I quit smoking 40-odd years ago, aged 11, and haven’t looked back. That surely qualifies me to offer a suggestion or two on finishing off the tobacco industry. It all happened the day my grandmother sprung me with a lighted Cambridge in my mouth, in the garage on a rainy day. The ensuing tongue-lashing was more than sufficient to nip my dreams of accelerated manhood clean in the bud.
So I suggest the Federal Government could do far worse than mobilise the Grey Army to the cause. Deploy a platoon of grannies armed with sticks and megaphones on suburban streets across the nation, and just watch British American Tobacco shares head south in quick order. Taking a queue from Victoria, they could be called Pleural Service Officers (PSOs). And believe me, they wouldn’t need guns.