips. When the ash reached exactly three inches in length it would conveniently break off and sprinkle his spiced pork chops. At least he advertised them as spiced.
His dad’s smoking habit certainly spiced up my pal’s childhood, such as the day a neighbour noted the overspill in the old boy’s huge ashtray.
She said: “Oh, I’m very sorry for your loss. Was it someone close?”
My pal became a passive smoker the day his mum brought him home from the maternity hospital. He was breastfed, an otherwise wholesome pursuit but not when it’s being similarly enjoyed by a husband who smokes Capstan Full Strength.
I still remember those adverts on telly in the 1960s before they were banned: “For men who feel strongly about cigarette taste. Ask for Capstan Full Strength in the brown packet”.
I kid you not, everything was brown in my pal’s smoke-filled home. You would never guess the walls had been painted magnolia.
It was when he was seven that my pal smoked his first cigarette. A horrified aunt caught him having that first clandestine drag.
She said: “What would your father say if he saw you smoking?”
My pal replied: “He’d have a canary. They’re his fags.”
The aunt told his mother, who bawled out the butcher.
“This is all your fault. Your seven-year-old son has just been caught lighting up one of your cigarettes!”
The old boy told her: “We have to put a stop to that. The boy is far too young to be playing with matches.”
It was matches that got my pal into serious bother at Mosspark Primary School.
“Why were you sent home?” asked his mother.
“David Stirling was smoking behind the bike sheds.”
“Why were you sent home because David Stirling was smoking?”
“It was me that set him alight.”
My pal’s been a smoker now for more than 30 years. He’s talked about quitting
– often – but he’s a crabbit so-and-so without the benefit of his stress-busters.
Smoking doesn’t kill people. People trying to quit smoking kill people.
When his wife The Wicked Witch of the East hid his fags one time he told her he would swing for her.
“You need professional help,” she cackled.
He agreed, but he’s having difficulty hiring a hit man.
Since the smoking ban he has been in the habit of keeping an unlit fag in his mouth when indoors. And you can imagine the hassle.
“You can’t smoke here,” he is told – often.
“But I’m not smoking.”
“But you have a cigarette in your mouth.”
“I’m wearing Jockey shorts as well but am I riding a *&^%$£@ horse?”
Now England is following Scotland with a doorway ban. Those pavement leper colonies are being smoked out and evicted.
You have to say, if Government truly cares about our health then the best way to save us from ourselves is by making tobacco illegal. While you’re at it, add in booze and deep fried Mars bars.
My pal may be a smoker, but he’s proud to be doing his bit for the environment. He has saved up every single filter tip he’s ever smoked and he’s insulated his loft.
