Smoking Hot

The mysterious appeal of the tobacco enthusiast

They say everything improves with time, and more often than not, they are right. A few months is all it usually takes to love a place, to fall for its quirks and its foibles. Six months is about how long it took me to wrap my head around St Andrews,  getting over the imposing grandeur of Sally’s Quad juxtaposed with the unashamedly Soviet-looking Gannochy House. Yet there is one building to which this cliché cannot be applied, of which the opposite is true: for me, the Main Library has grown more repugnant with each passing year. Its hospital lighting, mismatched carpets and low ceilings offend the eyes and bewilder the senses. On the rare occasions I cannot avoid visiting, I rely on the minority of people milling about the entrance to restore my sense of aestheticism, reminding me that a kind of casual glamour can exist even in the greyest, most lifeless of buildings. I am talking, of course, about St Andrews’ dedicated smokers.

Granted, there is nothing cool about trying to smoke. Most of us, driven by the joint forces of teenage arrogance and inebriation, have given it a go. It almost inevitably ends with a fit of asthmatic coughing, a keen sense of embarrassment, and the promise that no such foolish experiment shall ever be carried out again. However, the community outside the Main Library has no such smokers, and there is no inexperience or amateurism as they lift their smouldering rollies to their lips. They smoke not because they feel the need to boost their status or to impress sycophantic passers-by like myself, but because it is a kind of sacred ritual. I’m perhaps a little ashamed that everything about them appeals to me. The treasured lighters they keep in back pockets, the way they tenderly lick their papers closed, the cupping of hands around the flame as they light up. A mixture of admiration and jealousy takes over as I walk past, and each time, I curse the good sense that prevents me from joining this coveted community.

A few quick conversations with friends prove I’m not the only one who finds smoking so appealing. Many agree that the performative smoker, the one who does so only in big groups with the hope of an audience, is far more of a turn-off than a turn-on. The casual smoker is different, there is something of the bad boy (or bad girl) about them, a kind of devil-may-care attitude that doesn’t let the thought of blackened lungs bother them. I think movies must take a large share of the blame, as some of the most attractive individuals to grace our screens have done so with a cigarette. Take Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones, emerging delightfully sodden from a river with his shirt open, his lit cigarette balanced crookedly in an irresistibly arrogant grin. The same argument can be applied to females, with Basic Instinct’s Sharon Stone springing to mind. As she snaps her delicate leather holder shut, resting her cigarette against elegant fingers with a kind of easy grace, all thoughts of carcinogens melt (literally) away. Although smoking is responsible for seven out of ten cases of cancer, with over 60 different substances known to be toxic, it is hard to care when the Hugh Grants of the world make it look so good.

Perhaps smoking is attractive because of the violently unappealing nature of its alternatives. Vapes, though considerably less harmful than cigarettes, lose any charm to their bubblegum flavourings and hot pink exteriors. What’s more, within the corrupt world of marketing, their target consumers are teenagers, with children as young as twelve using them daily. Elf bars and Lost Marys are the new alcopops, and where the tween may once have looked to Brain Lickers or Toxic Wastes for their sugar kick, a Cherry Ice Crystal Bar now offers a far more addictive alternative. Perhaps vapes might even provide the solution to my less-than-commendable admiration of the seasoned smoker. Print rolling paper exclusively in Baby Pink and Lime Green, replace regular tobacco with a spiced peach alternative, and the addict’s roguish charm will likely fade into smoke.

Illustration by Isabella Abbott