I recently estimated that, in my smoking life so far and at the age of 29, I have rolled 87,600 cigarettes. The calculation went as follows. Roughly 30 a day for the past six years, maybe 15 a day for four years before that. I attempted to make a reduction for eight months I spent in China, where the most beautiful straights could be bought for the equivalent of 40p per pack. But my mathematical faculties are almost as weak as my pulmonary ones, so I decided to balance those Chinese cigarettes with the thousands of rollies I’ve been asked to construct for friends, acquaintances and strangers.
Apart from that brief and illicit fling with Chinese yen, I’ve been a roll-up man from the start. In fact, my relationship with tobacco has proven by far my most enduring and life-enhancing (with apologies and thanks to Milly, Mary, Molly and Mandy). It’s a partnership that has given far more than it has taken, and I’d like to put on record my gratitude to that great man Sir Walter Raleigh.
What does my smoking life consist of? If I was to provide a list: 30 small achievements every day (how many can say that?); an act of defiance in the face of life’s absurdity; a sense of calm – what David Hockney calls a rest from life. It’s also a way of illustrating my cosmopolitanism – did I tell you I can ask for a cigarette in at least four languages (six after a few drinks)? I have a bad cough, too, but we all have our crosses to bear.
I often wonder if the perfect roll-up exists. I know what it looks like. The filter is aligned with the bottom end of the paper, the tobacco is evenly weighted, none protrudes in an unsightly growth, and the two halves of the paper meet in a line as straight as one drawn by Michelangelo. It’s this last bit that seems impossible. As hard as I try, the paper is always slightly off. I’m an unintentional Impressionist, when really, I yearn to be a Cubist, all sharp lines and clear edges.
I’ve only ever had one truly upsetting experience with a hand-rolled cigarette. I used to work on a Devon dairy farm. One summer, I’d spent all day in the fields turning hay. I had pocketed every fag butt, one for each field, smoked as I turned the last row of mown grass. When I finished, the sun falling over Exmoor, I realised I’d run out of tobacco. I unpicked each of my fag ends, delicately removing the unsmoked flakes and constructing a cigarette so lovingly that even Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer would have been moved to tears by the strength of my devotion. At the final moment, just as I began to turn the paper, a gust of wind blew all my efforts to nought. I think Kipling may well have had a similar experience. What else could produce the line: ‘Watch the things you gave your life to, broken,/ And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools.’
I’m still trying to roll the perfect cigarette. In the time I’ve written this inconsequential piece, I’ve made six attempts. I got close once, but my thumb slipped at the critical moment. In moments of despair, I question whether I’ll ever do it. But I try not to doubt myself too much. I know it will happen one day. As I sit here, I see the smoke curling upwards. Perhaps I should roll another, try again to ‘fill the unforgiving minute’, make another effort to reach the stars, create perfection and know it when I see it. It’s time for attempt number 87,601.
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