So this is what not smoking feels like. How the hell have non-smokers lived like this for so long? You stop smoking fags and your day just expands ahead of you, like a twizzling Escher nightmare. I mean seriously, what do you do? You can only eat and drink so much. You can only look at grass, cars or soil, so much. You can only breathe so much clean air, until you fancy some laced with Hydrogen cyanide. What do you do with the rest of the time? Sit fucking still or some shit?

Yar, I’ve given up smoking, after more years than you would believe. God knows why, smokers have it easy. Think about it… running down flights of office stairs, finding a place that sells smokes, realising you haven’t got any cash, refusing to pay the 50p card charge, nipping off to find a cashy, going back to the newsy again, buying the fags and a tin of Tango (got to drink something with a fag), finally having a smoke or two, then coughing, then going back to work. Now, that’s the kind of stuff that fills a day. And a life.

Smokers have it made in another regard too. They have a reason to go outdoors. I now have no reason to be outside ever again. So no reason to drop on this short-sleeve sweat.

It’s a sweatshirt. But short sleeved. Now, there are bunch of these knocking around the usual stores, right now. This one’s by Japaneseland brand Rulezpeeps, which you couldn’t get in the UKingdoms up until last week. Now you can check a small selection over at Garbstore. Although, at the risk of jumping from tangent to tangent… what business have sweatshirts got being short-sleeved?

You go out in that on a sunny day and you’ll be beading up in no time. Imagine the direct sun on that thick dark fabric? It’ll be like wearing a giant’s flannel. You’re going to feel rivulets of sweat running down your back. You’re going to be tugging at that collar, trying to waft a little cool air inside, even though the whole shirt feels clammy and baking and damp and dreadful. And you’ll see the girl, over by the barbeque, the one you’ve been staring at all afternoon. And she’ll turn away. And you know it’s because your fringe is now sticking to your forehead.  And you’ll wish you hadn’t spent 135 quid on a stupid, summer T-sweatshirt, that has no sleeves, but boasts the body of a warm garment. A stupid, boiling hot, rug of a shirt that’s becoming heavier the more perspiration it absorbs.

And then you’ll light a delicious smoke. And, immediately, it’ll all be fine. You’ve always got fags. You’re a very lucky man.