Realistically the only way to stop smoking is to - er - stop smoking. I did it 8 years ago, no patches, no pills, no hysteria, just a few quiet weeks of agonising withdrawal and the inevitable weight gain which, I feel, is a small price to pay. I smoked a lot too, unfiltered roll-ups, Drum mostly, and coming off the boat I got it cheap and smoked it by the shed load.

Even so, the day I realised I wasn't a real smoker was the day I was travelling from London to Durham and decided for the sake of economy to go by National Express. I was joined at Golder's Green by an agitated chap for whom the thoughts of a seven hour coach journey without a cigarette were too much. Two hours into the trip he was at breaking point; sweating, shaking, palpitations, even accusing me of being too calm to be a real smoker, having spied the Drum in my jacket pocket which market me out back in 1999 as a particular type of lawless smoker, Drum being then unavailable in English shops. Three hours into the journey he disappeared into the toilet, emerging some five minute later triumphant, but stinking of smoke and piss.
'Here's what you do,' quoth he. 'You get down on your knees, put your head into the bowl of the toilet and flush it every time you exhale. The suction takes the smoke into the tank so it doesn't get detected.'
At this point I knew in my heart I was not a real smoker; only a real smoker would endure this for the pleasure of a cigarette, over slopping National Express septic tank and all. Even so it took me another 8 months to stop, and eight years on I'm happy enough.

Now, if only I could the same with Mudcat...