This morning, as I left my mansion block to take my morning stroll, I noticed a group of young tearaways hanging around near the entrance smoking their ‘fags’.

I immediately strode over and admonished them. “Why do you smoke those foul cigarettes,” I demanded. “Surely you must know that any man of taste and refinement smokes a pipe. Ah! The leisurely pleasure of stretching out on one’s day bed with a fine book, and a pipe of full of mellow tobacco clamped between one’s teeth, and a cup of Earl Grey within reaching distance…”

I recall that my esteemed father bought me my first pipe at the age of sixteen, along with a box of pipe tools and a smoking jacket. “Nigel,” he informed me, “you are now coming of age, and thus, are old enough to enjoy more gentlemanly pleasures.” He then spent the rest of the day showing me the delights of Soho. Ah! Dear papa.

I instructed the young roughnecks to head on over to my favourite tobacconist on the Charing Cross Road, and purchase for themselves a good solid pipe and some choice tobacco.

They sauntered off down the street, and one turned round and shouted “STUPID OLD F**KER”.

What gratitude indeed! Sometimes I wonder why I even waste my time conversing with such barbarians.