A year has passed since the smoking ban and at this juncture I am in two minds.

Annoyingly I am starting to appreciate it for certain reasons. There are the obvious ones ? waking up the next morning not smelling like an ashtray, inevitably smoking less (between drinks instead of two to a pint) and therefore not getting through ?6 packs with such gay abandon, oh and improved health in the long run perhaps.

But then there are the other factors to consider, the social dynamics if you will. A cheeky snout outdoors can lead to all sorts of encounters: a stolen moment with a loved one, a deep and meaningful conversation with a friend, or salacious gossip with a colleague. There is something very childish about the whole affair, like being back at school. I am literally at my happiest when stood on the street after a hard days work, pint in one hand, fag in the other, watching the world go by with laughing friends.

Then there are parties. As a general rule of thumb, the life and soul of the soiree are the ones who smoke, therefore all the action is outside whilst the actual party resembles a librarian meeting. Nobody wants this, especially the birthday boy or girl, so where possible my advice for parties in pubs would be to hold it in an establishment where the door to the street or garden is in the same room, thus avoiding people traipsing through said pub, up and down stairs etc, effectively creating two parties.

Alternatively just have a house party. Since the ban I have probably been to a club about three times, the party has quite simply moved to a kitchen.

Note: a useful by product of the smoking ban has been the ease where one can breeze into the club claiming to have popped out for a cigarette. Bouncers are bouncers for a reason, stride in without a care in the world and if stopped look our academic friend up and down and declare you went for a cigarette and said scholar will wave you through none the wiser. Clubs are still trying to figure this one out.

However this is all a very London centric school of thought. Who is Tony Blair to decide what goes on less close to the epicenter? For I will always yearn for the days when I used to wander into my local pub in Sussex and be engulfed by a thick fug of tobacco: farmers sitting at the bar smoking rollies, roaring commuters chugging Marlboro lights and the landlord comatose over the bar with a pipe hanging out his mouth.

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