Bring back smoking!

Keep it lit, brothers and sisters

I thought it might be fun to try out my satirical idea of a campaign to bring back smoking on AI, and see what it came up with.

• Great concept! Here’s a creative package to build out your “Bring Back Smoking” campaign while keeping it bold and striking.

Slogan workshop

• Just Say Yes. (your original—direct and punchy)

• Light Up, Live Free.

• Classic. Cool. Cigarettes.

• Smoking: The Original Rebel Move.

• Bring It Back. Light It Up.

• Keep It Lit.

• Approved by Cool.

• Retro Vibes, Real Smokes

Which one is your favourite? Let me know what slogan would get you back in line at the tobacco store? Keep it lit, brothers and sisters.

I carried the torch for 25 years. I am still waiting for the thank-you letter from Mr Benson and Mr Hedges, or is that W.D. and H.O. Wills, or even the mighty Philip Morris? These people have been killing us for decades now. We could at least get a little thanks for all the work we put in.

One of my key motivations to start working as a teenager was to earn my own money, well, obviously, but importantly, money I could spend on what I wanted, which was smoking. Cigarette machines were amazing, usually outside the tobacconist, or at the rail station, where an underage customer could slip in and out unnoticed to obtain the contraband, those naughty paper sticks stuffed with chemically infused leaves we were so addicted to. We took great pride in being able to get served underage in every tobacconist on the high street, but the vending machines were a wonderful fallback

School days were beautifully punctuated by illicit sorties behind the lawn mower shed or the old alleyway behind the school. In the early evening, it was the carpark edge, sitting on a low wall, behind which, in a run-down house, a local rock band used to practice. Nothing beat the Light Bite cafe, upstairs above the bakery, out of sight of passersby, we could hold court in the smoke-filled cafe, sharing a tea between 4 of us, giving license to fill the ashtrays on the table.

I was a Bensons’ man, my Gran had liked them. But the lure of those colourful packets drew my curiosity, John Player, black, blue, No6, Embassy No1, those little filtered ones in the red pack. Rothmans, Dunhill, those brands aimed at the professional types. Then the majesty of the American brands, Lucy Stripe, Chesterfield, Camel filters, ooh, we loved those, and of course Marlboro, cowboy country, we all wanted to go there. We went to France and personally met Peter Stuyvesant, standing head and shoulders above those working-class brands like Gauloise, Disque blue and Gitanes, Mr sophisticated. The French were always great at smoking.

I used to tell myself I liked it, that I didn’t want to ever become one of those sanctimonious ex-smokers, looking down their noses at those still in the smoking section. I knew I would stop by age 30 as I also didn’t want to be one of those heavily addicted, weezy old men, coughing their lungs up over the morning’s first charoot. Not a good look, smoking is a young man’s game, get out when you are still ahead.

A French man, smoking

Talking of smoking sections, how absurdly cool it was that we got the back of the bus to ourselves, a dedicated train carriage, or even a section on an aeroplane. My personal favourite was the cinema, where, thoughtfully and considerately, we smokers would occupy only the right-hand side of the theatre, lest our fumes trouble our fellow entertainment seekers.

I think of all the artwork and design that went into those boxes, the branding, the adverts, to make us love those little packets. I loved the adverts in the cinemas, they were like mini movies, for Silk Cut purple, the one at Rourke’s Drift where the brave British redcoats are surrounded by the Zulu nation, with supplies only for two weeks, conveniently just long enough to adjust to Silk Cut’s low tar taste and flavour. Marketing genius, but we all knew low tar was lightweight, if you are going to smoke, then it has to be the cool brands, no budget supermarket super kings for me. If you are going to kill yourself for cool, don’t blow it by doing it with a budget brand!

So much creativity went into tobacco advertising.

To think now, smokers have put up with a plane packet with a picture of a tumour on it. All that creativity wasted, and reduced to a malignant mass of misbehaving cells. Always having to take the negative side of the story, why can’t we see Bogart firing up a blunt for Bacall to clamp between her luscious and pouting lips instead?

I quit at 30, it was much harder than anticipated. I did the whole 3-week Annapurna circuit trek in Nepal to convince myself my body was even worth saving. I went deep into my psyche to try and wean myself away from this deep-seated old habit, before it was too late. I believe I did a whole year tobacco-free. I moved house, I changed location, I made new friends, ones who only knew me as a non-smoker. It was easy. Then I started again. Well, you know, sometimes your mind can play tricks on you.

It took another 8 years to finally throw it off. From having slowly and carefully reduced my dosage over quite some time, after all that mental work and soul searching, I went right back to a full smoking regime in a heartbeat. A day once again punctuated with smoke breaks, little rewards every hour or so for good behaviour. The accumulation of tobacco crumbs in all your pockets, the lingering smell, the ash, oh the ash, the ash trays, matches, lighters. The fear of running out. I had moved to a relatively remote place, the nearest shop was 6 miles away, those late evening dashes at full speed, down the winding roads to catch the retailer for that final pack of Rizla’s, a lighter or a pouch of the beautiful golden flake.

Eventually, I did it with the gum. I set a date in my head and counted it down to my final reckoning with that demon Mr Nic O’Teen. I forced myself to suck on a piece of 2mg nicotine replacement gum in the morning, and I found the craving did not return until early evening, where the routine could be repeated. I felt like a junky taking his ghastly, puke-inducing methodone, to stave off the addition. I slowly realised it had nothing to do with smoking, I was addicted to nicotine. Not having it made me feel irritable and annoyed; it also made me feel trapped. Ah, the one thing I wanted, I need to reward myself with, is the one thing I cannot have, oh, the paradox. I went for long walks, swimming, anything that I didn’t associate with smoking, no more sitting in pubs with a pint pot in your hand, or long coffee mornings with friends, the urge to smoke was too strong. New habits, new pastimes.

That was 2002, I look back now with hindsight, and nostalgia, I did kind of enjoy it, it would be a lie to say otherwise, but what I really and immensely enjoy more, is not being addicted. Goodbye, Mr Benson, and goodbye, Mr Hedges, until we meet again.

Instead of having a minimum age for smoking, maybe there should be a maximum. Think of all those jobs, tobacco kiosks, marketing and distribution, retail opportunities and the rest of it, all wasted just because some nanny state do-gooder wants to take away our lovely cigarettes.