The Worst Blunder in the History of the World
It is, perhaps, no coincidence that in that fount of all truth and wisdom, Newsweek, in the November 7, 2011 edition, there should appear an article entitled ‘America’s ‘Oh Sh*t’ (sic) moment’ – the sort of vulgarity that makes me want to cancel my subscription – as well as a piece with the headline ‘My Favorite Mistake’. Is the editorial department, I wonder, run by a bunch of schoolboys?
The so called favorite mistake, we learn, was made by an actor by the name of Jeremy Irons, who lit a cigarette while seated at a lunch next to the late Princess Diana. Favorite mistake, eh? Let’s make a joke of it! It’s no joke. It’s the most embarrassing and humiliating thing one could possibly do to oneself – a toe curling, wish-the-ground-would-open-up-and-swallow-me mother of all social gaffs.
Most of the page is taken up with a photograph of said actor. If one were to look no lower than his neck, it is obvious to anyone with a passing knowledge of physiognomy that this man is a heavy smoker: the lines, the bags, the prematurely aged skin á la W H Auden. Lower down one sees a small cigar in his right hand, with billowing smoke.
The whole thing is a wonderful example of how smokers are deluded about why they smoke, what they think they get out of it, and why they can’t stop. Mr Irons confesses: ‘For most of my life, apart from a few lengthy periods when I have stopped, just to prove I can, I have enjoyed smoking…’ Okay, hold it right there. Here we have the paradoxes, the contradictions, the self-justifications. If he so much enjoys smoking, why does he want to stop? And why does he need to ‘prove’ to himself that he can stop if he wants to. Does a non-smoker need to prove to himself that he is a non-smoker by lighting up? In Mr Irons’s case, all he is proving is that he cannot stop permanently. He stops for a while, apparently feels confident he can quit for whatever stretch of time he deems appropriate, and then he starts smoking again. In other words, he’s merely using this exercise in self discipline as an excuse to resume smoking.
Towards the end of the meal he enquired of Her Royal Highness: ‘May I smoke, ma’am, or would it disturb you?’ Now, what did he think she would say to this impertinent question? ‘Well, actually, it would disturb me.’ What would he do then? Hang his head in shame and grit his teeth till the end of the event when he could pollute his own air without upsetting HRH? No, of course she would never have given a direct prohibition under these circumstances, but it is abundantly clear from her tactful hint of the danger to Mr Irons’s health if he insisted on smoking that she didn’t like it and would much have preferred it if he hadn’t. A gentleman, or even someone who isn’t a gentleman but who has an ounce of common sense, would not ask such a question. What Mr Irons is really saying, it seems to me, is this: ‘I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am, but although I know you hate smoking I’m so selfish that I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss about your likes and dislikes, and since I want to smoke I’m jolly well going to, and if you don’t like it – too bad!’
Now, I’m not suggesting for a moment that Mr Irons is so crass that he would actually say such a thing, or even think it, but this is what it amounts to. This little dialogue illustrates the state smokers are in: they feel a compulsion to smoke, and if there is the slightest chance they can get away with it, that is what they do, even if it means upsetting other people.
He then gets into his self-justifying stride, unhindered by any sense of absurdity: ‘Agreeing with her in outline I explained that my profession put many strains on my health, some of which were alleviated by my habit.’ Oh really? What particular strains does acting put on one’s health, apart from that of passive smoking from the need to associate with smokers, of which there are apparently rather a lot among actors? And how does smoking alleviate these strains?
I suspect Mr Irons finds there are stresses inherent in the acting profession, such as the unsocial hours, worry about forgetting one’s lines, and the risk of unemployment – though fortunately for him he seems to have been fairly successful so this particular worry probably hasn’t been relevant in his case. So, whatever difficulties he’s had to cope with, smoking has helped, he claims. The widespread illusion: smoking relieves stress. But what is so stressful about sitting at lunch next to one of the world’s most beautiful women?
I have never met Mr Irons, but I did once have the honour of meeting Princess Diana. She was a most charming and gracious lady, and as with many royalty, had a natural way of putting you at your ease. So why was Mr Irons so stressed that he made a complete ass of himself? He seems to have partially understood the reason: ‘Maybe the lesson was that I should value sitting next to a beautiful woman more than I value a cigarette.’
Mr Irons may be a good actor – he may even be a great actor for all I know – but rather than being remembered, say, for his fine characterisation of the king in Richard II, it is likely it will be for his notoriety as the man who, in the style of an H M Bateman cartoon, lit up next to Princess Diana. I do not say this to criticise Mr Irons, much less to condemn him, but to point out how this behaviour so clearly shows the tragedy of smoking: smokers, unless they can for a short time with another cigarette fill that terrible void that cigarettes cause, can’t really enjoy anything in their lives.
© Gabriel Symonds, November 2011