The Tobacco Papers

Existence is a synonym for loss. More specifically, it means relinquishing things we’d prefer not to. Like the certainty that the ‘anthology’ of sincerely bad verse penned as a 14 year old will be published under ‘Early Works’ (and not repressed away under the mental file marked: yet another love interest that, well, wasn’t). Or the blank cheque patronage of the Bank of Parents. At some point, something will give and with that comes giving up.

Don’t delude yourself that giving something up entitles you to the sanctimonious, smug warmth of selfless sacrifice – giving something that we love up is miserable and harder than a paving slab mattress. Increase this by a factor of 100 where addiction is concerned.

Take smoking for example. Led by the lure of a million classic celluloid icons avec fag in hand, the cover-all canvas of excuses provided by the burden of peer expectation and the fact that aforementioned love interest hangs behind the garages after lesson 5 (not to mention that 20 Sovereigns used to cost £3.50 in 1999) and the outcome – addiction – feels more tracksuit bottoms on front of the television than the baby scene from Trainspotting. Fast forward 10 years – and an upgrade to Marlboro Lights followed by a downsize to roll-ups in the BA years – and emphysema is no longer an assurance of a high spelling score, it’s a scarily realistic prospect. Add to this the fact that all social meeting places are lit no longer with the tint of a million chainsmoked dreams and the conclusion – it’s time to let it go – becomes more than a vague intention.

But where there’s crafty and inherently lazy humanity, there is a way to increase your lung capacity, minimise the need for a polyfilla job on your latent eye wrinkles and have a retrospective crack at the poetic subjects who dismissed your Camel breath of yore.

That’s right – give up cigarettes and get yourself a vicious nicotine gum habit.