I remember offering a colleague s girlfriend a cigarette in the International Bar one afternoon. No thanks, I m off them, she said, politely declining my offer. When I asked her how long she d been off them, her answer surprised me: Four years. My suggestion that she could probably start telling people who waved cigarette boxes under her nose that she didn t smoke fell on deaf ears. She did smoke, she insisted, she just hadn t had a fag for four years. Back then, I thought she was stone hatchet mad. Recently, however, I realised there was method to her madness.
Now I m off them as well. That is to say, I stubbed out a fag 10 days ago and, at the time of writing, I haven t had another one since. I haven t given up, obviously, because that would mean that I could never have another cigarette ever again, and that doesn t bear thinking about. Anyway, I never say never. Unless, that is, somebody asks me if I ve ever taken Irish dancing lessons, slept with their sister or paid my own money for a 5ive album. No, rest assured that I still smoke like a train. It s just that I m currently more like an electric train in some sad old beard s attic than one of those old locomotives you see on television, belching out fumes while being pursued across the wild west by injuns on horseback.
I ve only ever stopped smoking for longer than a day twice since I started secondary school: last year, for two days, and a couple of years previously, for a week. On both occasions I was presented with a packet of cigarettes by my flat mates and the apple of my eye respectively and ordered to resume puffing without further ado, or else face eviction or a sex ban. Apparently when I m suffering from nicotine withdrawal, my normally placid demeanour turns a tad volatile.
My last attempt to give up smoking ended after about 20 minutes. I d struggled through one of those self-help books, How To Stop Smoking And Stay Stopped For Good, a tome which was as gripping as it s catchy title suggests. The genius who wrote that one suggested that carrying a packet of cigarettes at all times was a good idea for anyone who was trying to kick the habit. Apparently the presence of cigarettes in your pocket would help alleviate cravings brought on by the fear of never being allowed to smoke ever again. The presence of 20 smokes in my pocket certainly helped alleviate my cravings: whenever they surfaced, I just took one out and sparked it up.
At the moment, though, all is well. I haven t smoked for 10 days and am really beginning to enjoy the benefits. Indeed, there are so many, it s difficult to know which one is the most beneficial. The death rattle cough? The obscene amounts of gunge I keep coughing up? The countless mouth ulcers? The three different strains of flu I seem to be suffering simultaneously? The long, sleepless, sweat-drenched nights? The interminable bouts of indigestion? The constant throbbing headaches? Mmmmm, yummy . . .
Then there s the weird stuff. Lately, on the infrequent occasions I have actually got some shut-eye, I find myself dreaming about smoking. Consequently, I wake up and am gutted that I was stupid enough to have a fag. Then I realise that I didn t actually have one, it was just a dream and it s alright, I m only losing my mind. Because going completely mad is acceptable, but smoking will not be tolerated.
Then there s the more celebrated benefits of life without tabs. Those ones where you get your sense of smell back and your food tastes much better. Bollocks. Bill Hicks said it best when he argued that he lived in New York and therefore didn t want his sense of smell back. Substitute The Big Smoke for The Big Apple and you ll have some idea how I feel. And as for my food tasting better? Funnily enough, my abilities as a chef haven t improved one iota since I last reached for the ashtray. Everything still tastes like crap.
I ve yet to discover whether beer tastes any better or not, as I can t really see the point of drinking without having a cigarette as back-up. And what happens if I get drunk? I d be on the first train to Smokesville, Virginia, that s what. Then, of course, there was the night recently when I was doing a stand-up show and forgot what I was supposed to be talking about, so I decided I d give myself time to collect my thoughts by lighting up a fag. I announced to the audience that it was time everyone had a cigarette, loudly pulled open the Velcro pocket on the side of my combat trousers, stuck in my hand, felt no cigarettes and suddenly remembered that I was off them. Oops!
The worst thing about being off the fags, though, is that motivation for life in general has disappeared. It was only when I stopped smoking for a few days that I realised that the only reason I ever did anything throughout the last 14 years, from getting up in the morning to going to bed at night, was so that I could have a cigarette afterwards. Indeed, now that I m no longer smoking, Kylie Minogue herself could walk into my boudoir, beg me to ravish her to within an inch of her life and I just wouldn t be able to muster the necessary enthusiasm. After all, what on earth is the point of making love to a beautiful woman if you can t enjoy a post coital cigarette with her? This fortnight, I can only conclude that he who is tired of cigarettes is tired of life. It s a good job, then, that I m only off them. Imagine what it would be like if I d given up.