I’m sick of feeling like an outcast for smoking

It’s not easy being a smoker. 

The glorious days of being able to puff away indoors are gone. I am banished into the cold with my fellow smokers. Yet despite being forced outside we’re still made to feel like social pariahs.

Forced into the cold

The truth of the matter is I’m an addict. Smoking is the vice that has claimed my soul and I have succumbed to her like I have succumbed to nothing else. But no matter where I light up I’m being judged by those around me, I’m treated as an inferior because I choose to inhale sweet smoky nicotine.

Everyday I am faced with the judgement of others. I can barely walk down the street without the disapproving stares of passers-by stabbing into me. The nation has become run by lycra-wearing tossers who live on kale protein shakes.

I’m just trying to live my life

Trying to buy cigarettes has become a traumatic experience. When I sidle up to the counter of my local Sainsbury’s I’m confronted with shutters blocking my view. I have no way of knowing what they have in stock and the shop assistant then has to scramble about trying to find my selection.

It’s even worse when I ask what the cheapest ones are, times are hard and I have to scrape the pennies together to afford my habit. The shop assistant has to haul out the giant blue folder of prices and all the while an angry queue of shoppers forms behinds me. They mutter and tut because they want to buy cheap vodka and lottery tickets from the kiosk and I’m holding them up.

Smoking and gyms apparently don’t go hand in hand. God forbid when I finish a run or a workout at the gym should I reward myself with a tab. The health nuts who live on stemmed chicken breasts and bland vegetables view me as scum for my post work-out treat. It’s not like I’ve gone and eaten a Big Mac.

Not okay

The friendly suggestion of “hey mate, do you fancy a ciggie?” isn’t always met with a friendly response. More and more the question is understood as “hey mate, do you fancy drowning a puppy?”

At parties when I pull out a pack people look astounded and say “Surely you’re not a smoker?” or “You don’t look like a smoker”. Apparently all smokers are tracksuit wearing benefit claimers, and as somebody who went to private school and speaks with a posh accent I should know better than to poison myself and waste my money.

Utter contempt

Still it gets worse when I go to a party where nobody smokes and when I do fancy a cig I stand alone and friendless at the very end of the garden to prevent any smoke floating into the house. When I return I’m then reprimanded for coming back in stinking of smoke — cheers Mum.

The smoking area should be my haven on nights out but I find I’m having to queue with a bunch of norms who want to go outside for fresh air. When I finally do get outside, the area is crammed with people who aren’t even smoking and look scandalously at me as I chain my way through a pack of Marlboros.

To make matters worse smoking areas are ill-equipped for the needs of their true patrons. Should you make the categorical error of ever sitting down you spend the rest of the night looking like you’ve shit yourself. The lashing rain ruins your hair and the lack of warmth from the heaters means we have to hold our hands over our fag ends to keep warm.

So please, spare a thought for us poor smokers. I’ll try to be considerate when I light up and make a special effort to avoid children and pregnant women like the plague for fear of killing them with second-hand smoke. Just let me enjoy my guilty pleasure and I’ll try to not blow smoke in your faces.