Anti-smokers Really Do Stink.

An Appeal To Readers

frank_davis

April 29th, 23:54

Last night I posted up a piece which was, in part, about the social isolation and disintegration that I thought the smoking ban was causing. This evening, among the responses, there was the following anonymous message:

I am getting too old to stand outside pubs or restaurants. Plus I was taught that it was only 'ladies of the night' that stood in the street smoking.

I have been 3 years away from any social contact other than the odd hello with neighbours.

Being a widow with no family it was always going to be hard to get back into some semblance of normality with regard to socialising, but I didn't think that it would be this bad.

I used to meet up in a cafeteria with some lady friends, but now that has stopped as a few of the ladies were smokers and didn't want to stand in the street to have a cigarette.

I went to a quiz night at the local pub as there were quite a few elderly 'singles' there. That has stopped. I also playe bingo once a week and that too has stopped as there is no pleasure in having a drink there with no cigarette.

I am now on anti depressants and wish that I had the courage to kill myself and join my dear husband.

Thank you politicians for making my life not worth living after working from age 14 until 68. I am now 74 and have lost my soul and will to live in this lonely place.

Nothing needs to be added. Here in a nutshell is the social devastation caused by the smoking ban. It falls most heavily, of course, on the elderly.

I think these stories must be told. There must be thousands upon thousands - millions even - of people all over the country, and all over the world, in much the same situation. People who had their social lives destroyed. People who have become profoundly isolated and depressed as a consequence of smoking bans.

Our politically correct news media will never report any of it. They won't report it because for them smokers are non-persons, people who don't count. So it's only going to be on blogs like mine that such people are going to find a voice.

So I'd like to appeal to my readers, particularly the elderly (65-70+) and vulnerable ones like my anonymous commenter, to write to me to describe their personal experiences of the smoking ban. I'm interested in younger readers' experiences as well, of course.

And I'd like to ask readers if they know any elderly and vulnerable people who may have become isolated. Phone them up! Pop round and see them! Ask them how life has been for them. Get them to tell their story.

I'm sure there are thousands and thousands of horror stories out there, that need telling, and which antismokers would prefer never get told at all. When the stories start being told - and they will be told -, they might begin to feel ashamed of what they've done.

I've set up a googlemail account: cfrankdavis@googlemail.com

And I've also put up a (rather crude) box in the right margin, which will stay there.

Emails are welcome from all over the world, but since this a UK blog, non-UK writers should give some indication where they are, and what sort of ban is in force where they live.

Any suggestions are welcome.

Reblog this everyone. Let Arnott and her sick, greedy friends have a taste of their own medicine.

I Had A Vision Of Blears When I Read This!

I never dreamed that slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential
neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect. I was on
Brice Street - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As
I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and
tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.

It was a squirrel and must have been trying to run across the road when it
encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to
brake or avoid it -- it was that close! . I hate to run over animals, and I
really hate it on a motorcycle; but a squirrel should pose no danger to me.

I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels,
I discovered, can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his
hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his beady
little eyes. His mouth opened; and at the last possible second, he screamed and
leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonzai!" or maybe, "Die
you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular. He
shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the
chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn
he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and
tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a
light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans, this was a bit of a cause for
concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential
street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel.

And losing...

I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to
snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of
the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That
should have done it. The matter should have ended right there.

It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely
kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one
would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even
an ordinary angry squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands; and, with the
force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing
impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather antisocial and
extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with
him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were
continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The
combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand)
on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through
my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of! a
Valkyrie can only have one result.

Torque.

This is what the Valkyrie is made for; and she is very, very good at it. The
engine roared, and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in
anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in - well, I just plain
screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
slightly squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at
maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one
wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.

The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration, I was forced to put my other hand back on the
handlebars and try to get control of the bike.

This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices; but I really did not
want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet
figured out how to release the throttle. My brain was just simply overloaded. I
did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive
power of the big cruiser.

About this time, the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention
to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of
death); and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me.
As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure
my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however.
The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the
moment); so her front end started to drop.

Now, picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably
80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of
the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are probably getting a
little hoarse.

Finally, I got the upper hand. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out
of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked
- sort of.

Spectacularly sort of ...so to speak.

Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a
quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.
Suddenly, a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a
torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving
at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by, and with
all his strength throw! was a live squirrel grenade directly into your police
car.

I heard screams.

They weren't mine.

I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to
the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire
smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to 'fess up
(and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things.

First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me
at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car
were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a
crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop
who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street, aiming a riot
shotgun at his own police car.

So, the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the
professionals handle it" anyway.

That was one thing. The other?

Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from
the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window,
shaking his little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a
patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car, but it was all his.

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of
Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood.