Smoke signals for a Happy New Year

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Created on Wednesday, 08 January 2014 08:39

Written by James Leavey

by James Leavey

When I came back to Dublin the air was full of winter rain and cold leavened with the buzz of optimism.

Ireland's capital had accommodated itself to its financial new dawn.  Grafton Street, the city's heart and pulse, was preparing to beat the Celtic drum to see in a very happy and prosperous New Year. 

Trying to reach the sainted sanctum of The DCE proved tricky. The huge crowds of shoppers and revellers in Grafton Street were diverted by the usual army of buskers, pavement artists (those using waterproof colours, anyway) and gifted mimes.

What a shame I'd missed Bono and Glen Hansard, busking for charity, on Christmas Eve.

That said, the festive good will had spilled over and I wasn't about to miss Dublin's ushering in of 2014, with the city's annual marathon celebrations.

Which is how I got sucked into the maelstrom of Dubliners and Hiberno-philes who were cheerfully ignoring the inclement weather and out and dancing to a brand new beat.

There was so much going on it was difficult to drag my attention and feet towards Mr Guy Hancock's waiting ashtrays at Number 46.

I raised my umbrella, underneath which I ignited my Romeo y Juliet's wide Churchill (fabulous) to send an urgent smoke signal to Mr Hancock and his fine team of cigar aficionados: 'Jaysus, Guy, I'm in desperate need of a sit-down out of the rain and leppin' for a large cup of your finest Cuban coffee... so brace yourselves.'

Eventually, I dragged my bones off the street and into one of The DCE's comfy chairs. Sitting back, among friends, I looked around the shop which was loaded with dedicated companions of nicotine, stocking up for a smokers' version of a shebeen.

'I see you're still farting through silk, Mr H,' I said.

'Jimbo, your money is like your willy,' replied Mr Hancock, who has a great understanding of these things, for this is the man who has grown rich from providing cigar lovers with what they really really want, 'it only grows if you play with it.'

His sentiment and truism brought tears to my eyes, and penis, the latter of which still has some fond memories.

After a few drops of the hard stuff and an Havana or two, Mr H and the boys and myself decided to join the flash mob of cigar smokers break dancing in the rain outside The DCE to Bryan Ferry's version of Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.

This was followed by swaying to K.D.Lang's The Air That I Breath.  My oxygen intake, like Mr H's, was strained through the smoke of a fine Cuban cigar.

Until I fell down and my half-smoked cigar died in a puddle of water.

'What we need, next year, Mr H,' I complained, through the noise and music and pandemonium, 'is a waterproof Havana.'

Mr Hancock, Dublin's finest ambassador for the good things of life, hauled me up from the pavement, swept the droplets of rain off my shoulders, grinned, passed me a brand new cigar and said, 'Never fear, Seamus, that's all in hand.  Have a light and a Happy New Year!'