We are at a house party which would be so much cooler if not so many people were out in the back garden smoking, making the house feel a little bit emptier than it should. Forget racism, this is real apartheid, move over Nelson Mandela.

By ‘we’ I mean the typical squad of lads. Rex, Jack and Paul; the former two are somewhere in this place. Ant said he’d be here but, as usual, he’s late.

Paul says, “I’m going outside, chat to the only hot girls in this place,” quite loudly, enough for two girls sat near us to overhear him. I think they noticed. I think he did that deliberately. He pulls out a cigarette, ready to light it.

“Wait, you don’t smoke,” I say.

“I do when I’m trying to get laid,” he replies, as if I should have known this.

“Wait, what?”

“If you don’t take up smoking to get laid, then what are you doing? You’ve got to commit to the hunt, man. Take the gash seriously. That’s why you don’t get as much as I do.” There was some stinging truth to that.

We both are walking to the back garden, even though I don’t smoke, when Ant, wearing his trusted Barbour jacket, John Smiths can in hand walks in with his lumbering gait. I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, Ant.”

“Alright.” He swivels, stumbling. He’s been drinking heavily, maybe on something else that’s very strong. His eyes are taking a long time to adjust onto us. “What you doing here?” He is fucked. “We’re about to go outside.”

“What, for the fresh air?” He laughs a bit too hard at his own joke.

“Well, Paulhere smokes to pick up girls.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, isn’t that odd, maybe even desperate?”

“Hey!” Paul slaps my arm, “I prefer the term determined, tenacious even.”

“How do you think I became dependent on these?” Ant waves a freshly rolled cigarette in his hand.

“No shit, really?”

“Yeah! I know plenty of people who have taken up smoking just to get laid. It’s the only way to stand a chance against the cootchie. Otherwise, some buff, blond, 6ft, bellend that does a sports science degree is going to get laid instead of me. Can’t be having that! Victory cannot be achieved without sacrifice.” He walks off toward the kitchen.

“Well, I can’t say you two aren’t committed.”

“It’s a hard life being 5’8’’.” Says Paul.

“First world problems.” I laugh.

“Oh yeah, for sure. In some third world shithole that’s experiencing a civil war, I could just join a militia, rape any chick and father a regiment of child soldiers.” He theatrically looks up in the air, visualising this alternate reality. “Ah, that’s the dream.” All this from the conscientious Labour voter. Morality lasts as long a sobriety.

“What about the health implications?” I’m surprised I can say the word implications right now. I’m surprised I don’t address the raping. I’m surprised by the fact I was still standing without swaying. I’m surprised I don’t address the child soldiers.

“What? STDs from so much sex? I’m getting that now with the thots here.”

“Well, now you mention it yeah, but I was thinking cancer from, you know, the whole smoking thing.”

“Mate honestly, I’d happily die of cancer at the age of 55, if it meant extra uni pussy. No question! My future self would understand.”

“Not afraid of the cancer?”

“Listen,” he puts his hand on my shoulder as a father would, “LIVING gives you cancer. Every single fucking thing somehow will add to your chances of cancer. So, fuck it! Buy one lottery ticket or buy ten, your chances are still slim. Anyway, better cancer than dementia, in my opinion – that shit scares the shit out of me.”

“I got to try this; I don’t believe you guys.”

“Be my guest. This ones on the house.” He pulls out a pack of pre-rolled cigarettes and smoothly hands me one like he’s James Bond.