Fags, Booze and Reddit - Day 2

Sunday. Luckily, another day of non-work. Twenty four hours without Reddit. I have no idea what the global LOLcat situation is, what the ten funniest brands of coffee are or even how stupid Hillary Clinton supporters are. I mean, I have a good idea but a lot can change in a day and it's more than that since I last got a fix.

I got up reasonably early because we'd planned to go to the seaside for the day. Thinking I'd have no trouble waking up without a hangover I left the blinds up and relied on the sun to wake me bright and early so I could rouse my passed-out boozer of a flatmate and drag him down to the car in good time. I woke up when Luca banged on my door to announce he was going for a shower. My head felt like it was full of cottage cheese and from the state of my mouth at least a pound of it had dried out on my tongue in the night. I was so exhausted I felt paralysed for a good five minutes, almost as if my blood wasn't flowing properly to my muscles. Carbon monxide poisoning, I thought to myself. Have.. to get.. outside.. I dragged the covers back and rolled one leg onto the floor, head throbbing heavily. Fuck, if I feel this bad without booze I'll drink just to avoid it and bugger any other teenage girly leg-related consequences.

I plodded dizzily into the office and checked my email. Gmail takes a while to load up these days, so I ctrl-t'd and had got as far as typing a lone 'r' when I caught myself. Crumbs; it's a reflex like scratching my nose. Get a grip, man! Nothing much to report so I stumbled down to the shower. I really didn't feel well. Perhaps I was sick or something.

A quick blast sorted me right out of course and before I knew it we were cruising down the M25 with the roof down. Every now and again I'd feel a cue for a cigarette but Luca was gentleman enough not to taunt me by smoking in the car and it was bearable. He hadn't smoked in the restaurant either but had done so everywhere else which leads me to the conclusion that the only two things that will get between him and a fag are the law of the land and being in a speeding car with a twitchy ex-smoker at the wheel. Makes sense when you think about it; neither gaol nor ICU are as much fun as the motorway on a sunny day and you can't smoke in either of them anyway.

Brighton is a great little place; I have many fond memories there. We parked near town and wandered down the North Laine for some breakfast. I had been aiming for the seafront (Buddies for the win!) but Luca spotted an "eat as much as you can" buffet so, clearly, we stopped there. And here was another surprise; stuffing my face just wasn't fun suddenly. Being able to taste my lunch was nothing new - in fact I rarely smoke in the mornings - but somehow this holiday vibe with the sun warming us and the Big Issue already stuck jauntily out of my shorts pocket, the morning was redolent in every way of smoking cues and the anticipation would normally have cheered me as I crammed in slice after slice of hot pizza. Yet of anticipation felt I none for the post-coital cuddle of a swift smoke was not forthcoming and I knew it.

It's a bitch, that anticipation thing. I remember once deciding to quit in college and deciding I would cut down to smoking only after meals. That didn't work because my definition of a 'meal' started to wander somewhat and before long all that was required was a single slice of bread which, on occasion, I had barely swallowed before the tasty dessert was on my lips. My second strategy was craftier but when my girlfriend cottoned on that I wasn't coming round looking for hot loving twice a day out of uncontrollable desire but rather as an excuse to fuel a rather sad chemical dependence, we had a fight and I ended up breaking my own regime just to cope with the breakdown of my regime.

We sauntered down between the shops and made it to the beach. I took a few photos while Luca dozed in the sunshine with the waves slapping at the stones. I still felt a little woolly to be honest; a far cry from the fresh, airy head I had anticipated. Might as well, I thought, have been smoking if I wanted to feel like this. We decamped to the pier.

There was a brief discussion about whether Luca could smoke on the pier. Obviously there were a few girls in facelift haircuts and tracksuits who were dusting ash over kids in pushchairs but that's rarely a sign of legitimacy and we decided after a brief chat that the wooden deck precluded sensible people from using sources of ignition for recreational.. oh wait, there's an ash tray on top of that dustbin.

It occurred to me suddenly that smoking had been an issue already a couple of times. I had found myself waiting for Luca to finish a snout so he could enter a shop and now I was wasting my time looking for "No Smoking" signs on his behalf. This, I thought dolefully, must have been what it was like for all of my nonsmoking girlfriends over the years.

We shopped for various things and wound up back on the beach, grabbing a table outside one of the split personality pub/clubs. Everyone, it seemed, had light, bubbly pints in front of them with picture-perfect drips of condensation tracing delicately down the sides. My mouth was dry, my forehead crusty with dessicated sweat. I would, and I choose my words carefully, have throttled a puppy for a pint of cool lager at that moment. I sent Luca to the bar under the pretext of him choosing his poison (might as well drink for free if I'm not drinking, eh?) and he returned shortly with.. a Red Bull.

"To be honest, man," he said. "I can't drink a beer in the sun."

Have you ever seen an Italian man beaten to death with loose stones and a folding chair? About fifty people in Brighton on Sunday nearly did.

It was interesting; unlike the mineral water last night I really didn't enjoy my drinks as much as I should have done. Strange, really; normally I greatly enjoy healthy doses of soft drinks when I am dehydrated and even once I'd got Luca onto more manly drinks I was tucking my pints of coke or soda away faster than he. It was an empty drinking though, like eating a Pot Noodle. It's all fine while it's in your mouth but then nothing happens afterwards to prove you swallowed any of it.

This, then, I was not expecting. Rather than the outright cravings that I have experienced in the past, today's experience has been more of a nebulous sensation that something is missing, that experiences that do not necessarily involve alcohol or nicotine don't have the substance that they used to because of the absence. Odd, but bearable. I'm also coping surprisingly well with Luca's indulgences and have even inspired him to announce he will quit smoking Monday to Friday this week in solidarity.

We ate dinner in St James and Luca realised he had run out of snouts. Annoyed that he had not brought some of his duty free stash from the house he tried to scab one from first the waiter (who didn't smoke) and then a customer outside (who said no).

"Fuck, I hate this things," he spat as we walked down the street. "When people ask me for a cigarette, I always give them one. In Italy is the same. But here.. this guy.. he has three packets on the table. Fuck, man. Just one." He disappeared into an off licence and reappeared thirty seconds later, lighting a cancer stick. He took a long draught. "You know, maybe I just didn't like the way he said it. Very.." he moved his hand limply, dismissively.

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, they are over 25p each now. Quite the investment." And of more than just money, it would seem.