At the end of the month, smoking will be outlawed in enclosed public places throughout the UK, which means pubs, clubs, swimming pools, paddling pools, and probably other places as well, but it would seem like a waste of time to list them all here. Churches, shops, swimming pools, paddling pools, you get the idea. Apparently, signs have to be placed at the entrance to all such places, informing the public that they can’t smoke beyond that point. One wonders if “No Affray” and “No Grevious Bodily Harm” notices will also have to be nailed up. Anyway, I can’t wait for all this to kick off; I’m a big fan of socialising with other human beings, but much less keen on returning home smelling of Benson, or indeed Hedges. But, at the same time, I also recognise that such a momentous day in our country’s history should be marked in some way, so when Will suggested paying a final visit to some London bars noted for their selection of cigars, I was keen.

Having said that, I missed last week’s trip to Claridges through poverty and associated apathy. But yesterday I was geared up for going to the Library Bar at the Lanesborough Hotel at Hyde Park Corner. “Two rules,” Will informed me. “Wear a suit, and switch your mobile phone off.” We met up at the nearby Nag’s Head, a tiny Irish pub on a small side-street off Knightsbridge. I was sweating profusely by the time I arrived – it’s June, you know – and Will kindly bought two pints, which cost £7. “Seven?” he asked. “Yes,” replied the barmaid. “Right.” We also ordered some food; the choice was restricted to sausages, chilli, or shepherd’s pie. “Or,” said the barmaid, “I might be able to do you a sandwich.” Each dish was priced at £6.95, but at the bottom of the menu, in small print, it pointed out that there was a £1.50 surcharge in the evenings, for some unfathomable and indefensible reason. The barmaid rounded the cost of two meals up to £17, which was nice of her. I then clocked the “No Mobile Phones” sign in big letters, at which point my phone rang. It was Elliot, who was coming up from South London, wearing a suit. I quickly told him where the pub was and shoved the phone in my bag. “You know there’s a £5 fine for doing that,” said a bloke sitting nearby. Bloody nonsense, I dunno. The food arrived – the kind of sub-school dinner pub mush that gastropubs were supposed to erase from the culinary map. Keith arrived. He also bought an expensive pint and some food, which came with luminous carrots that Keith later said had “been through a deflavourizer.” But Keith, as ever, used his unique charm to turn the barmaid from an evil, snapping harridan into a smiling, benevolent soul. This helped Keith get away with loudly taking the piss out of the clichéd Irish folk music on the stereo in a terrible Irish accent. He’d only had one drink by this point.

Elliot arrived, and we walked to the Lanesborough. “I was talking about cigars with someone the other day,” said Keith, “but I got humidor confused with thermador, which is obviously something to do with lobsters.” Cigars in a white sauce and topped with grated cheese doesn’t appeal to me, I must say. The Library Bar is a grand old room, properly equipped with a pianist playing light classics, his audience all engaged in a desperate smoke-off. Jenny arrived, and was surprised to see four men she knows fairly well wearing unfamiliar and over-smart clothing. A round of Martinis were ordered at £12.50 a pop; some of us made a quick decision that this wasn’t going to be a heavy night of drinking. But not Keith, who quickly moved onto a second, while exchanging slightly embarrassing banter with the pianist. It was time for cigars; we were brought an extensive menu of eye-wateringly expensive smokes, of which the cheapest was the Montecristo No.4. “Er, I think we’ll be having Montecristo No.4s,” giggled Will. Sadly, there were no Montecristo No.4s left, all having been snaffled by previous bunches of cheapskates on commemorative visits, so we upgraded ourselves to various cigars that all cost around £15 each. While trying to light mine, the match snapped, the lit end falling on my trousers and blazing alarmingly on the cheap synthetic fibre. I brushed it onto the floor, where it continued to burn. I picked it up and threw it into the ashtray, the contents of which immediately caught fire. The table now in hysterics, a phalanx of waiters ran around the corner to see what the commotion was, but by this time the blaze was under control.

“I think I need another drink, don’t you?” said Keith to the waiter, who replied “Of course”, while wearing an expression that said “of course you f*cking don’t, you pissed bastard.” Keith was now on his third martini, and he followed this up with a glass of Rioja that he ordered without bothering to check the cost (and with bottles of wine going for several hundred pounds, this was somewhat careless.) He began to sing “On The Sunny Side of The Street” along with the pianist, and to be honest he went down quite well with the other drinkers, but not with the staff, who began to look nervous, thinking that we were exactly the kind of people who would leg it out of the building without paying. I called for the bill, which arrived in triple quick time. I took a peek. £208, service not included. “How much?” murmured Keith. I told him. Keith started to cry with laughter, howling “Two hundred and eight!!! Hahaha!” at the top of his voice. Keith may sound horribly embarrassing – and he frequently can be – but there’s often just something about his delivery that makes you laugh along with him instead, and that’s what I chose to do. We scrawled some drunken mathematics on the bill, worked out what everyone owed – Keith came top! – and got up to leave. “Thank you,” I said to the waiter as we left. Keith staggered up to him, with a smile as wide as the Mississippi. “Look!” said Keith, “We’re wearing SUITS!!” “Indeed, sir,” came the reply. We walked, lung-damaged and skint, into the night.

(That bill in full.)