A Short History of Smoking

Waking up this morning with that metal and mucky ashtray taste in my mouth, and death rattle in my chest, I find myself feeling the need to quit.  It’s that same ‘never again’ feeling that I get after a night on the beer, which, as it happens, is also keeping the no more tabac feeling company today. Thank you Mr. Arthur Guinness for inviting me to your birthday party last night, but really, it was cruel of you to force that last pint down my throat … and as for the bullfrogs? I’m sure there is a convention somewhere in the world that’s supposed to protect people from such unmitigated abuse.

I picked the box of lights up off the beside table as a reflex action on my way to my laptop. I’m sitting here now, flicking the lid open and closed on the damn thing. I find myself tuning in to these little habitual tendencies every so often, and wondering where they came from.  I have a whole lifetime of them wrapped around cigarettes, from how I open a new pack, the pre-mouth fiddling, the hand action when I do decide to light up, to just simply playing with the box, twisting it round and round between my thumb and forefinger.

I grew up in a smoking household, my father having partaken in some form or another most of my life. Usually Benson & Hedges, though sometimes he would take up the pipe, just for a change.  I remember he collected pipes for a while and used to display them fondly in a stand on the mantelpiece. For a short time, they took the place of socks as his regular present type on birthdays and at Christmas. I think it may have been somewhat of a fashion statement in the early 70’s, judging from the super cool, faded colour photographs of his pitch black moustachioed self with sideburns, blue-sleeveless jumper and pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth, that seem to litter the early pages of our family albums.

Of course, he had grown up with it also. Both of his parents were diligent smokers. My grandfather eventually died from them, and my grandmother may well have, though they called it an aneurism.  She died young, so my memories of her are quite vague.  However, I have a picture of her in my head, a somewhat romantic one built from a combination of family images and stories that my father tells of her. She was a classy lady by all accounts, stylistically a bit of an Audrey Hepburn type who never stepped outside the door without being perfectly manicured, attitude-wise more like Katherine, she’d give you hell if you crossed her.  She loved her fur coats.  In my head I see her standing with one arm folded to provide a rest for her gloved smoking arm, wrist slightly bent, palm face up, two fingers gently holding the cigarette that was almost an extension of her hand, smoke curling in a pure, white, single pillar beside her pale face, occasionally getting itself wrapped in one of her short set curls.

I remember my first cigarette. It was on the back of the school bus when I was about 16.  I physically recall that I had craved it for weeks.  Finally, I asked for a ‘drag’ of Martina Keane’s Major and inhaled it like I’d been smoking for years. I used to reckon that I was already addicted before I’d ever properly inhaled, a combination of regular exposure, and genetic predisposition.

That said, my career began pretty much the same for me as it had done for my father, as a fashion statement. Quite simply, it was cool!  When I was 17, I had a leather bikers jacket and loved having my box of Marlboro reds slightly sticking up out of the top pocket. Of course, it had to be a secret. Not simply because that’s what 17 year olds feel they have to do but, because I was also a chronic asthmatic.  It was a late onset illness, diagnosed when I was 15 or 16. My father, life long and committed smoker though he was, would have ‘killed’ me if he knew.

My brother, who is three years younger than me, became aware of the stash. He’d been robbing me blind for months, but it took me a while to twig. I’ve always suffered from a certain lack of awareness of what’s going on around me. I used to question my memory even then. When I finally did wake up to his shenanigans, it riled me massively, but it also put me in a bit of a quandry. What was I to do about it? I couldn’t exactly go to my parents without getting myself in trouble as well. I decided to try and outwit him using the fear factor. I left the box of Marlies in my jacket with a note wrapped around the 8 or 9 fags that were left. “I know what you’re at. Buy your own, or there’ll be hell!”  A day later when I was putting on my jacket, I pulled out the box to find it empty of cigarettes, and the scrap of paper I’d inserted had a scrawled reply on the back, “For who exactly?”  Scut!

I was in the car a few years later with dad collecting my brother from a day out with the lads in town. We pulled up before he saw us, or had time to quench the hard-ass fag that was hanging from his mouth in true James Dean fashion.  My dad lost his temper and started spewing about how, “that boy is in the shit.” I got defensive and argued that he was old enough to make his own decisions. At that point dad turned on me. I was ‘out’ by then. “100% of people who smoke die young”, I think his words were. “Dad, we all die, and anyway, you smoke!” The argument continued, “You’re asthmatic! 100% of asthmatics who smoke die younger and more painfully.” At that point I lost it, and in a very uncharacteristic manner when conversing with my lovely Daddy, got accusatory! “Dad, you’ve been smoking around us all our lives.  It’s probably your fucking fault I have asthma in the first place!”  At that, the conversation ended, he rolled down the window and chucked the nub of a cigarette he’d been puffing on out of it, honked the horn at my brother, and wouldn’t say a word to either of us the rest of the way home.  He didn’t pick up another cigarette for some 7 years after that.

I remember asking him a few years down the line if he missed them. His response, “Daughter, to this day I would still sell you into slavery for one drag of a Benson!"


One Christmas however, Dad’s fasting all came crashing down about his ears when his elder children descended on the house for the festivities. I still smoked, and both my brother, and his lovely Swiss wife were unapologetic puffers. Mum, in her ever hospitable way, allocated an inside space for us to enjoy our wicked habits, for we“couldn’t be trapesing outside into the depth of winter everytime we wanted to indulge, and sure anyway, wasn’t it Christmas.”

That room happened to be the living room.  It had a beautiful open fireplace that would take the smoke up and out of the house without too much trouble. Poor Daddy! Christmas day is his day for the kitchen, and he loves it.  The day begins the same every year. Up with the lark to see what Santa had delivered, (a little less early obviously in that interim after we had all grown, and before the grandkids came along), a nice cooked breakfast, then we’d decamp to the living room while he donned his chef’s hat and opened his first bottle of red.  Like most smokers, myself included, the habit is inextricably linked to alcohol consumption, and for any smoker trying to quit, that is the hardest time.

By the time he’d moved on to bottle number two the poor man was tormenting himself over our open boxes of tobacco, holding them up to his nose and snorting in the mere scent of them like it was cocaine.

I began looking around for the slaver at that point.

Then, like a fool, I opened the door for him. “For goodness sake Daddy, it’s Christmas. Stop tormenting yourself and have one.  You’ve given them up before, it’s not like you can’t ‘just stop’ again if you want.”  Easily knowing then that his struggle was one I’d never imposed upon myself. In the following months and years, he went through numerous failed attempts at quitting.

Unlike us, my youngest brother, a late baby, grew up in a smoke free household. The very sight of a cigarette disgusted him. His vocal hatred of the habit led to Daddy becoming a ‘secret smoker’. For some reason he felt safe smoking around me, but anytime I sat in the car with him when he’d pick me up from the airport, or when I'd meet him in the garden shed, the cigarette entering his mouth was always prefaced with a, “Don’t tell your brother.”

Another one of those, 'don’t tell your brother scenarios’  happened after I left university and used to pop home for a visit in between excavations. I have always enjoyed smoking the occasional joint, something Daddy was quite liberal about. Apart from the ‘joy of the stone’, it had the capacity to ease the discomforts of my skin disorder, which would flare up under stress. I was given free reign to smoke in my parents house, as long as I kept it to my bedroom and my youngest brother, still only 14 at the time, didn’t find out.

One evening I was in my room, having a smoke and reading a book, when Daddy popped up for a visit. I can’t remember what it was that we chatted about, but can remember that he watched intently as I packed a three skinner.  It took me such a long time to learn how to roll that when I finally mastered it, I used to take great pride in the end product. Sitting there admiring my piece of artwork, Daddy asked if I’d make one for him.  I have to admit, it stopped me in my tracks, and my shock was both vocal and visual. Unsurprisingly, his response was something along the lines of, “You forget that there was a time before I was a husband and father! I’d just like to remember what it was like.”  “Fair point,” I said as I watched him leave the room.  I duly obliged his request, leaving my labour of love on the windowsill beside his bedroom door, as I left to take up my next job posting. I rang home a few days later to check in.

Me:     “So, how was it?”
Dad:    “Never again!”
Me:     “How d'you mean?”
Dad:    “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have had half a bottle of whiskey 
             beforehand, but it didn’t take me long to remember why I
             never kept up the habit."
Me:     “Eh???”
Dad:   “Massive crisis! Just two pulls into that yoke, 
             and I was in the toilet desperately trying make the correct 
             choice. Squat or kneel" 

My mouth tastes like pants.  I’ve brushed twice already, and I can still taste the tar.  I don’t know what it is about me that makes me smoke like a chimney when I go out for a few drinks.  I guess, living in one of the few countries where one can still smoke in a bar doesn’t help.  Or maybe it’s just a weak personality.


Dad in his wisdom occasionally tries to give me a pep talk, sometimes in a cruel but kind way, using a bit of emotional blackmail. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve attempted to quit. I’ve fallen off that blasted wagon so many times I’m black and blue. My latest move has been to take up a new brand of extra light, extra slim, menthol cigarettes.  After only a few days, its clear that I’m smoking these cigarettes with the same mentality that a career dieter approaches fat-free cheese.  

“Oooo, no bad stuff, that means I can have double.”

My dad on the other hand is now three years clean. It took a heart attack to get him there, but then sometimes it takes an extreme kick in the backside to find the willpower. Keep it up Daddy!

Personally, I hate having my bottom kicked, so here’s hoping I can find some willpower before boot and flesh meet.

Once Upon a Hutong (July 2009)

There was a big hole outside the door of my hostel. It ran the entire length of the hutong. It was quite mesmerizing to watch, and somewhat of an obstacle coarse to navigate. A persons width had been left on either side of the street for that purpose. The trench was a little shy of 2 metres deep, and filled with incredible little men of all ages, excavating by hand. I had no idea what the end goal was, occasional questions to local voyeurs often only met with a polite smile and nod of the head. Some attempted to reply, but I didn’t understand a word they said either, so I just politely smiled and nodded my head back at them.

After a little bit of asking around I discovered that the work in the hutong was not unique to that particular street, but part of an ongoing process, mirrored throughout the city, to ‘modernize and clean up’ the traditional neighbourhoods of Beijing. For those who live in the hutongs, this process is one that has left many of them homeless and without their businesses. With shovels and picks these men battered away layer after layer, removing the spoil, via two men and an empty coal sack, to the other end of the hutong. They carried the bricks five by five with their bare hands, and hoisted scaffolding and rubber piping along the entire length of the street on their shoulders. The only machinery on site was a mini-digger which sat at the entrance to the hutong. Day and night these little doozers beavered away with an impressive amount of good-temperedness, despite the obvious wearying physicality of the work at hand. They made excellent models, often insisting on a picture as soon as they saw the camera hanging at my hip. I nearly lost my head in the process of making one such picture when some random rubble got loose and tumbled from the roof above me. I felt the breeze of it as it whipped past my ear after being abruptly pulled to one side by one of my hard hat wearing friends.

Trying to make my way to and from the hostel was a daily expedition. Any concept one might have of health and safety practices did not exist here. The street was still open for business. There was no clear walkway through most of it, just an apocalypse of broken rubble, varied rubber and plastic pipes, the occasional board or piece of metal sheeting laid down in an ad-hoc manner to provide a shaky bridge crossing over the troughs and pits that peppered the street. Where the excavation was deep you found yourself weaving and ducking the veritable climbing frame of metal and wooden scaffolding that hugged the sides of the route. Navigation was a skill in itself, never mind trying to do it simultaneously with the footwork. Add to that the frequent missiles in the shape of 4 metre long chunks of metal that seemed to appear out of nowhere at speed from around corners, precariously balanced on the a workman's shoulder, and you had a daily adventure along the strip that was worthy of an Indiana Jones sequel in itself.

Beijing is a great city for walking, and when I tired of my building site playground, I walked the little size 4’s off myself. Making my way through the new wide streets towards Tiananmen Square, it became clear very quickly that the real tourist attraction was not the city, but me! The quizzical look of amusement on the faces of local people as I bounced along with my cowboy hat side-cocked on my head and camera swinging by my hip, reminded me of how I used to look at the bevy of Aran sweater and check pants wearing Americans that used to descend upon my island when I was a child. However, one of the wonderful things about this place, is that looking is a national occupation. People do it without embarrassment or malice. After a while, I became comfortable with the attention, posed for the requested photographs, and accepted their unspoken permission to look right back.

Random people liked to come up and just say ‘Hello’. For most it’s the only English word that they know, and they appeared to enjoy using it. When I responded with a ‘…and how are you?’, they nodded their heads furiously and simply rattled back, ‘Hello, hello!’

Looking across Tiananmen Square, I couldn’t begin to imagine how many people it would take to fill it, but it’s vastness was clear. I felt like an ant in it, and people looked like ants at the opposite side of it. Across the road at the northern end, Chairman Mao’s portrait was a strange kind of magnet under which it seems every visiting Chinese needed to stand with peace sign hand, to have their picture made. Crossing the bridge and going through Mao’s gate finds you within walking distance of the Forbidden City. It wasn’t long after I arrived there that the harassment began. I’d read all about the various tourist scams involving English-fluent students trying to ‘invite you for tea’ or to ‘cast your eye over their artwork’, and once lulled into a false sense of security, ultimately unburden you of large amounts of your travelling dollars. Solo tourists are often the main target. Once I realized that I had been marked, I started to play crazy lady, waving my hands wildly and shouting at them in bad Irish. My persistence outlasted theirs, and I walked away unscathed.

The rickshaw drivers were a little more hard sell, and tended to stick to your side like glue, trying to draw you into a haggle. ‘No’ is always no with me, and it was amusing how agitated they got when I stuck to my guns. “Two legs good, three wheels bad!” I think the subtlety of that line was quite lost on them. Eventually, they fell away seeking other quarry, leaving me to work on my blisters.

This city is a voyeurs paradise, abounding in quirky things and quirky people. Of course to the Beijinger, they are just going about their normal lives in an every day way. To a barbarian watcher like myself, they were just pure entertainment. Beijing parks are among the best places to be entertained. Morning and evening, the neighbourhoods flock to them to socialise and exercise.

Dusk in particular is the best time to just wander and watch as mixed generations make their way to the appointed part of the park, many indulging in some post-meal belly rubbing to aid their digestion. They break away into little social groups to play shuttlecock football, or a competitively friendly game of cards. Outdoor gymnasiums, which at first glance look more like a children's playground, fill with with elderly Chinese who pull up, push up, sit up, cross train, wheel spin and twist with great intent and surprising dexterity.

At the open space entrance to the park, a smoking man collected Yuan from wannabe ballroom dancers, who then happily allowed themselves to be orally abused by the strictest of ladies for an hour while she tried to teach them the finer points of the Cha Cha.

In the decoratively pillared corridors that run along the sides of the Temple of Heaven park, small groups gathered for free choral lessons. Middle-aged men and women huddled around their accordion playing master, following his lead while diligently monitoring the wide-openness of their mouths with little hand mirrors. Further on, a much more relaxed and advanced group belted out operatic numbers just for the sheer joy of it, watched by an audience of peers fanning away the humidity of the day and drinking tea from jam jars. As I meandered and watched, an old gentleman wearing an under-vest, striped shorts and swinging a cane, passed me by taking his caged song-bird for a walk, all the while trying to persuade it to sing with his whistles.

It is possible to sit for hours just watching. Oft times your watching doesn’t go unnoticed, and you find yourself being pulled in to joining. It’s hard to drag yourself away, but eventually my grumbling belly did just that. Heading back to the building site, I would stop into a neighbourhood restaurant for a bite.

One particular eatery drew me in, partly with its smells , partly by the fact that it was chock-filled with locals, and partly by the western couple sitting in the middle of said locals with a table full of empty plates. The​ fuwuyuan handed me an English menu while myself and the western couple exchanged nods and smiles. I ordered a 10 Yuan beer and perused the picture list of dishes. For a short moment, I was interrupted by a teenage set of Chinese twins eager to have their picture taken with me. They were sweet as nuts, and I of course obliged.

Decision making on the food front was a chore when faced with delicacies such as sautéed pig lungs, stir fried dogs meat, and plain old flesh lump on the menu. However, I finally found something to suit my taste in the shape of some broccoli, steam fried corn bread, and sautéed pork in sweet bean sauce.

I chopsticked my way through the marinated pork, greatly doubting that it was the fillet I’m used to eating. The texture was sufficiently ‘bouncy’ for me to suspect some kind of innards, but melt in the mouth and tasty enough for me not to care. Slurping in the shredded pieces and facing the open door, I couldn’t help but continue my watching. A middle-aged man and youngish woman stumbled into the restaurant. He was very drunk, and she may well have been, but was holding it together enough to pass. They sat at the table beside me, shouting for the waiter who chose to ignore them. The man soliloquized, smoking a cigarette. She bore it and listened, pretending to smoke a cigarette. She soon tired of the pretence and quenched it right there on the table. Finally, their drink came and I returned to my broccoli.

My attention to the broccoli was snatched by a hawker. Two tables from the open front door, scratching his bared and sweaty victory pouch, he decided to ‘khawkh’ and ‘pichew’ right there. Good job I was done with the meaty innards.

The youngish woman moved to the same side of the table as her date. Almost immediately after sitting, her head was grabbed in an intoxicated whisper. Judging by the flushed cheek and nervous laugh, I suspected that 'Drunky Boy' had made an indecent proposal. I wasn’t wrong. He followed it by making a not so secret dive with his hand into the shirt of the lady in question. I rounded off my meal with a cigarette and made my way back to my hutong.


Once more in the floodlit semi-organized mayhem, the doozers flitted past me going about their business. I was stopped in my tracks by a man shouting in what appeared to be anger. Thinking there was a row brewing, I halted just in time to realize it was an order to lift. In unison, and with chain gang precision, they duly picked up a long length of thick rubber piping. I quickly jumped out of the way, only narrowly avoiding being lifted and carried along on the pipe myself.

After making their way a few yards down the street, another yell was let loose. They dropped the pipe, squatted, and waited for their next order. I squatted down beside them and watched, finishing the night with a final cigarette while trying to pick out a piece of innard from between my teeth with a toothpick I had taken from the restaurant. Puffing away beside me, the wrinkly faced workman smiled and nodded.