Where angels fear to read


by James Leavey

The other day I made the mistake of going hunting for some rolling nicotine for The Creature Who Must Be Obeyed  a.k.a. the beloved wife, in a British supermarket instead of my usual specialist tobacco shop in Dublin.

 That'll teach me.

 Stepped up to the counter where an indifferent young female sales twit was yawning in front of an anonymous shuttered cupboard that resembled something out of an Ann Summers sex shop.

 'Do you sell tobacco?' I bellowed, in an attempt at waking the twit to do what presumably she was being paid for.

 She barely glanced at me. 'That's for me to know,' she muttered, 'and you to find out.'

 'Don't strain your tiny brain on my account,' I replied.  'I'm only one of those rare customers standing here with folding money and not the usual plastic you're used to.  I could easily spend it elsewhere.

 'Now, open your beady eyes, switch on what's left of your demented grey matter and read my fucking lips: what exactly do you have on sale?'

 Disgruntled, and desperate to get back to her slumbers, the twit looked at the ceiling and the long queue of patient smokers behind me, some of whom were losing the will to live, and said, languidly pointing to a wall 10 feet away, 'There's a list over there.'

 I crashed my empty shopping basket (I'd only picked it up out of habit) on the counter in front of her and said, 'Don't even think about the next customer. As if. I'll be right back.'

 Then I strolled to the wall, where, hanging with the aid of a bit of Blue tack was an A5 sheet of white paper listing various types of tobacco, in no particular order, printed in 2 point Times New Roman italics.

 I then strolled, at a snail's pace, back to the front of the queue, ignoring the stares and muttering.

 'I can't read that bloody list for I haven't got me reading glasses or a microscope.  Please read it for me, if you can.'

 The twit smiled and snarled, 'Not allowed to.  That's the law.'

 'Well, that's fine,' I responded, resting my arms on the counter and spotlighting her deliberate indifference with a full hard stare that would melt the bollocks off a donkey.

 'Then you can call the manager and get him – or God Help Us – another useless object  like you, you apathetic unhelpful mooning gobshite – to read it nice and slowly for me.  And when we're through, and only then, you can do the same for all the poor sods behind me who have had enough of your fucking rudeness.

 'And don't be in a hurry.  I've got all day.'

A Smokey Pokey Christmas

by James Leavey

There we were, Guy Hancock and I, hanging the Havanas on the Christmas tree in the speakeasie that nobody can tell you where without our killing them, somewhere in the heart of Dublin.

'Jaysus, James,' said our man from the DCE, 'watch where you're putting those Double Coronas...they're supposed to be hanging from the lower branches so we can stick the Petit Coronas at the top.'

'Guy, that lethal DCE Yuletide punch must be getting to you,' I barked back.  'Tell you what, let's smoke a couple of these fuckers and start again.'

'Fair play, Seamus, you mad bugger,' responded Dublin's unofficial Tobacco Ambassador to and from Cuba. 'Now what the fuck did we do with the cutters and lighters?'

'Bloody hell, we've wrapped them up and they're somewhere in that enormous pile of presents under the soddin' tree.'

'Ah, God help us and save us, we'll be here until the New Year before we can light up for Christmas!'

'How about we get some of that The Wild Geese Irish liquid gold down us, before we start again, Guy?'

'All four?'

'Is the Pope a Catholic...'

Pop went the corks, glug glug glug glug went the four whiskies - into the waiting virgin glasses.

'Slainte, Seamus.'

'Ditto, Guy, and may your cigars never need relighting...Hold on, what's this I've sat on?  A plastic anti-smoking fairy from ASH... It must be some non-smoking fuckers' idea of a joke!'

'Where do you want it, Seamus, my man,' said the Guy, who had already drained all four glasses and was looking happy and seasonal if a trifle unsteady.

'I think we should shove the Christmas tree right up its arse, Guy.'

'With, or without, the KY?'

'Oh, I think this cheap plastic representation of the ignorant blinkered pompous bullying over-exaggerating little shits who have given such a hard time to all of our cigar comrades – and us - should get the full seasonal experience.   What a shame the twat who designed it isn't here to join in the fun.

'Now, as the Aussie foreplay expert would say: “Bend over and brace yourself, Sheila”...'

'And a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to one and all, especially all our fellow cigar lovers,' said Guy, somewhat muffled.

'Ditto, Guy.  Guy? Guy? Where are you?'

'Under the presents, under the tree.  I've found the hic! cutters...'

The ins and outs of smoking

Lighten Up with James Leavey  Column/blog no.7

The ins and outs of smoking

by James Leavey

I was sharing an ashtray in one of Dublin’s many smoke easies with a Dubliner cigar comrade the other day and happened to mention a Dutch lesbian lorry driver I used to know, one Muffy van Dyke.  And what a one. And what a pair too.

And I said how we used to joke about a virgin boy skater named Hans Brinker who saved Holland by climbing onto a dike and slipping his finger in its hole.

“He'd have had to do a lot more to get me going,” said Muffy. “For a start he'd have needed a tongue like an ant-eater.”

“I'm sorry to shatter your erotic dreams,” I told her, “but Brinker is a fictional character.  Still, you could always ask Amsterdam zoo if they'll lend you their resident worm-tongue for a night of debauchery.”

“Bejaysus, Seamus, you awful man,” said the Dubliner, a fellow dedicated nicotine companion who, like me was at that wonderful moment in time enjoying an Arturo Fuente Gran Reserva Churchill, which would awaken the dead at the end of the world, but very nicely, “how did you ever get to know her?”

“We worked together in a London pub, years ago,” I replied, after taking a long puff on my excellent medium to full bodied Nicaraguan stick of premium tobacco, “and we both shared the view that we wouldn't throw a beautiful woman out of bed.  It didn't stop us sleeping together, of course.”

“Did she smoke, Seamus?”

“Only afterwards.”

After a few more similar pleasantries, the Dubliner and I moved on to the subject of the most unusual place either of us had ever lit up in.

The Dubliner admitted to enjoying a Hoyo on the roof of a hospital.  “And you?” he asked.

“Well, there's a bit of a list to choose from...maybe if I just narrow it down to Dublin...?”

“That's a good start,” said the Dubliner. “But then Dublin always is.”

“OK then.  A few years ago the BBC encouraged me to smoke cigars in all sorts of places in Ireland's fair city, including on the Abbey Theatre stage and in a cell in Dublin's main prison.”

“Neffer!”

“No, really.  The cameraman and myself first had tea and biscuits with the prison governor, in his office, after which he took us to an empty cell and unlocked it.

“I looked inside and noticed it was the secure, temporary - one hopes, home of a young male prisoner, judging by the photos of his wife and children on the wall.  But what kind of disturbed me was the lack of an ashtray, suggesting he was a non-smoker. Plus, he couldn't open the window to let the smoke escape, what with the bars and usual security. And I didn't want to cause the poor man any more grief, not even from my second-hand smoke, than he was already getting doing his porridge. So I told the governor I wasn't sure it was the best cell for me as there was a lack of an ashtray.”

“What happened next?”

“The governor sent off a guard to fetch a suitable receptacle for my ashes and handed it over.  As our visiting time was running short I agreed to go in, sit on the prisoner's bed, and ignite the Montecristo No.2 that I just happened to have with me.”

“Did you also happen to have a cutter, some matches and/or a lighter?”

“Is the Pope a Catholic?  So I lit the Havana and took a few puffs for the camera.  Said my bit. Took another puff.  And we were out of there and away, unlike the poor sod whose cell I had temporarily invaded while he was exercising in the yard with the other prisoners.”

“Did you really feel bad about smoking in that man's cell, Seamus?”

“Oddly enough, in the end I didn't.  For I left him a partly smoked revered Havana that would be worth a small fortune in any prison – where an ounce of bog-standard rolling tobacco a.k.a. snout greases many palms.”

“Thanks be to jaysus you weren't smoking a Hamlet,” cried the Dubliner, wiping his eyes at the very thought of such a sad act.

“There are some lines I will never cross,” I growled. “I would never stoop that low.”

When a good cigar is ready to smoke by James Leavey

If you're a cigar smoker and desperate for a communal public drink in Dublin, look for a bar, hotel, café, or restaurant with a partly covered outdoor smoking area.  Or one with a deep doorway, in which you can crouch and gargle while you smoke in the rain.

God help us and save us,  doesn't that sound dreadful!  I wouldn't put my cats out in the wet and dismal weather Ireland's smokers are bullied to light up in.

Thankfully, even Ireland gets its share of sun.  But still...

Fortunately, there's a third and better way. 

Nip into the Decent Cigar Emporium, flash your credentials (cigar/s and/or empty cigar case, cutter, lighter/matches). 

And be prepared to step up for the ritual and password in which you prove you are a dedicated nicotine companion:

'Hands on humidor, hands on heart, I prefer the smell of a fine cigar to a twat non-smoker's fart.'

All being well and ship-shape the boys will welcome you with open ashtrays.  And pass on The Knowledge of where to smoke in Dublin without being rudely interrupted by ignorant eejits.

So there you are, happy as Larry (they named a brand of cigarettes after him – Olivier) and dropping ash with friends. When your cigar has reached the end of its warm and wonderful life you may be considering which one to try next.

Yes, I know you already have your favourites.

The thing is, which cigars have ripened for your immediate delectation, and which are better for investing and storing and ageing?

For fine, hand-rolled tubes of premium tobacco are rather like the finest wines, which improve with age and are best sipped at the height of their power.

Just don't ask me for detailed advice, for I don't live with all the cigars available. 

But the boys at The DCE do, especially Mr Guy Hancock.  They have been taking very good care of their nicotine babies and can give you all the know-how you need to lead you to a very pleasant smoke indeed.

There are also other places you can fall back on, when the DCE is closed for the night: Ireland's prisons (which are still smoker-friendly), lunatic asylums (whatever the politically-correct anal retentives call them, these days), monasteries (is that really incense they're waving in the censer?) and hotel rooms designated for smokers.

The first option requires getting arrested.  This is very easy, just try lighting up inside a health shop.

The second requires proof of madness, such as deciding after all those years to give up smoking.

The third is really down to an act of faith.

And the fourth is sometimes hard to come by but well worth pursuing.  For, like the other three options I suggested, the law allows you to smoke in your own home or its equivalent. 

And in the privacy of your hotel room or suite you can throw a part, orgy or hoolie for your cigar companions. Just as long as you open the window and don't set fire to the bed.

The Future of Cigar Smoking is in Safe Hands

Hey Guy! Just a few words to say thanks for the superb service last week. I don't know a huge amount about the finer details on cigars with all that hint of almonds and a whisper of chocolate rubbish, I just know what I like and Paul really helped me choose from the hundreds of fine cigars on display. The welcoming and fun approach you have to selling cigars and the distinct lack of condescension was very refreshing and made me feel very confident in my purchases. I bought a few of those beautiful Zino Barrel cigars, lovely big smoke for a special occasion with its easy draw and super smooth taste they are hard to beat when I have an hour to chill out. I also took a few of your special hand rolled Cubans which have to be my number one go-to-cigar now, a superb taste and easy to enjoy smoke especially in the robusto and flying pig sizes.

So thanks again for bringing cigars to people like me that don't like risking our hard earned cash on the chance of a cigar that does not suit. I'll be back next month to get something special to put away for my newborn son's 21st (rolled on his birth month hopefully). As you can see from the photo he is keen to see what all the fuss is about!

by Alex Tucker (Adventure Branding)

Ireland's The Wild Geese fly by James Leavey

Mr Guy Hancock, Ireland's tobacco ambassador, and I were enjoying a hoolie with a few nicotine companions in my favourite smokers' den in Dublin.

In between the reeling and whooping and renditions of 'Up Went Nelson', we considered, loudly, the best beverages to gargle while inhaling a fine cigar.

'As you know, Mr H,' I yelled, to the accompaniment of The Dubliners' lively version of  Whiskey in the Jar, 'it all depends on the cigar you're smoking.  What works well with a light Havana would probably be wasted on a medium-bodied Nicaraguan tube of premium hand-rolled tobacco, such as The Grafton corona.  And, of course, a full-bodied cigar requires a full-bodied drink, preferably a single malt, cognac, or very fine aged rum, to keep the balance and not get lost in the process.

'Now, can somebody turn that fucking noise down so we can enjoy the craic in peace!'

The music was lowered, Mr H nodded agreement, sipped a dram, and fell off his stool.

'That's grand, James,' he muttered, from the safety of the smokeasy floor.

Lifting him up, in every sense of the word, I added, 'But there are some whiskies that I choose before I decide which cigar to smoke with them.'

'Jaysus,' said Mr H, now ensconced in his proper chair, 'that's the highest praise a man can give to any drink.'

We all raised our eyes and glasses to Heaven and clinked glasses: 'Slainte! May you get to Heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you're dead.'

Then I got back to the remembering. 'One of the best presents I ever received flattened the cat on the Fuck Off Non-Smokers mat just before last Christmas,' I said, wiping a tear from my eyes.

'It was a box containing the four bottles that comprises The Wild Geese Irish whiskey collection,

'You know me, I'm a lover of Scotland's single malt whisky and although I have tried many other whiskies around the world, I've rarely found one to match the finest Scottish malt – until now.'

Mr H sat up, reached for his lighter and reignited his Nicaraguan robusto then uttered one of those words guaranteed to tick a box in the minds of cognoscenti and anyone else brought, rather than dragged, up: 'Really!' 

He then sipped another drop from his half empty glass, and sat back, ears and eyes ready for the off.

'The first bottle I tried was the Classic Blend, which lived up to its name. It was sweet and light and delicate and not over-honeyed, somewhat like lying in a field of wild flowers and clover on a hot summer's day, enjoying the heady scent and listening the bees.

'I then gave the Rare Irish  a twirl round my tonsils and it was so smooth and perfectly balanced, with a touch of citrus and the teeniest taste of honey and lasted so long and so lovely, I almost died with delight. It was a beautiful rare whiskey, indeed, and worth waiting a lifetime for.'

'God save us,' muttered Mr H, his mouth watering. The rest of our companions were also drooling and licking their lips.

'The third bottle's description, Single Malt, set the old bullshit-alarm tingling, until I took my first luscious sip.  Clean, smooth, subtle, summery, rich, well balanced and a body that is whisky's equivalent to Elle Macpherson – who, I must admit, I wouldn't mind sampling, given the opportunity (please, God,  just the once and I'll be a good boy for the rest of my unnatural life).

'Finally came the turn of the Limited Edition, which like its three siblings was one of the nicest and most perfectly balanced Irish whiskies I have ever tasted,  but, like them, with its own distinct character.  Smooth, sweet then spicy, light and stunning.  The problem I had was not to drink all four bottles in one mad go.  But then, if I had, I would have missed so many delightful hours of pleasure.'

Mr H rose, staggered to the whisky cabinet and grabbed all four bottles of The Wild Geese, which he had  hidden away, and said, ashamedly, 'I can't stand it any more. Help me open and pour these, James.'

'Righto, Mr H,' I replied, grabbing a tray-load of virgin glasses, rapidly distributing them to all the cigar companions present before yer man changed his mind and disappeared into the night with his treasure trove.  'Happy days.'

Talk to the ashtray by James Leavey

I was twiddling my Nicaraguan corona over a cup of Gold Blend tea in Bewley's Grafton Street, thinking of this, that,  but mostly the other, when the first anti-smoking idiot of the day rolled up.

'Stop that, immediately!' he cried.  'You cannot smoke here.'

'If you used your eyes and what's left of your underdeveloped brain before you opened your ignorant gob you'd remember there's no law against unlit tobacco, even in this famous tea-room,' I growled. 

'Besides, it's nice thoughtful smokers like me who keep puritanical twats like you in clover with our taxes.'

The idiot's ugly mug boiled over and he muttered, 'Just wait until 2015, when we ban the whole lot of you in Ireland.'

'Yeah, well, we shall see what we shall see. Until then, talk to the ashtray.  Now fuck off, you pompous uneducated prick.'

I know, I know...it was much too subtle. 

So I underlined my perfectly reasonable point of view with a suggestive vertical jolt of my cigar and resisted the temptation to shove it up the idiot's arse. In the grand old days I would have offered to put sand in his Vaseline to help the stogie on it's way. For that's what the likes of him deserved.

Bored of bumping into beastly bastards, I decided to take a break from Dublin's unfair city (for smokers, that is) for the literary and seaside delights of Sandycove,  topping up my travel humidor at the Decent Cigar Emporium, en route.

The James Joyce Museum & Tower was open. I stepped inside and asked the friendly curator if I could take another sniff of the great writer's favourite leather cigar case.  

He'd first allowed me to do this a few years ago when I was filming BBC2 Horizon's documentary, 'We Love Cigarettes'.

The curator nodded and even let me slide my cigar inside Joyce's cigar case again.

Then I took myself and the anointed tube of fine tobacco outside and lit up, hoping Joyce's genius would rub off on my scribblings.

Fat chance.

'Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, the Great Man and all the other genius Irish writers and dramatists must be twirling in their graves at the very idea of the Elf & Safety boggarts taking over the world and turning it into an unused ashtray,' I thought.

Then  I took another reflective puff on my premium stick of fine Nicaraguan tobacco, 'It's not over till it's over. And while there are people like Mr Guy Hancock selling excellent cigars like this, there's hope.'