23.08.15 / 3
Smoking lite? No,
vaping’s a lungful
of fun for hipsters
Prescribing ecigarettes may help a few
smokers to quit but most users are fashion
victims, not addicts, writes a former puffer
T
here is something about the
smell of cigarette smoke and
the furtive air of real smokers
that makes me regret, fleetingly and stupidly, the day I quit.
Although I am glad I am an ex-addict
and would never want to repeat the
giving up process, I find myself
drawn towards the coughing pariahs
who gather outside buildings.
Vapers, as those who smoke ecigarettes are known, are different.
While proper smokers cock a snook
at society with their reckless selfdestruction, the vaping brigade
seem to be people who do things
by halves.
They do not huddle in doorways,
but walk among us, sucking on their
odourless pen-like devices, the
vapour coming out of their noses.
Now there are moves to make
ecigarettes available on the NHS, as a
“smoking cessation aid”. The battery-powered vaporisers that simulate smoking are said to be 95% less
harmful than tobacco.
While they are not risk-free, they
deliver a nicotine hit without the
carcinogens associated with breathing in smoke. They are the most popular quitting method in Britain and
doctors estimate that if every one of
Britain’s 8m smokers switched to
ecigs, 75,000 lives a year could be
saved.
It is hard to argue against the
experts, and impossible to make a
rational argument for real smoking.
People who smoke fags are irresponsible and selfish. They do not deserve
our help. Vapers, on the other hand,
are heeding the medical advice, they
have a social conscience, and they do
not pollute the atmosphere.
But they still look ridiculous. That
in itself is not a reason to balk at their
being subsidised by the health service, of course, though it is good
enough for the reformed smoker
in me.
More objectively, there are many
causes more deserving of health
spending than smokers, even the
electronic kind, as the public has
been quick to point out. While air
ambulances are funded by donations
and cystic fibrosis sufferers must pay
for their drugs, there can be no justification for providing ecigarettes
on prescription.
Smokers choose to smoke,
whereas others who depend on limited NHS resources do not choose to
be sick or injured. And vapers, of all
people, have money to burn. When I
gave up (at about 3am on January 8,
2001), a packet of 20 cost £4 to £5.
Now, they are double the price. Ecigarettes, being rechargeable, will
amount to huge savings for anyone
making the switch.
Anyway, smokers in some parts of
the country can already claim nicotine patches on the NHS; they do not
need any more financial assistance.
But for me this is not so much
about the money as the principle. If I
could quit (Marlboro) at the same
time as my husband (Silk Cut), and if
we could endure the cold turkey,
practically marriage-ending, withdrawal symptoms without props,
why can’t they?
Giving up was memorably awful. I
chewed gum, read Allen Carr, and
drank faster and more frequently. It
was hell but I did it.
And I was not even the most hardened smoker I knew. A colleague,
back in the days when you could
smoke in the office, would drive
home with his handkerchief tied to
the radio aerial. This, he explained,
was to put his wife off the scent
because she had threatened to
divorce him if he did not quit.
Another workmate took the brave
decision to kick the habit after he
devised a way to smoke in the
Freddie aims to hit
the Fringe for six
W
hen
Andrew
“Freddie” Flintoff retired from international cricket in 2010 and lay down his
bat and ball, he had already accrued the
game’s highest honours including man
of the series for England’s stunning
victory in the 2005 Ashes as well as the
BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year. He
could have eased himself into a lucrative
career in commentating, but really,
how could he when there was still an
array of novel challenges to face? Since
stripping off the cricket whites, Flintoff
has pulled on the satin shorts of a professional heavyweight boxer (one bout,
undefeated); the greasy apron of a
mobile fish fryer; and, most recently,
the feathered crown of King of the
Jungle in the Australian version of I’m a
Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here.
His latest escapade is to become the
first professional cricketer to play the
Edinburgh Festival Fringe with a threenight run at the Pleasance with Freddie
Flintoff: 2nd Innings, a largely
unscripted show which seems to consist
of, as he explained, “me and my mate
spending some time together and
having a laugh”. The same high-wire
format was pioneered back in 2000
when two friends took to the stage with
a sofa, a piano and songbook in a show
called Unplanned — but then the friends
were David Baddiel and Frank Skinner,
who turned their idle and witty banter
into a successful TV show which ran for
three series.
Flintoff and his friend Clyde Holcroft,
a writer and TV producer, may already
have the experience of hosting a successful podcast but the show does raise
the spectre of Al Pacino’s latest round of
theatrical “An Evening with . . . ”, not
principally designed to entertain but to
replenish his wilted bank balance. Yet
Flintoff insists he isn’t doing it only for
the money.
“Well, personally I am being paid for
it. Let’s be clear. But me and my mate
Clyde just started doing a podcast last
year, we didn’t edit it, it was just us
talking and people seemed to like it. So
The larger than life cricketer hopes that
‘having a laugh with my mate’ will
prove a winner, writes Stephen McGinty
we thought about having a tour and it
just escalated. I know Jack Dee and I’ve
been to his concerts and I know John
Bishop and it looks good fun, people
laughing and having a joke. I just
thought, why not?”
The honest answer to this particular
question is that both those gentlemen
are professional comics who spent years
honing their craft. They didn’t appear
under the spotlight on a stage in the
Fringe on a whim and driven by a
cheeky grin, a shrugged shoulder and a
congenial attitude best described as:
“C’mon, what’s the worst that can
happen?” The prospect of underdelivering, of taking both £20 and an
hour off someone’s life, doesn’t seem to
trouble Flintoff too much. His relaxed
attitude is almost endearing, although
one imagines him taking a dim view of
any member of the public who tried to
walk into the Oval and bowl a few with
the same amateur can-do spirit.
“I’ve had the chance since retiring to
box, run a fish and chip van and do all
these sorts of things, so I like trying
something new. So far it’s been great.
The opening night in Preston was great
fun. We had 300 people, the atmosphere
was amazing but there was a little bit of
nerves. It’s just me and my mate
spending some time together and
having a laugh, and people seem to
laugh with us. I talk about some of the
things I got wrong as a cricketer on and
off the field. It is quite self-deprecating.
The stories are linked to cricket but it’s
not a cricket show.”
He admits the show is a work in
progress: “It’s awful when you tell a
story and it’s going on and on and 350
people are listening and you know it’s
going nowhere and they know it’s going
nowhere. It is a horrible place to be. We
will take those bits out.”
So are we getting the highlights?
“Hopefully.”
A decade on from his own Ashes
triumph, Flintoff remembers listening
to the first Test match of the 2015 Ashes
while filming a TV show. “Ten years on
from the Ashes I was in a studio. I was
thinking, ‘How things have changed.’
But you move on.” There are mixed
emotions when he looks back on his
playing career. “There were a lot of
lows. My career was up and down. I just
never found that consistency that
professional sports people talk about.
But then the lows are quite good fun too
because there is only one way up from
there. Get back to it. My time as captain
was pretty average and having surgery
12 times wasn’t fun.
“Sure I made mistakes but I didn’t do
jail time. It’s just things I can laugh about
now. I was all right. I never set out to be a
great player. I just loved to play cricket.”
As anyone who spent time in his
company will know, Flintoff has a laidback charm and he laughs and chuckles
frequently during our conversations.
It’s clear from the photographs and
footageofhisappearanceontheAustralian versionof I’ma Celebrity that he has
kept himself in good condition and is a
long way from the twin ruins of a retired
sportsman; indolence and obesity. In
fact it is Flintoff’s relaxed manner,
humour and amiable character that has
made him a growing TV personality and
producer who works hard to concoct
the challenges he faces for the entertainment of the audience. Yet it was
while presenting a documentary on
depression among top athletes that he
gained a clearer insight into his own
personality. He recently said: “I spent a
lot of time hating myself,” but today is
more positive. “I have no axes to grind
and I’m really happy. I’ve had the
opportunity to do loads of different
things. It must be horrible at the end of
a sports career, and I’ve seen people do
it, you have bad thoughts and regrets
going round in your head, but I don’t
have that.”
He admits, however, that the documentary was enlightening. “I did the
documentary but I didn’t expect to give
away so much as I did. Or to put it
another way, I never thought I would
learn so much about myself. It was like
therapy for me, speaking to people and
identifying with them. Sports people do
suffer. It’s not that they are especially
prone to it. If it happens to Ricky Hatton,
who is a hard boxer, it can happen to
anyone. People need to talk about it. The
first step towards helping yourself is to
admit it and get help.
“People praise me for talking about it
but I don’t see it as a problem. Maybe 20
years ago. If I have a bad leg I’ll see a
physiotherapist. I don’t think mental
health is any different. It doesn’t make
you a bad person. It just happens. I don’t
see why people shouldn’t talk about it.”
When I ask him about increasing the
presence of cricket in Scotland’s
schools, he is surprisingly cautious. The
game is still perceived as the preserve of
private schools and, as Flintoff admits,
cricket equipment isn’t cheap. “It is an
expensive game. It’s not like football,
when you put two jumpers down and
with a ball you’ve got a game. You need
the facilities and a lot of schools don’t
have them. But if you speak to schools
and speak to communities then I’m sure
there are better ways to spend thousands of pounds. It can be a really tough
sell, but I’d love to see it played more
widely in Scotland.”
It remains to be seen if Freddie
Flintoff: 2nd Innings will see the many
fans he’s accrued from his sporting days
and alternative career as television’s
new have-a-go hero ensure a respectable turnout. Either way, he exudes the
sanguine attitude of a man confident
that he can cope with whichever way
the ball bounces.
“I have got more of a fear of looking
back in 20 years’ time and saying, ‘I had
a chance to do this and didn’t do it.’ I do
a lot of varied things and it’s just fun. I’m
not in the situation when I’ve had to do
something I didn’t want to do, which is
pretty nice.”
Freddie Flintoff: 2nd Innings,
Pleasance, Edinburgh, August 27-29,
£20, pleasance.co.uk
JENNY HJUL
shower. “I knew then it had gone too
far,” he said.
But at least these desperados managed to wean themselves off through
willpower alone. What happened to
willpower? By resorting to NHS
ecigarettes, medics are condoning a
certain weakness of character that
makes yesteryear’s quitters verge on
the heroic.
They are also, to a large extent,
missing the point about vaping.
Among the UK’s estimated 2.6m
people who regularly use ecigarettes,
thereare,nodoubt,genuinesmokers
who want to stop.
But vaping has become a craze,
with devotees who have no intention
of abandoning their new hobby. It
has even been likened to a sub-culture, complete with customised
vaporisers and a vaping lexicon.
A whole ecigarette industry has
sprung up, with stores and accessories and an online presence. There
appears to be an active vaping community that trades tips and probably
considers itself cool in a geeky way.
As the owner of one ecigarette
shop told the Digital Trends website:
“You’re not downgrading from a cigarette. You’re getting something
more ... you’re able to fine-tune the
experience.” At an ecigarette convention, real (or “analogue”) cigarettes were banned by vaping
enthusiasts, proof if it were needed
that these people are a breed apart
from proper smokers.
Can you imagine Bogart or Bacall
with an ecig, or Paul Henreid vaping
up to Bette Davis in Now, Voyager? I
rest my (cigarette) case.
0Pringles have been defended since
David Cameron was snapped eating
paprika-flavoured ones on an
easyJet flight to Portugal. No damage
was done to the prime minister’s
image, or to the brand’s profile.
But I pity his fellow passengers. I
recently sat next to a couple
munching Pringles (original flavour)
on a flight which, rather like Dave’s
trip to the sun, was a short haul. It
was neither time for breakfast, lunch
nor dinner but the compulsion to eat
once airborne seems to be strong.
Many carriers hand out Pringles as
their snack of choice, so it is hard to
fly anywhere without hearing or
smelling them. I do not like Pringles,
but until I can demonstrate an allergy
I will have to put up with them, by
proxy. However, I do wonder why
passengers cannot refrain from
eating on one or two-hour trips. The
PM would have been given a decent
meal before leaving for the airport
and another on arrival at his ultimate
destination.
Do people who polish off whole
tubes of Pringles on aeroplanes do so
at their desks too? I bet they don’t.
Flying, or perhaps travelling generally, prompts the hunger response.
Or is it boredom? Whatever, our
prime minister showed himself to be
a man of the people, not in his choice
of airline, which was probably contrived, but in his Pringles moment,
which looked more genuine.
Festival access is a wheel issue and it’s a full house in the loos
THURSDAY, JULY 30
The Fringe is full of the weird and
wacky. A puppet show about Motor
Neurone Disease, you say? Could the
condition killing me be entertaining?
Intrigued, I sign myself up.
An email arrives: the producer says
the venue “can only be accessed up
one flight of stairs”. But not to worry,
front-of-house staff can provide “as
much assistance as is necessary to help
any wheelchair users climb the stairs”.
My legs don’t work. I weigh 13 stone
and my power chair weighs the same
again. Unless you’ve got Hulk Hogan
front of house, I’m going nowhere.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 11
Up early for my quarterly trip to
the MND clinic. On the agenda:
tracheostomy. Do I want a hole cut in
my neck and a tube inserted to help
me breathe? I’m not sure I do. It means
round-the-clock care, an unwavering
dependence on a machine, and makes
eating, drinking and talking near
impossible. It is hopefully a while off,
but plenty to mull.
Each clinic visit is depressingly
formulaic. The facility is beautifully
modern. The staff are supportive but
ultimately powerless. Each time, the
same conversation: “So how have you
been?” — code for: “How much worse
have you got?” No cure, nothing the
doctors can do beyond manage my
decline. It is the young people in white
coats in the research laboratory next
door that offer hope for the future.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 13
My sister pops in with my nephew
Murray. His cheeky grin always brings
a smile to my face. He was born a few
months before I was diagnosed last year.
So for all of his life he has known me to
be disabled. No judgment. No awkward
stares. Uncle Gordon comes on wheels.
THE MOTOR
NEURONE
DIARIES
GORDON AIKMAN
In the evening I head out with some
mates to, this time, an accessible Fringe
show. After a cracking performance —
and a few pints — I head to the loo. To
my delight there is a disabled toilet.
Alas it is occupied. Five minutes pass.
Then out come three women. I glare up
at them from my chair. “Sorry, there
was a queue for the ladies,” they say.
My chair blocks the way. I have a
captive audience. I politely enquire
which of the three is disabled. None of
them can look me in the eye. As they
stand looking down at their feet, I get
the sense they won’t be doing it again.
They sheepishly shuffle past.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14
I have a friend visiting from London so
I call the Fringe accessibility hotline to
book some shows. The first two on my
list are held in inaccessible venues. The
third is “fully accessible once you’re
in, but there are five steps at the door”.
So that’s another no. We settle for our
fourth and fifth choices — both
varying shades of dire.
I head to the disabled loos at George
Square. Again, the toilet is occupied.
This time two men stumble out looking
worse for wear. The residue of vomit
rather suggests the pair “disabled”
themselves on a few too many beers.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 18
Carers make my life liveable. My
husband, friends and family all do
their bit, but they have got their own
lives. I need more help.
Talking to the council today was like
getting blood out of a stone: “Things
are really tough — our budgets are
extremely tight.” I quite believe it, but
surely it is a cut too far if folk are left
sitting in puddles of pee?
Having to ask for help is bad
enough, never mind having to beg. I
fight my corner. It is those who can’t
that the system lets down most. Call it
what you like – budget realignment or
efficiency savings – these cuts hurt.
Gordon Aikman is an MND patient
and campaigner. To donate to Gordon’s
Fightback in aid of MND Scotland, text
MNDS85 £10 to 70070 or visit
justgiving.com/gordonaikman. More
details at gordonsfightback.com or
@GordonAikman on Twitter
Stairs and
inconsiderate
users of the
disabled
toilets are a
headache,
but nephew
Murray
always brings
a smile to
Gordon’s face