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smoking 30 or more a day, in the middle of the night, before breakfast, while cycling to the railway station etc. etc. signifies addiction, then I was an addict.
At home I was told that I didn't smoke fags - I ate them! Right enough, I never laid down a lighted cigarette. I smoked it. None of this nonsense of leaving one to smoulder to ashes on a tray.
I like tea - freshly made tea - and when I get it I drink it hot, not after it has gone lukewarm. I treated cigarettes the same way as a good cup of tea, to be enjoyed when fresh.
I have been off smoking now for 50 years but I could smoke one anytime now without creating any fresh craving. All I would get from a fag now would be a slight headache. Of course, I would still inhale as I always did.
I was a teenage clerk in a Portadown office pre-war when I first became addicted. There were half-a-dozen of us in an upstairs room at Lismore House in Church Street. One was Lucy Anderson, daughter of the then chairman of the town council.
Lucy smoked like a chimney and, generous soul that she was, she constantly passed her packet around. One had to reciprocate and so it happened that she soon had several of us as bad as herself - worse actually, for she did not inhale. I for one couldn't smoke without inhaling.
At dances I used to go through maybe ten. When one lifted a partner one had to nick one's fag. As I have already confessed, eventually I 'ate' cigarettes morning, noon and night.
A grocer and cattle feed merchant called bi-weekly at the farm for orders and my order was a carton of Callaher's Green, 200 cigarettes at 107 old pence (there were 240 old pence to the £1)
Smokers scorned cork-tipped cigarettes in pre-war days. Did you ever light the wrong end of one accidentally in a picture house? Ugh!!
Gallaher's Blue were a bit stronger than the Green and 'Churchman's' were even stronger, ditto Woodbines with the latter being nicknamed 'coffin tacks'.
A prominent local businessman, publican, bookie, undertaker etc.etc. used to hand around Churchman's when he was entertaining, then surreptitiously sneak a Woodbine out of his vest pocket for his own enjoyment.
I tortured myself for years trying to kick the habit and even switched to smoking a pipe with a mixture of 'Handy Cut' and 'Bruno'.
Unadulterated Bruno was too strong and liable to cause palpitations.
'Handy Cut' was too light and would have burnt the tongue off you. Two Handy Cut to one of Bruno was the experts' prescription and I went through almost an ounce a day.
Lent was a good time to try and kick the weed. Forty days with only a one day break - St Patrick's Day. Torture!
If you are of a macho mould you could try doing without one, say until lunch time, or better still, until evening. Even have a smoke-free day a week. That's torture - I should know. Of course, you cannot smoke nowadays anywhere you like, when you like. Not like what it was in the good old days of my youth. Housewives have carpets, upholstery and expensive curtains to protect nowadays and 'Thank you for not Smoking' notices are everywhere.
In the farmhouse living room where I grew up there was less plush furnishings and occasionally odours worse than the smell of tobacco! Air freshness? - how are ye! 'Close that door behind you' was a daily injunction when one often fire heated a whole house
The war years were tough. UK cigarettes just could not be had. The Yankee's Chesterfield, Lucky Strike and Camel brands were almost all we had or some other brands libelled (not labelled) as mostly horse manure!
The late Bob Lavery, the local wholesaler 'saved my life'. He never saw me stuck. Mind you it had to be the Camel brave and often but it was better than none.
The Customs were ruthless on smugglers. 'Any spirits or tobacco?' was their daily challenge as the Irish border posts and a lousy 30 fags was the ration.
A dozen or so years on from Lucy Anderson's pre-war company I had a wife and child to support and civil servants didn't have wives going out to work - female colleagues had to resign on marriage.
Money was tight and ultimately it became a question of which would have to go - my old banger of a car or the fags. It wasn't a fair choice. the car was needed - so?
That's where the four-letter word came in. 'Who the hell's boss?' I demanded as I held up a half empty packet of Gallaher's Green. Into a drawer it went and there it lay until we moved house 10 years later.
Now for the four-letter word. I will spell it G-U-T-S. Try it. It has lasted 50 years with me!
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