The smoking ban problem

 

I have simply lost count of the number of times this quiet, peaceful island on which I live has been brought to a state of chaos by the unnecessary intervention of the mainland council.

 

One such occasion was the day the council decided to introduce a smoking ban. I remember Alun waking me with the news, in what can only be described as an agitated state.

 

“It’s the council Jed,” he said, "they’ve made our island entirely smoke-free. Even the outside areas.”

 

“Well that’s okay isn’t it?” I said, “neither of us smokes.  And the boatman runs a smokefree boat, refuses to so much as carry a passenger with cigarettes in his pockets, so we couldn’t smoke if we wanted to.”

            
“That’s not the point Jed.  It’s symbolic of our struggle against council busy-bodies.  The ban doesn’t affect them, they can still smoke on the mainland, they have entire shops dedicated to selling cigarettes.  It’s just us poor islanders that have to go without.”

 

Never having been to the mainland it never ceases to amaze me what goes on there.  Entire shops selling nothing other than cigarettes?  What on earth would you do if you didn’t want cigarettes?  I didn’t like to ask, Alun is always mocking my ignorance of mainland ways.

 

“I really don’t know what your problem is,” I said.  “You have asthma and you’re allergic to the battery acid and rat poison they use to flavour certain brands.  You threatened to shoot the windfarm engineer that time for smoking his pipe.”

“He was Welsh Jed.  He had no business on our island.  I’m not going to let it lie Jed, I’m taking this up with the council.”

 

Alun hated any form of bureaucratic interference in our lives.  When the council tried to increase our electricity prices he responded by installing his own windfarm, so that we became self-servicing in our electricity needs.  It means we’re totally independent of the mainland for our energy needs, and that I can only use the computer when there’s a wind.

 

Alun wrote a long-winded letter to the council calling for a smoking area to be established on the island, but had a brief letter back saying that “once a decision has been taken the decision can only be reversed by due democratic process.” 

 

Coincidentally, we each received begging letters from the three mainland political parties asking us to donate to their ‘election fighting funds.’  “Without your support we have no way of representing your views” each of the three parties said.

 

Alun’s attempts to get the smoking ban reversed became the main discussion topic in the next issue of the Off-Mainlander magazine, with Alun’s photo emblazoned across the page under the banner ‘my right to decide’.

 

The Off-Mainlander is the magazine for all off-mainland island dwellers and those with an interest in off-mainland life. We have subscribed since the magazine started twenty years ago and looked forward to its monthly arrival with keen anticipation. Alun and I have both, over the years, submitted numerous articles to the magazine, but neither of us had ever been published, such is the level of competition for page space. I was therefore extraordinarily jealous to find Alun not just published, but on the front page.

 

A few days later I was woken early by a hammering on my back door.  It was Alun, and once again he was holding a letter.

 

“It’s from ‘Live to Smoke’,” he said, “the smokers’ rights group.  They’d like to use our campaign as a national focal-point. They want to hold a rally on our island to protest against mainland council intervention in smokers’ lives.”

 

“Smokers! But the boatman will never bring smokers across, not on his boat. You know his views.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, Jed.  Live to Smoke is an extremely well-funded organisation, the tobacco companies plough millions into them. They have their own private yacht.”

 

The Live to Smoke crowd arrived the next day.  We smelt them coming from several miles away and Alun had to rush back to his house to fetch his inhaler.

 

We went to greet the yacht as it pulled into the bay. Alun was wearing his special breathing mask which he wore whenever there were smokers about. To their credit none of the Live to Smoke crowd seemed to mind.

 

“I’m Jed,” I said, “welcome to our island. Thank you so much for coming to join our protest.” Usually Alun would have led the welcoming committee, but he was too busy inhaling.

 

“I’m … hhhhh I’m …   hhhh …  I’m Harry,” the leading man finally wheezed, inbetween desperate gasps for breath. “I’m … ttttt I’m … tttt, I’m … tttthe CEO of Live to Smoke.”

 

The long sentence had clearly taken its toll on Harry, who had to sit down on the sand while the rest of the crowd took a spontaneous fag break.

 

Eventually one of the younger, fitter members took over the campaign basics while Harry concentrated his efforts on continuing to breathe.

 

“I’m Jess,” he said, introducing himself by holding out his hideous, yellow-stained hand for me to shake. “We’ve decided to camp out 24/7 until the council reverse their ban. Restricting smoking in indoor workplaces is one thing, but a complete ban on smoking outdoors is ridiculous. What possible harm can we do in the fresh air?”

 

He was interrupted by frantic wheezing from Alun and Harry. After a pause of several minutes, during which neither Alun nor Harry actually died, he decided to continue.

 

“As I was saying, what possible harm can our smoking do in fresh air? We’ll hold our protest on the beach. We’ve brought tents, so we’ll camp out overnight.

 

“You could stay in the empty house,” I started to say, but Alun intervened.

 

“No they couldn’t, Jed. It’s a smokefree house. And that’s a private decision taken by the island’s residents, not imposed on us by the council, so we’re happy to abide by their decision.”

 

“But we’re the island’s residents,” I said.

 

“I know. Which is why we’re happy with our decision.”

 

While we were arguing, the campaigners took out their placards and began marching up and down the beach. The messages were succinct and clear: ‘My Right Not To Care What You Think’, ‘Stamp Out Smoking Bans’ and ‘Hold your tongue, I don’t want to hear about your lung’.

 

“It started with the First World War,” Jess said, “with Nazi snipers shooting at smokers in the enemy trenches. Then after the war it just got worse, they started targeting us in our own British pubs.”

 

I decided not to get into a debate. Jess seemed the sort of man who wouldn’t take kindly to facts.

 

Meanwhile, Harry had managed to return to his feet and was reaching for his cigarette packet. “Time for my m …, my m …, my medicine,” he said, lighting up. However, the medication didn’t seem to work as no sooner had he taken a puff than he burst into another fit of coughing and wheezing, after which he collapsed on the floor.

 

Alun rushed to give medical assistance, but it was too late. “He’s dead,” Alun announced, “a heart attack brought on by …” Alun paused, he could feel twenty furious pairs of eyes watching him, “brought on by the stress caused by the smoking ban.”

 

As the island’s Priest of All Faiths Alun agreed to hold the funeral service for Harry. The funeral took place three days later, with the protest still going strong, and Harry was buried on the very beach where he died, campaigning to his last. His gravestone sits there to this day, a memorial to the fight for freedom that typifies this island’s history.

 

The protest continued. It was a tough, cold week, with stiff breezes and moisture in the air. It was enough to make even the fittest retreat to the warmth of a heated house and thick duvets, but the protesters braved the elements undaunted. Three more protesters died during the week. Alun carried out a mass funeral for the three victims and they too were buried on the beach, alongside their leader.

 

The Off-Mainlander magazine carried a front-page picture of Harry’s tombstone, together with interviews with many of the surviving smokers. The media coverage made life difficult for the council, the story being picked up by mainland press. Eventually the council was forced to review the ban at a special, emergency meeting. The surviving members of Live to Smoke left the island to protest outside the council meeting.

“Thank you for organising this action,” Jess said, “it’s a marvellous thing you’re doing. Sometimes it feels the rest of the world’s against us. Like the time I stood for parliament as a Smokers’ Rights candidate and didn’t get a single vote.”

 

“You didn’t vote for yourself?”

 

“No, it was a no-smoking polling station.”

 

“Thank you for your support,” I said “it seems a shame that so many of you had to die.”

 

“It’s the nature of war,” Jess said, “and it is a war. One we’ll win I promise you. Or die fighting.”

 

That evening the council overturned their previous decision, declaring that it was up to residents to decide which part of the island should be smokefree.

 

“Thank goodness, we’re finally free to decide our own policies,” Alun said.

 

“Yes,” I agreed, “I didn’t think the protest would work, but you were right. Well done.”

 

“Right, now that we’re back in control, the first thing we need to do is introduce a smoking ban, across the whole island. I’m sick of cigarette smoke. I could hardly breathe during the whole protest.”

 

“A smoking ban? But I thought …”

 

“You know I hate smokers Jed. It was the imposition I opposed to. Let’s vote. All in favour of a smoking ban.”

 

I raised my hand. I too had no reason to desire smokers back on our island.  Though they were friendly people, they did smell.  

 

We decided to rename the beach the smokers’ graveyard ‘Smokers’ Bay’ in honour of the smokers who died there, although this new name was not approved by the mainland council and can only be used in the colloquial, unofficial sense.