No Quitter
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: There's no smoke without fire!
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At this rate I can honestly say I’ll never buy another pack of ciggies for as long as I live. Not that I’m quitting mind, I’ve never considered doing that since my first shared smoke with Beano Dandy, my best friend at the time and for some years after that. I gave Beano his nickname after much deliberation, it was either that or he would have to go through life as Andy Dandy which sounds too much like a simpering puppet on the television, a bit of a faux-pas on the part of his parents according to Beano.
So, it was the Saturday and me and Beano were at something of a loose end as usual. The sun was shining, which is always a good thing, lending more scope to what we could get up to, twelve being a funny age for a boy to be, according to my Ma.
The workmen on the new housing scheme packed up and left the site at noon so we waited for the last of them to go before Beano picked the Yale lock, a trick he’d learned from some book or other and perfected on his own front door when no one was watching. I kept lookout and it only took five minutes to gain entry. Beano closed the door behind us and we held our breath while our eyes adjusted to the dark. A few nails in the back of the door served as coat hooks and we rifled through the pockets for loose change and other items of interest. Beano came up with five Woodbines and a box of matches and I found fourpence and a full packet of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum.
It was a big hut, big enough to accommodate a table, a few unsteady chairs and, delight of delights, two scrappy hammocks fashioned from old coal sacks. In my chosen hammock I found another box of matches so we spent some time flicking burning matches at each other until Beano’s hammock caught fire. It was easy to smother the flames but the incident brought the game to an abrupt end and we became bored once again.
Beano said he would take the cigs home to his Dad but we uncovered a three-quarters full bottle of scoosh and decided to drink that down first. Beano messed with the cellophane wrapper and before we knew it he was dragging deeply on one of the Woodbines. Not to be outdone I helped myself to one from the packet but Beano passed me the lit one and we were smokers from that day on, his Dad didn’t get a whiff of them.
Beano got a job in the Cabin, delivering papers at first but he soon graduated to helping out behind the counter on Saturday mornings. I’d call in for a couple of Mojos and if conditions were right I’d stroll out with forty cigs courtesy of my good friend’s screening skills and nifty fingers. In other times of need I’d dip my old man’s shag tin, sneaking enough tobacco and papers for a couple of roll ups. We had the habit.
Beano and I did a year on the council when we left school. It didn’t suit him but I stayed with it, failing miserably as an apprentice electrician, painter and decorator, plumber and finally, carpenter. That’s when I landed the plum job of binman, I was a natural at that. Beano’s old man passed away and we drifted apart, literally. He had family in Ireland and the last I saw of him he was drifting out of the harbour on the ferry.
I’ve smoked anything and everything in the last forty-five years, hemp, dried banana skins, hash, pipe tobacco and on occasion, dowts collected from the ashtrays, I was never fussy. After being a council tenant for thirty odd years I bought my house from them. Being an employee I had a couple of perks going for me whereby what I paid for it was nowhere near what your unconnected tenants ended up paying. Smoking has gone towards furnishing and decorating the place over the years. A mate who worked on the railway as a carriage cleaner collected all the discarded cigarette coupons for me and I saved them towards items from the gift catalogue. Coupons are a thing of the past now, shame, they suited me what with my being a natural hoarder.
The job’s different now too. Where once it was dirty and smelly, the introduction of wheelie bins make it almost pleasant. The thing is it’s a full shift now as opposed to what was once an early afternoon finish, new rules and regulations, a so-called change for the better.
I’ve had a few weeks off on the sick, more than a few lately. I can no longer keep up with the bin wagon, my legs are on the way out but my lungs are just fine. It’s normal to be short of breath as you get older, that’s what my doctor says. She has nicotine stained fingers and foul smelling breath and assures me all the health warnings are total bullshit, she’s the best doctor I’ve ever had.
I did stop going to the pub on her suggestion but that’s only because we puffers have to go outside for a smoke now. The atmosphere isn’t the same and the price of a pint has as much to do with it as the smoking ban. So it’s supermarket deals on beer for me and the pleasure of sitting in a cloud of smoke with a few like-minded friends either at my place or theirs.
Back to my earlier statement on not buying another pack of cigarettes. The doctor put a note into the council for me, suggesting I should maybe have an office job of some sorts considering my age and poor health. She must have laid it on pretty thick because almost immediately I was offered this new position. New as in brand spanking new, a joint venture by the health board and the council.
The office is tiny but it’s warm. Half of an old shop front, the other half being taken up by a small incinerator which provides that warmth. Posters abound, the local newspaper is in on it and there’s even more advice on the doctor’s surgery walls.
I dole out nicotine patches to the hundreds who want to quit every week, sometimes the same people every week. In exchange they surrender their cigarettes on the health board’s foolish assumption they’ll think they’re getting something in return. Monday is my busiest day, my best day. Most quitters can just about do without during the week but can’t hack it on the weekend, I call them my regulars. Part of my job is to box the cigarettes up and incinerate them. Yeah right. I will after I’ve filtered my brand from them, I can be selective now.
The cupboard under the stairs is now my tobacco stash, it’s filling up nicely and I’m careful to rotate my stock to prevent drying. I’ve had this cough for a while and I’m sure dry tobacco causes it. I’m not short of lighters either, quite a collection of those building up.
There is one thing I don’t like about the job, it isn’t all wine and roses as much as I make it sound as such..........I have to go outside for a smoke and that’s just downright inhuman.
Swearwords: None.
Description: There's no smoke without fire!
_____________________________________________________________________
At this rate I can honestly say I’ll never buy another pack of ciggies for as long as I live. Not that I’m quitting mind, I’ve never considered doing that since my first shared smoke with Beano Dandy, my best friend at the time and for some years after that. I gave Beano his nickname after much deliberation, it was either that or he would have to go through life as Andy Dandy which sounds too much like a simpering puppet on the television, a bit of a faux-pas on the part of his parents according to Beano.
So, it was the Saturday and me and Beano were at something of a loose end as usual. The sun was shining, which is always a good thing, lending more scope to what we could get up to, twelve being a funny age for a boy to be, according to my Ma.
The workmen on the new housing scheme packed up and left the site at noon so we waited for the last of them to go before Beano picked the Yale lock, a trick he’d learned from some book or other and perfected on his own front door when no one was watching. I kept lookout and it only took five minutes to gain entry. Beano closed the door behind us and we held our breath while our eyes adjusted to the dark. A few nails in the back of the door served as coat hooks and we rifled through the pockets for loose change and other items of interest. Beano came up with five Woodbines and a box of matches and I found fourpence and a full packet of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum.
It was a big hut, big enough to accommodate a table, a few unsteady chairs and, delight of delights, two scrappy hammocks fashioned from old coal sacks. In my chosen hammock I found another box of matches so we spent some time flicking burning matches at each other until Beano’s hammock caught fire. It was easy to smother the flames but the incident brought the game to an abrupt end and we became bored once again.
Beano said he would take the cigs home to his Dad but we uncovered a three-quarters full bottle of scoosh and decided to drink that down first. Beano messed with the cellophane wrapper and before we knew it he was dragging deeply on one of the Woodbines. Not to be outdone I helped myself to one from the packet but Beano passed me the lit one and we were smokers from that day on, his Dad didn’t get a whiff of them.
Beano got a job in the Cabin, delivering papers at first but he soon graduated to helping out behind the counter on Saturday mornings. I’d call in for a couple of Mojos and if conditions were right I’d stroll out with forty cigs courtesy of my good friend’s screening skills and nifty fingers. In other times of need I’d dip my old man’s shag tin, sneaking enough tobacco and papers for a couple of roll ups. We had the habit.
Beano and I did a year on the council when we left school. It didn’t suit him but I stayed with it, failing miserably as an apprentice electrician, painter and decorator, plumber and finally, carpenter. That’s when I landed the plum job of binman, I was a natural at that. Beano’s old man passed away and we drifted apart, literally. He had family in Ireland and the last I saw of him he was drifting out of the harbour on the ferry.
I’ve smoked anything and everything in the last forty-five years, hemp, dried banana skins, hash, pipe tobacco and on occasion, dowts collected from the ashtrays, I was never fussy. After being a council tenant for thirty odd years I bought my house from them. Being an employee I had a couple of perks going for me whereby what I paid for it was nowhere near what your unconnected tenants ended up paying. Smoking has gone towards furnishing and decorating the place over the years. A mate who worked on the railway as a carriage cleaner collected all the discarded cigarette coupons for me and I saved them towards items from the gift catalogue. Coupons are a thing of the past now, shame, they suited me what with my being a natural hoarder.
The job’s different now too. Where once it was dirty and smelly, the introduction of wheelie bins make it almost pleasant. The thing is it’s a full shift now as opposed to what was once an early afternoon finish, new rules and regulations, a so-called change for the better.
I’ve had a few weeks off on the sick, more than a few lately. I can no longer keep up with the bin wagon, my legs are on the way out but my lungs are just fine. It’s normal to be short of breath as you get older, that’s what my doctor says. She has nicotine stained fingers and foul smelling breath and assures me all the health warnings are total bullshit, she’s the best doctor I’ve ever had.
I did stop going to the pub on her suggestion but that’s only because we puffers have to go outside for a smoke now. The atmosphere isn’t the same and the price of a pint has as much to do with it as the smoking ban. So it’s supermarket deals on beer for me and the pleasure of sitting in a cloud of smoke with a few like-minded friends either at my place or theirs.
Back to my earlier statement on not buying another pack of cigarettes. The doctor put a note into the council for me, suggesting I should maybe have an office job of some sorts considering my age and poor health. She must have laid it on pretty thick because almost immediately I was offered this new position. New as in brand spanking new, a joint venture by the health board and the council.
The office is tiny but it’s warm. Half of an old shop front, the other half being taken up by a small incinerator which provides that warmth. Posters abound, the local newspaper is in on it and there’s even more advice on the doctor’s surgery walls.
I dole out nicotine patches to the hundreds who want to quit every week, sometimes the same people every week. In exchange they surrender their cigarettes on the health board’s foolish assumption they’ll think they’re getting something in return. Monday is my busiest day, my best day. Most quitters can just about do without during the week but can’t hack it on the weekend, I call them my regulars. Part of my job is to box the cigarettes up and incinerate them. Yeah right. I will after I’ve filtered my brand from them, I can be selective now.
The cupboard under the stairs is now my tobacco stash, it’s filling up nicely and I’m careful to rotate my stock to prevent drying. I’ve had this cough for a while and I’m sure dry tobacco causes it. I’m not short of lighters either, quite a collection of those building up.
There is one thing I don’t like about the job, it isn’t all wine and roses as much as I make it sound as such..........I have to go outside for a smoke and that’s just downright inhuman.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.