Hits 2453 | Created 2007-06-30 | Modified 2007-07-02
I sent a text round to everyone at 1:30pm to remind them about the smoke-a-thon:
"One migu only! Smokeathon! Last night of smoking in pubs! Brit, 9pm. Come early for a seat! Games! Prizes! Coughing! Bring a cigar!"
Reading it later I wondered what the hell a migu was? Predictive texting always throws the odd spanner into your works, but a migu? Really. Google tells me that it doesn't mean anything at all:
The wife and I turn up at just after 8pm in an effort to secure the large window table that seats about 10 or more people. It was, as ever, in use. It took a good 45 minutes of shuffling slowly further around its edge before we managed to shoo the current users away and secure it for ourselves.
The smokers came in dribs and drabs and we got underway properly at about 10pm with about 11 people. Out came the tally sheets and the quiz started too.
Okay, perhaps the 'famous smokers' section with pixelated images was a bit tough, but the rest of it was good drunken fun that took until midnight to finish.
Irony. I had been out the night before until 4am, drinking and smoking, so the last thing I wanted to do was smoke any cigarettes. But I pushed myself, I battled the gagging, quesy feeling, and chain smoked for the next 3 hours...
Before the end of the night I pondered, as I smoked my Cuban Monte Cristo, what should be the last thing I smoke in an English pub? My big fat cigar, or a rollie? ... The good old rollie. Not big as a house, but more small like a mouse. Prison style - thin, lovely. Ah, yes, that then. I stub out the Cuban and have my last fag of all time in a UK pub.
John won Greatest Smoker trophy by a clear 8 points. Noel came second with 16 (after winning the one-handed speed rolling content).
Next day I ache all over my body and feel sick. My stomach lurches all day and I have to force myself to eat. I read comics and drink tea, and venture out only to the Spar.