The Smoking Age of Empire

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for July is called, "Out of the Woodwork." I would never minimize the importance of this work by describing it as a mere social commentary. Rather, it is the social commentary, supplanting all prior attempts at satire and rendering future efforts largely ceremonial.    

The UK has done it again. 

First, they brought us Parliamentary government and the abolition of the slave trade. Then they introduced us to the gratifying comforts of colonialism and museum acquisition. In the 20th century, they gave the world John Lennon glasses and filthy tabloids. Finally, they peaked (or so we thought) when they validated our suburban inconveniences with "Keep Calm" mugs and tote bags.

But this year, they have truly established themselves as international trailblazers.

In 2026, the UK passed a landmark law to completely phase out a "bloody pernicious habit" over the next two generations. Under the Tobacco and Vapes Act, it is illegal to sell tobacco products to anyone born on or after January 1, 2009. Because the statutory smoking age rises by one year every year, individuals born after that date will never legally be able to purchase tobacco in their lifetime.

The public health enthusiast in me loves this idea. No more lung roulette for the Limeys. Their upper lips will remain stiff and their upper lobes will remain cancer-free. 

But one can't help but detect a whiff of Cromwellian virtue enforcement. I think a lot of Brits are probably asking themselves, "Wot's next, then? They gonna nick me Sex Pistols cassettes?"

I believe there is a famous poem about this: 

First they came for the cigarettes, and I did not speak out, because I was not a smoker. 

Then they came for our offensive football chants, and I did not speak out, because I only shout terrible things at referees when they are walking in and out of their own homes. 

Then, they came for the pub crisps and salad cream, and there was no one left to speak out for me. 

And where do you think this leaves us in the coming years? 

Let me set the scene. It's 2063, the youngest people still allowed to buy tobacco are turning 55. A group of 54-year-old men are loitering outside a Tesco. It's raining, and their umbrellas are all turned inside out. They are pacing impatiently.

"Bleedin' hell," says Mickey, a red-faced man with grey stubble and a West Ham scarf. "Me older sister Tracey is coming. Keep your hair on."

Graham, a thin, beaky man with wispy grey comb-over reminds them that they were already late for Dr. Who 100th Anniversary Watch Party (which everyone agrees has been going downhill since the 40th Doctor.)  

"Sod it, Graham, I know it," says Mickey, "I said Tracey would get us ciggies for the party, and she will. She's just held up at King's Cross, is all. Any you blokes got a fake ID?"

They all shake their heads solemnly. 

"Wait, Mickey," says Martin suddenly, perking up, "I think I've got it."

Next scene. Mickey is sitting on Martin's shoulders. They are wearing a giant overcoat, trying to impersonate a single 10-foot tall man. They awkwardly weave up to the check-out counter. 

"Hello, young miss, " says Mickey to the clerk. "I'll take this prune juice, some denture cream, these hearing aid batteries and, while I'm here... a sleeve of Marlboro Golds and two packets of Bensons."

The clerk starts ringing everything up. She looks up at the towering figure. Then up again. "You got any ID there, Mate? Just need to make sure you ain't under 60." 

"Under 60? Bless you. I haven't been carded since Oasis were still speaking." 

And then suddenly Martin's dodgy knee gives out, and they topple into the counter, prune juice splattering everywhere. A stern, mustachioed bobby bursts in, helmet gleaming. For some reason he is wearing a monocle. He bares his teeth and starts beating the fallen men with his truncheon. 

"Oi! What's all that then?" says everyone in the room at once, and the scene ends.

With warmest regards,

Zach