I pop into a tobacconist that I rarely use in the town centre, and order a packet of ten Marlboro Lights. “Which sort of Marlboro do you want?” says the guy, propped up in a small space on a stool behind the counter. “Marlboro Lights. Ten.” I’ve had problems of this sort in the same shop before, with another, older guy. Apparently Marlboro changed the name of their lower-tar cigarettes from ‘Lights’ to ‘Gold’ some time ago, but I’ve never heard anyone embrace the new brand-name, apart from in this shop, where they won’t serve you unless you use it. Usually, I acquiesce. This time I don’t feel like it. “Which Marlboro?” he repeats.
“Ten Marlboro Lights.” I point unequivocally at the cigarettes in question, stacked behind his head. “The ones sitting next to the packets of twenty Marlboro Lights.”
“There are Red or Gold. There’s no such thing as Lights.” He looks at me defiantly.
“I think I’ll go somewhere else,” I say, among other more muttered and less printable words, then turn around and walk out.
Afterwards, heading down the road, I wonder at my reluctance to back down in this silly Mexican standoff. Should I have just said what he wanted me to say, given him the money, and left? It certainly wouldn’t have ruined my day. A few minutes and I’m in another tobacconist, down the Cliffe.
“Ten Marlboro Lights,” I say to the guy. He gives me the cigarettes, with a smile. I suddenly realise what it was. It was the other guy’s bureaucratic jobsworthiness that bugged me. His question-nothing military-style compliance with orders from above. His slavish adherence to the corporate giant’s brand-change whims. That and the fact I was irritable because I was dying for a fag. Maybe it’s time to give up. AL