Whether it’s my lifelong loathing of authority or a death-wish defiance, I don’t know, but I just cannot — and don’t even want to — give up smoking. Yes, I know that my lungs are collapsing and my arteries filling with porridgy goo, but if

I give up everything in life that provides pleasure, I will have to kill myself with boredom. Which is counterproductive, isn’t it? Life is dangerous, it should be a risk, and we have, after all, got to die of something. By smoking, you see, I feel I am exercising a modicum of control over the final outcome. “Yes,” I hear you cry, “but you’ll be taking cash from the overstretched NHS because of your selfishness.” Well, I’ve paid my taxes, and as long as they stick me in a bed between someone who’s ludicrously obese and a raging alcoholic, I’ll be in good company.

We are given choices in life that are reflected in the way we shuffle, wheezing, wobbling or staggering, off this mortal coil. Besides, if I give up smoking and die of cancer anyway (the odds are 1 in 3), I’ll be really furious. Of course, this stance is controversial and makes no sense to reasonable, rational folk, the likes of which I normally align myself to, but having spent a week in New York, where you can’t smoke anywhere, not only are my psycho levels dangerously high and my human rights eroded beyond measure, I’ve also (and this is the craziest part) started smoking more.

I’ve never been a 40-a-day loser and, at most, get through three packs a week (which, of course, is still too many and doesn’t negate my addict status), but being ordered not to smoke has affected my usually mild-mannered serenity, and I am looking for a no-win, no-fee lawyer and someone to sue.

The smoking ban has been in effect in New York for a little more than 18 months and most people (excluding me) are applauding it as a great success. The theory is that, if you make something so impossibly difficult, the majority of lily-livered lemmings will sooner or later accept they are beaten and fall into line like inmates from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Well, this inmate is finding it a bitter pill to swallow.

My initial ruse when dining in the Big Apple was to light up after my meal and use the time the waiters were dumbstruck with shock and awe to have a few crafty puffs. This worked for a while, and usually meant I was able to get through almost a whole cigarette before some poor soul was elected to approach me brandishing a fire extinguisher, at which point I would apologise profusely and explain that I was visiting from the old world, where we have only just stopped painting ourselves blue.

While visiting the famous Elaine’s restaurant, I was disappointed to find that, even while the place was closed, the normally bohemian Elaine herself denied me the pleasure of a puff. Considering her gaff has been the watering hole for most of the anti-establishment literati for decades, none of whom ever showed any regard for rules, I was appalled.

Eventually, and I am loath to admit it, the strain of solitary anarchy got too much and I was forced to concede defeat. Coming back to London was like a breath of fresh air (to the soul, anyway) and I am like a prisoner once more reunited with freedom.

If reports are to be believed, though, we don’t have much time before some electioneering toady puts a stop to our fun. What next from the nanny state, I wonder. Tackling obesity with ration coupons? Get your skates on, people. Eat, drink, smoke and be merry, for tomorrow we really won’t be able to. (Five fags smoked while writing this. Hmm.)

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