By James Leavey
For those
of you wondering why I haven't been updating this column recently, the
short answer is that I was rather busy, moving from north London to
Cowes on the Isle of Wight, just off the southern coast of England. It,
England, not the island, has for over six months become, for myself and
my wife, 'foreign parts'. If the worst comes to the worst, there's
enough room on the island for all of Britain's 13 million adult smokers
to join me, shoulder to shoulder, while the anti-smoking lot can stay on
their side of the water that divides us.
Oddly
enough, I wasn't driven from Britain's capital by the anti-smokers. In
the words of John Wayne, 'That'll be the day!' No, I drove down here,
all the way, all by myself, the car packed to the rafters with cigars,
cigarettes and ashtrays. And have been enjoying it ever since.
Indeed,
I've just experienced my first residency during Cowes Week - the
longest-running, largest and most prestigious annual sailing Regatta in
the world. It first took place in 1828 and has been held in August
every year since then, the only exception being during the two World
Wars. Cowes Week is one of the most popular events in the British
social calendar, which also includes Wimbledon, Henley and Ascot.
Half the
town seems to have rented out a room or two to visiting yachties, for
there have never been enough hotels here to cope with the 8,000 sailors
who arrive here every year to race over eight days in central, eastern
and western Solent - the name of the water between
Southampton and the island.
It's been
only a few days since early in the morning I was looking out of my
office window - at the top of my small but tobacco-tolerant Victorian
house, - at around 1,000 boats of various sizes, ranging from the latest
high-tech racing machines to classic craft.
Then there
was the 200,000 or so spectators who flocked to Cowes to enjoy 'the
Week', and who I had to step around and, occasionally, over, en route to
the tobacconists.
Last Friday night there was a spectacular fireworks display with over
10,000 fireworks, effects and live music. Around 170,000 people watched
it in Cowes and from the mainland.
The
strangest thing about the island is that you rarely see people wandering
the streets with a cigarette in their hand. Perhaps that's because they
can still sit in the pubs and most of the cafes and restaurants and
enjoy an undisturbed smoke, though how long that will last is up to the
local council and Britain's Nanny state.
Well, the
way I look at it, if you can afford several million pounds on some of
the yachts I've been gazing at, then you can also afford to set fire to
the bloody things with the aid of a fine Havana.
Not far
away, an old friend of mine, known as 'Shanghai Lil' and former landlady
of the Three Crowns pub, still runs what are known as the Sunday morning
fishing parties. You go round her house on Sunday mornings with a
fishing rod in your hand, pour yourself a drink, ignite whatever you
prefer to smoke, and sit back for a few hours with like-minded,
laid-back souls, shooting the breeze, which comes filtered through
exhaled tobacco smoke.
There's
also another club on the island, which has just invited me to speak on
smoking to its members. The club has no rules, doesn't raise money for
charity, has no reason to exist - aside from the excuse to mingle,
natter and smoke. And you don't have to smoke, if you don't want to.
It's
rather like Matt Alan's weekly radio show in California. 'Lighten up' -
see
www.lightenup.com - which attracts the great, the good and the
gifted every Saturday afternoon. For it is the only place left - aside
from a certain exclusive club in Beverley Hills, where Hollywood's, or
indeed anyone else's, smokers can still enjoy themselves without being
lorded over by the anti-smoking, born-again puritans.
So Cowes,
and Matt's place in Encino, California, is where you will find me, and
anybody like me who wants to share an ashtray, when this sad,
politically correct world comes to an end.
Meanwhile,
in
Cowes ,
we're expecting the anti-smoking storm troopers any day now, kicking our
doors in and dragging us off for public chastisement - whatever turns
them on. Such are the kicks these sad little bastards cling to, and all
because they haven't realized that life is not a rehearsal.
When they
come for me, I'll be blowing Havana fumes in their face and singing
'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes'.
