THE END OF CIVILIZATION SMELLS GOOD

The lamentation is in full force. No, not the heart-ache over the burning of King's Landing -- none of my kin were harmed -- but the disappearance of Dunhill as a brand of pipes and tobaccos. Something of great import to approximately point two percent of the population in the first world.

At best, and less than.


0.2%

Oh woe.

My piles bleed for you lot.


If California wine disappeared, more people would be affected, and that would be a far greater disaster. And I say this despite rarely drinking wine (although I like it). Starbucks is a better example. If Starbucks were to shut down, millions would weep into their last Venti, then move on to other vendors within hours. A blip.

There are immensely more artisan pipe makers than ever. In the last week alone, on pipe-related internet pages, I have seen pipes of a quality that Dunhill could not equal. And the availability of good tobacco is greater than it was when I was first smoking a pipe years ago in Valkenswaard, then in Berkeley. Scandinavian and Stokkebye have become almost the standards for "house blends". So from my point of view, there is scant cause for any lamentation. But there are far fewer pipe smokers now, and you cannot smoke in cafes anymore. Those are greater issues.

[Ages ago most locally created house blends were crap. Mediocre burleys and Virginias, mildly flavoured with dubious additions, and a smidgeon of condimentals. Now they are often based on too much candy cavendish, and too little sound judgement. And sometimes merely 1Q or RLP6, creatively renamed. Captain Bedrock's Private Reserve, or Doctor McRambo's Special Stock.]


Years ago a man could ensconce himself in a corner of the local cafe with his pipe, a nice tin of stinkiness, and several newspapers, and look properly grouchy and intellectual without being bothered. Now, some miserable drinker of low-fat tofunated syrup steam bucket swill in yoga pants will start screaming about the stench, precious children, my lungs, etcetera, and call the moral police on him.

We are left, sadly weeping, on the pavement. In the rain.

Fortunately, I know several abandoned awnings.

No needles or children there.

Far from S'Bucks.



It takes about four hours for this apartment to air out. My apartment mate returns shortly after six. So from two o'clock onwards, I will join the local wildlife, for a reclusive and damn-near rabid bit of wandering about. Which will include lunch and hot Hong Kong milk tea. As Cartman would say, "screw you guys, I am going out".

Matured Virginia leaves.
Perhaps an egg tart.
People watching.

TOBACCO INDEX


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