my mallorcan hell
WRITTEN BY ROBERT HAINAULT TRAVEL CORRESPONDENT
A popular Balearic island in the Mediterranean, Mallorca has it all: good weather, warm sea, outdoor dining and cheap fags and booze. And ideal place to unwind and recharge. Unless you decide to give up smoking there like a fucking moron.
It was doomed from the outset. I ' d just had a fierce argument with my mother about my extravagances- which are many. I forget exactly what we were rowing about but I hadn ' t been smoking long and was probably in debt. Mum was responsibly taking me to task about the illogicality of having acquired a deadly habit that I couldn ' t afford. There was no way to win the argument: she was right. So I threw my cigarettes into the bin in a gesture of surrender. The next day my father and I flew to Mallorca and he pledged to support me in my smoking abstinence. I ' d even agreed not to take any money with me and rely on dad instead so I would be unable to buy any cigarettes of my own.
I made it through the flight and hotel checkout reasonably well. It was when we went out for dinner that I realised what a colossal mistake I was making. We were dining outside and while I was nibbling olives and bread I was- if not completely content- at least not suffering too greatly for not smoking. It was when we had finished, when the smokers that must have surrounded us all along seemed to materialise like an affable nicotinic army, that I became keenly aware of the conspicuous absence of a postprandial cigarette between my fingers. A cigarette after a meal is a little like scratching a mosquito bite: the food prepares the itch like a caressing finger exacerbates the swelling. When that first blast of smoke bursts into the lungs there is the intense, deeply-penetrating relief: euphoric, orgasmic, like a well-charged sneeze or a longed-for bowel movement. The refreshing breeze of smoking cuts through the warm sunset of post-eating endorphins, sharpening the mind, smoothing out the transition from face-stuffing to feeling full and sedentary. It is without parallel. Wordlessly, these thoughts passed through my mind as the smoking hoards pressed in at the gates of my
smokers ' manifesto 12