In Scotland, about ten days ago, it became illegal to smoke in bars. It became illegal, to be exact, to smoke in a whole range of public spaces, but let's face it: it's the places you can consume the blessed grape that matter here, not the church hall.
In Edinburgh, the only consolation for the nicotinophiles is an ashtray mounted outside the bar in question. An ashtray which is pointedly ignored by the cigarette-wielding exiles as they huddle in the rain, faces pressed against the glass between puffs, watching those blessed inside individuals not so banished as they bask in the warm glow of the Hoegaarden sign. In my old hometown of Huntly - where smoking is less of a scourge and more of a civic duty - my old regular (the Oak) has erected a covered shelter, complete with furniture and a patio heater. I can see this being a desirable destination, for reasons I can now divulge to those of you considering such moves elsewhere in the world. Read on, and be warned..
Pubs really stink now.
I mean that. I mean, pubs always stank, but you thought that they stank of cigarette smoke. How little we appreciated the favour being done for us by those suicidal tar-inhalers as they provided, in the only way they knew how, some protection from the stench of bodily odour, of stale beer-soaked carpets, and most of all, of endlessly broken wind. Forgive my indelicacy (a sentiment that may make me the subject of a post by Andrew Rilstone in years to come) people sure do fart a lot in pubs, it transpires. We never realised that the dimension we occupied - one which we left with our clothes smelling only of Marlboros - was interwoven, defying Pauli's Exclusion Principle by occupying the same space and time as a rank, stinking cesspit where the need to drown one's senses in alcohol becomes pressing indeed.
I mean, the average bar is only three or four times bigger than your bedroom, while containing a hundred times as many people. Remember what your bedroom smells like after a night on the lash?
I have friends who work in bars. They were looking forward to going home at night with non-smelling clothes. It turns out they just got different-smelling clothes.
There has to be an answer. Perhaps someone will be able to replicate the smell of smoke in non-carcinogenic form, and wise pubs shall once again reek of the stuff, as it is pumped through air-conditioning ducts to mask the festering reality beneath. Or perhaps, like the well-to-do in plague-ridden cities of the 17th century, we shall clasp posies to our noses, seeking protection from the miasma.