#edmondson

"On my first day at university, I’m puffing away on the top deck of a bus heading down the Oxford Road in Manchester. There’s a young bloke with greasy shoulder-length hair on the seat in front of me: his every move is considered, as if to say “look at me, look how great I am”. He pulls a cigarette from a packet of Number 6 and ostentatiously taps both ends against the box. It’s something you only need to do with the unfiltered end, the whole purpose being to crimp the paper around any loose tobacco to stop it falling out. This is how I know the bloke is an idiot. He lights it, inhales deeply, and blows six perfect smoke rings. Thick circles of rippling, tightly-configured smoke, all perfectly equidistant from each other. This doesn’t endear me to him either, because I’ve never been able to do that. So I’m jealous. He gets off at the same stop as me and he’s not following me – ‘cause he’s in front – but in single file we make our way to the drama department and I discover that his name is Rik Mayall."