Yesterday I was walking on Broad Street in Dagenham passing by a newsagent when three kids approached me. I didn’t have to guess what they wanted, but my god, if you’re going to smoke, at least wait until your fucking voice changes! Sure enough, in a voice that could still hit A over middle C as easily as writing one’s name, the self-proclaimed coolest of the three 12-year-old hardasses asked me if I could get him 20 Lambert & Butler, not the cheapest brand of cigarettes, but pretty close. I looked at him for a split second, scowled a bit, then said “I can’t do that, man.” As I walked away, one of the little yobs-in-training decides to mock me, though I don’t think he could distinguish my accent in five words. Well, I couldn’t let that alone, could I? I chose not to give them some typical ex-smoker’s lecture on the evils of the filthy habit, nor to even address the attempt at piss-taking, but rather just inform them in my best American accent, “I’m sorry, guys, but I run the risk of being deported if I buy you smokes, OK?” No further response, but I’m sure they found someone with little or no conscience to do the deed.  

                   I was proud of myself for getting my point across, but it was only after I’d left them that I realized it’s already been over a year since I quit for what I hope will be the last time. I’m more confident that this one will stick than my previous 10 (exaggerating!) times, because for the first time, I did it for ME, not to appease a nagging loved one or to show off to people how “strong-willed” I am and how “I can quit any time!” Fact of the matter was, I COULDN’T quit any time, and whenever I did, all it took was a stressful moment, and I’d be back on. At the ends of my last two marriages, I had smokeless strings lasting for nearly two years (coincidentally both beginning shortly before California and England initiated their respective indoor smoking bans), and then when the wife announced she wanted a divorce, I immediately took the habit up again. I believe my attitude was “Well, I’ll fix YOU, bitch, I’ll start smoking again!” Yep, I showed ’em.

                    This time, there was no one nagging me about it. I just suddenly decided that after a year of returning to the habit, with prices for a pack of 10 exceeding the £3 barrier even for the cheapies, and with my finances not really secure enough to justify that daily expense, it was time. The health issues were probably a factor, too, but even a year later, I still cough up the good loogey (or bogey, as it’s called here), so I’m sure the cigarettes weren’t making me any healthier. Then there was that ever-growing problem of transporting oneself, sometimes down several flights of stairs, just to reach the open air where it was still OK to light up, though certain venues in America don’t allow it within 100 yards. At most stadiums, for example, it’s only allowed in the outdoor parking areas.  

                   Which brings up a side issue: Remember some of the bizarre places where smoking used to be ALLOWED? Banks? Cinemas?(though only in side sections) University classrooms? I remember in the 70’s when a girlfriend and I visited someone in the hospital, and she lit up a cigarette near the patient. The patient was suffering from leukemia, but merely requested that she smoke in the hall, which was apparently all right back then. I remember seeing Sammy Davis Jr. live in 1976, and during his 90 minutes on stage, there were only a few moments when he didn’t have a lit cigarette nearby. 15 years later, he was dead, probably no surprise there, but what would performers of his ilk do now?

                       I’m not going to dwell too much on will power or the act of quitting itself. I would NEVER belittle a smoker, as I fully understand the addiction. I took the prescription drug Champix on a 12-week program which I started in April last year, with the intent of quitting in May. The timing was good, because I’d be going to California, where almost all of my friends are either ex- or anti-smokers. Within a few days, the morning cravings were gone, and the need to embellish food or drink with a fag was also quickly tempered. By the time I got back from the US, I had already gone two weeks without, and by the time the 12 weeks was done, so was I. Happily, there were no side effects from the drug, for I’d read around that time of some guy who was charged with raping his wife. He was claiming that Champix had caused him to lose control of his faculties. I’m pretty certain that what sex I had during those three crucial months was indeed consensual. 

                        I think what proved my undoing in the past was talking, no BRAGGING, about it. I didn’t smoke from age 19 to 30, having smoked for about three years as a teenager. When I left San Francisco for LA, the habit re-entered my life about 6 months after, and didn’t leave for any extended period until 16 years later. Again, I don’t want to dwell on it, and don’t want to be counting days. If I weaken, and you see me with a pack Marlboros that (rumor has it) will soon be highlighting a photo of a diseased lung over the brand name, well, you can call me the biggest hypocrite ever.

                       Today I was