Strawberry Cider, Neon Knickers and a Face Full of Cancer Smoke: My Perfect Pint Ruined
One sunny pub session, two free-spirited youths and a backward-cap vape king remind me exactly why Keir Starmer needs to ban smoking properly; before my lungs apply for a restraining order.
So picture the scene… it’s half past five on what might be Britain’s annual heatwave, which we like to call ‘summer’ so we can feel exotic while sweating through our shirts. I’m parked at my local, Guinness in one hand, Robert Harris novel in the other, performing my favourite social experiment; watching life unfold while pretending I’m invisible.
Across from me were two girls so young they still mispronounce Sauvignon Blanc but old enough to think not wearing a bra is both empowering and attention seeking. One’s poured into denim shorts that must have come free with a Barbie doll, the other drifts around in a white skirt so sheer that her neon underwear could guide planes to land safely at Gatwick. They’re playing cards, squealing about a future bellybutton piercing and tattoo regrets yet to come; while pecking at a basket of chips with the enthusiasm of seagulls at Brighton Pier.
Behind me, a charming older couple are murmuring about blood test results. A harmless background hum reminding me that, sooner or later, we all end up with a folder full of ‘routine’ appointments and a permanent membership to the NHS waiting list fan club.
For a glorious hour, life is perfect. The heat drops just enough for my pint to stay cold longer than my temper. I’m a human lizard basking in the last rays of the sun, convinced this will be the best evening since Mrs G last agreed to watch my choice of TV.
Then, inevitably, the plot thickens.
All the tables fill up. Laughter bounces off the pub’s stone walls. Robert Harris loses the battle for my attention as a human-shaped interruption appears… goaty beard, baseball cap backward like he’s starring in an early 2000s boyband, sunglasses at dusk because he’s that kind of visionary. He lopes over, dragging a battered rucksack that probably holds nothing more than a vape charger and some deodorant he clearly forgot to use.
He gestures at the only empty seat, mine. I consider deploying my imaginary Mrs G as a deterrent, but decide I’d rather keep my teeth unpunched tonight. So I nod, which he takes as an invitation to plonk down, exhale a deep sigh of entitlement and crack open a strawberry and elderberry cider.
Now, before I continue, let’s talk about flavoured cider. Flavoured cider is to proper drinking what candy-floss vape clouds are to actual smoking; both are basically adult pacifiers with a hint of fruit and the promise of lung rot dressed up as rebellious fun.
As soon as Goaty Boy sits, he lights a cigarette. Not a vape, an actual old-school cancer stick. My blissful Guinness bubble bursts faster than a cheap balloon at a toddler’s party. His fruity cider fizz mixes with second-hand smoke, swirling round my head like a toxic candy shop.
Two pints in, I’m now forced to inhale burning bin fumes while watching neon knickers giggle about eyebrow piercings. My Robert Harris novel sits abandoned like my sense of inner peace.
Goaty Boy alternates between slurping his strawberry nonsense and sending texts that ping so relentlessly I briefly wonder if he’s orchestrating an international smuggling ring. Then the wind shifts. Suddenly I’m drowning in a Marlboro fog; feeding it right back into the lungs that once flirted with tumours stubborn enough to give my oncologist an existential crisis.
I perform the sort of dramatic smoke wave that would make a Shakespearean ghost jealous. I used every ounce of my A-level in drama to make my point!
“Sorry mate,” he croaks, flicking ash perilously close to my Guinness foam.
“I had cancer once,” I sneer, leaning so close I nearly baptise him in stout, “I don’t want it again, thanks.”
He mumbles another apology, but it’s as effective as a nicotine patch in a biker gang. I’m left with the taste of strawberry cider… and rage.
Here’s my point… and Keir Starmer if you’re reading this between plotting how to break the NHS without making it look intentional, listen carefully. Make smokers spend half an hour on a real cancer ward. Let them chat with people who never touched a cigarette yet still play roulette with chemotherapy side effects. Let them see a pair of lungs on a CT scan that looks like it’s been dipped in barbecue sauce and left in a shed.
Do that and I guarantee these fruity-cider-puffing public pollutants will think twice before turning a perfectly lovely summer pint into a free lesson in passive smoking.
Come on Keir. You owe me one. Ban smoking properly, funnel the savings back into the NHS and maybe, just maybe, give me back my right to read Robert Harris in peace.
Go on. Be the PM who saved my lungs. Now that’s a legacy worth more than any strawberry cider.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
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