The Smoking Ban

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Now on with today's story. 

The Smoking Ban

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Jim hated the bloody smoking ban at times like these. Most of the time he was more than happy to go outside for a fag; it was a good excuse to get away from boring conversations. But for fuck sake, they were already outside. Surely having a quick puff in his seat wouldn’t do anyone any harm. But no, the whole bloody stadium was a smoke free zone, so he had to suffer just so those selfish, leftist bastards could breathe fresh air. How come they allowed booze at these occasions and not fags? Surely people getting boozed up is what caused trouble; when did smoking ever hurt anyone?

To make matters worse the game was tense, still nil-nil and going into extra-time. It had been almost three hours since his last cigarette and his fingernails couldn’t take it anymore, let alone his nerves.

“I’ll get the beers,” Jim volunteered, he was hatching a plan. He got up and left his seat. He was a bit unsteady on his feet as he climbed the steps; how many had he drunk? He always drank more when he couldn’t smoke. As soon as he got out into the bowels of the stadium, he started looking around for a place he could hide and light up. He only needed a few puffs, just to get some nicotine into his system. He was preying no one would score while he was away.

He found a flight of stairs seemingly to nowhere. There was no one in sight, this was perfect. He staggered up the first 5 steps and got his ciggies out. He sucked in the smoke like he was drinking a McDonalds’ milkshake. He took another deep drag. He cupped the cigarette into his sleeve to try to hide it from any prying eyes, but the smoke billowing from his nose was a wee bit of a giveaway anyway.

He took one more drag and then dropped the cigarette and used his shoe to put it out. His brain was buzzing, his heart racing, but he’d got away with it. It was mission accomplished; time to get back to the game.

He hopped down the steps; he felt like a new man. He re-joined his friends.

“Where’s the bloody beer?” Kelly said to him. Jim shrugged but Kelly was no longer interests in the lack of booze. “Jim, your sleeve’s on fire!” he shouted. Jim looked at his smouldering arm.

“Arrrgh,” he yelled. He ripped his coat off and threw it on the floor. There was smoke billowing from the jacket. Kelly, Ian and Jim all tried to stamp on the coat but the fire was spreading to the clutter around their feet

“Jesus,” Kelly shouted.

There was a sense of panic among the fans. People trying to move away from the flames.

On the field Jim’s team were streaming forward. It was three on two, the winger looked up and pinged the perfect cross into the centre. Jim’s favourite player, the centre forward who looked like him, would surely just tap it in past the goalkeeper to win the cup. Well, he would have if the fire alarm hadn’t blasted out just as he was lining up the shot, startling him into miskicking. The ball ballooning over the goal into the stand where Jim and his friends were frantically trying to put out a fire.