Tomorrow's just another cigar

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I was shooting the breeze with Mr Hancock the other day in a nicotine-friendly oasis in Dublin the 
whereabouts neither of us would ever divulge, except to a fellow smoking outlaw.
'Have you seen the new app that predicts how long you have left to live?' enquired Mr H, 
between puffs on his favourite cigar of the day (ask him nicely, and he'll tell you what it is).
'Yeah. God help us and save us,' I replied, and we both took another sip of the good stuff Mr H 
keeps in a special place under the counter and clinked our glasses.
'I was scanning one of those Non-Smoking Vegans Live Forever websites to see how the other half 
lived and came across one that asked me a series of deeply personal questions about the current
state of my mind, body, and all those politically-incorrect habits that help me make it through the night. 
'It then threw this information into an additive-free pot, stirred in some complicated equations - and out 
popped the number of years I had left to live.

'I signed in as a chain-cigar-smoking, hard-boozing, over-sexed, food-loving, free speaking, fast-driving 
desperado who never runs away from a fight and detests, with a vengeance, pomposity, bullies and any
hare-brained organisation that tells me how to live.
'The website wobbled a bit, links fell off the screen, and the smug little icon that resembled a well-known 
celebrity medical practitioner informed me that I should have died 150 years ago.

'And there's me heading towards my seventh decade, still breathing despite having enjoyed all the things 
I've been told are either illegal, immoral or downright feckin dangerous to my health.'
'Good man,' said Mr H, chortling with laughter until the tears streamed from his eyes.  'Let's drink to your future, pal.'
I looked back at Mr H, who is a man after my own heart, lifted my glass, saluted and said,  'Make it a double.'