The Professor wasn’t in good form there last week. (I know what you’re thinking, Maxwell used to say the same thing: “There’s a good form?”. Maxwell of course does not say such things these days as there exists a trend of good relations between him and the Professor. These days it’s all sweetness and light. “Camp David”, Two Ducks calls it. Maybe I’ve seen one or two looks, but diplomacy generally abounds.) Anyway, the Professor does have bouts of kindliness. Granted he remains very dry and wears the same querulous expression to which we’ve become accustomed, but, because of a certain something about the eyes, if you’re up close to him you can tell when he’s enjoying himself.

Anyway, on the evening I’m concerned with, there was a distinct absence of, as he might say himself, any ocular je ne sais quoi. He came through the door of the snug, snorting and coughing and making great play of brushing something off his coat. He didn’t wait for anyone to ask him what the matter was. As his order went in he looked at us each in turn; a man wearying under the body blows that fortune seemed happy to land upon him.

“They should all be poisoned,” he advised us. We were careful not to agree immediately. “Put something in the cigarettes that’ll finish them all off. Quietly and peacefully, mind you. I don’t want to seem like an ogre.”

We demonstrated to him the high level to which we were aghast at this suggestion, but, as an ex-smoker, the Professor is unforgiving of those who remain in thrall to the habit.
“It’s getting cold now and they’re still at it. What is the use of such....’ It was rare that the Professor was lost for a word thus. “All intelligent people quit following the ban.” This statement was by way of a reprieve for Two Ducks, who quit the night before it came into operation. “So in addition to being without intellectual gifts, we can see by the fact that they’re prepared to perform that woebegone, foot-to-foot shuffle out in the dark, in the damp, in the wet and in the cold, that this remnant of weed-worship is free of dignity to boot. We should trade them with Britain for non-smoking crack addicts; and in a hurry, before the Brits introduce their own ban. At least the crack addicts won’t stink up every doorway in the country.”

Maxwell nodded. “And given what must be a short life expectancy, they’d probably cost the health service a lot less in the long run.”

“Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to her nibs,” the sage told us confidentially. “No better woman.”

The Professor had given up smoking before any of us met him. He often referred to the fact that he’d found it relatively easy to kick the habit, but otherwise he didn’t appear to have much to say on the topic. That being that, we felt it safe to assume that his tolerance of our own habits was in part due to a residue of fellow feeling. However, after Two Ducks quit—the last of us to do so—the Professor began to explore the issue in greater depth. It all started out positively enough, telling Two Ducks how much better off he was now that he was shot of that filthy habit, reminding him of the savings he was making, all of that. But after a couple of months his interest shifted from Two Ducks’ ongoing success, to the iniquities of the generality of smokers. Initially he presented his tart commentaries in genial tones, but they steadily grew more acid both in content and in mood. Now, half a year later, he is brimful of direst cruelty.

Patently, his animosity is toward the smokers rather than the vice itself. When the ban was imminent but not yet arrived, I recall that he allowed us to glimpse a lyrical, sentimental side. A side, incidentally, which I find much harder to accept from him than his occasional displays of good form.

“It’s going to bring to an end that distinct pub smell," he eulogised. "That unique aroma, as if beer-soaked cigarette butts had been loosely rolled in a dusty old carpet and warmed gently by sunlight through glass. As a boy I could have stood in front of an open pub door all day, taking in that bouquet, and the distant promise of comfort within.”

Die-hard smokers, however, seem to have let the side down dreadfully. “On a bad day I’m inclined to think that maybe it was never about smoking. Maybe it was an experiment by the authorities to see how far they could push a minority section of the community before anyone else notices.” (Since I introduced it in reference to cyclists some weeks back, the conspiracy theme has retained much chic with the Professor.) “If that’s the case then the smokers not only devalue themselves, they devalue life, and they endanger the rest of the citizenry by consenting to be pushed outside like dogs. They should do the decent thing. Give up. One way or the other, but give up.”

Sometimes it’s as if, still in denial, he’s watching the slow decline of a beloved uncle. “I don’t see what the problem is. It’s a myth that quitting smoking is difficult. It’s another lie around which to build another worthless industry. There is simply nothing to it. You just make up your mind that you’re not doing it anymore. That’s it. Withdrawal is constantly exaggerated. There is no pain. It is in your head, the whole thing. Why can’t they just do it?”

The night in question was blacker than most. “You realise of course that not only are they poisoning our environment, but they’re eating good food while they’re doing it. They’re bleeding us dry. If it comes down to it,”—and in all fairness it should be pointed out that at this stage it was well on into the evening—“if it’s us and them,” he said to us quietly, “I am very comfortable doing whatever it is I have to do. Y’know what I mean?”