UP IN SMOKE

I’m sat on the slow train to dawn.

London, England. 11.00am. Gaggles of long distance commuters converge on small places. Trains. This one, these limited carriages heading straight to Glasgow.

I’m in coach B. Seat and direction of travel confidential. Who knows how much damage that information could cause in the wrong hands? I could wake up one day, my face splashed over the papers, accused of anything. Who knows?

Around me, we all sit, packed like beans, resigned to our communal punishment, our crime that of merely wanting to get somewhere else. Every seat reserved, or occupied. Every one of us tired, fed up, confined. Around me, like always, the babbling of children, their stupid, idiotic games, millions of thumbs keying in text messages, juggling blocks on Tetris, reading the dull lines of Jilly Cooper.

It takes the same amount of time to read a great book as it does a crap one. You know, when you pick up Chick-Lit, you’re not going to consume a work of great genius. Why do people willingly eat dogshit when they could have diamonds?

Who knows. In some respects I’m quite glad I can’t understand why one would want to read crap Chick-Lit. If I started to understand why one would want to do something like that, it means that part of me, however small, would cease to strive for genius and settle for second best. And sometimes George Best is the best I can get. Drunk, old, and washed up.

But hopefully that’s not for a while.

And so, the only place to sit in Coach B. The Smoking Coach.

I haven’t been particularly vocal about smoking, but I’m going to be. I don’t like it. In fact, I know very few people who do.

Even smokers don’t like it. Even smokers think it’s vile.

Jeez, they could, I dunno, quit maybe?

Entering a room of smokers is like entering a ghetto. Everything smells – in the pores of every fibre of their clothes, their hair, their yellowed, curled fingers, all reek of the stench of burnt fibres, of stale plants.

Thin trails of grey smoke rise from burning sticks of carcinogens, addictive substances and paper. Your lips purse around them as if somehow that this, and only this, this hit of artificial, addictive chemicals, is the only thing that makes your life worthwhile.

About the only thing that doesn't smell is their nose. They don't how fucking vile they smell.

As a non-smoker, I can see clearly. I can see without the eyes of an addict, see beyond this world of need and desire, and you know what I see?

Sit down. Smoke a fag if it makes you feel better. You might need one.

MIRROR, MIRROR….

You look pathetic. You look needy. You look as if you’re stumbling, desperate for a crutch that props up your sense of self, your limited tolerance for the world, on the grounds that somehow life is just too hard for you. And so you sit there, inhaling your latest hit, every hour, every couple of hours, your stained fingers, your yellow teeth, your blackened lungs filling with pits of tar, and you look and smell like shit.

And this is your choice.

You made this decision. You looked at pictures of Steve McQueen and thought you too could look cool. You wondered about how you could get laid, and decided the only way to do it was to smell like shit, and taste like vomit.

Oh yeah, I’ve kissed smokers. Gone out with a couple. But not for long. You’ve got to taste the lows to hit the highs. But this didn’t work for me. I didn’t want to put my mouth into something that tasted like rotting food. I’d rather go without than eat a banquet like that.

If I get hungry, I’ve always got Dog Food in the cupboards. Tastes like than a Rothman’s Extra Strong.

Look at you, you fucking smokers. Desperately puffing away for another fix. You’re fucking junkies. Admit it. Move On. Evolve.

You can quit anytime you like, and you often do for an hour or so at a time, but lets not beat around the bush.

It’s. Not. Good. Enough.

Aside from the fact that you look, smell and taste like shit, and you can’t even tell, because you can’t smell or taste a thing. You don’t know what food tastes like, you don’t know what beer tastes like, and you can’t tell what anything smells like.

You’re a dirty fucking mess. Not content with that, you’re stinking up my clothes, my hair, making me smell like shit too, and you know what’s even worse?

Passive smoking. Now, I know, you know, we all know about passive smoking. You can pretend that there is no such thing. Sure. Denial is also a very powerful drug. But let us not muck around.

I can quit my life of denial any old time. In fact I frequently do. But you sit there, puffing away needily, pathetically on a cigarette, and you don’t even need to. Take control. Don’t be a slave. Break free. Think for yourself, or keep smelling like the piece of drug-addicted shit you are. Stink up my world, infect me with passive carcinogens and toxins, sure, whatever you want. Fine.

But don’t expect me to take this kind of assault lying down. You smoke around me, and you’re attacking me. Not content with robbing me of my mother, who died from a heart condition which was massively accelerated by smoking related illness, you’re trying to poison me too.

Fuck it. I despise smokers. You look stupid and pathetic and you’re poisioning me with your shit. Come to think of it, the sooner you all die, the better. Yes, that’s very judgemental, very aggressive, but fuck it, so what?

Either quit or admit it. You’re just fucked up junkies hooked on a legal hit. How’s it feel to be an addict? How’s that feel? Hand over all your money and your self-control and your will over to a small piece of tobacco. Go on. You’re just another consumer. Consume! Rehab is for quitters. But you know, I’ve got a confession to make.

I’ve been clean every day of my life. Never felt like shit. Never stank like an old boots. Never thrown away thousands of pounds on stupid cigarettes. And you know what? I feel great. I feel better than you. And I love it. Call me superior. Call me a humourless bastard. I don't give a shit. I don't stink like shit. I don't look like shit. And I don't feel like shit. And I don't need a crutch to lean on in order to do so. Set yourself free.