There really is no smoke without fire

Preoccupation with one’s appearance is to be expected when starting at University. New wardrobes and even newer anxieties combine as the daunting concept of Fresher’s Week approaches. Coming from a working-class background, these feelings are inevitably amplified when starting at an institution like Oxford. One only wishes to fit in – a daunting challenge in a University drenched in tradition, history, known for its generational wealth and privilege.

We look to what we can control: our appearances, subtle behaviours. We want to put forward our best selves, but also feel confident with the people around us. But there are certainly some behaviours that you would never expect to carry social meaning. Nicotine, for me at least, was certainly not one of them.

Growing up in a deprived seaside town, my classic night out before university might include some drinks in our sticky local Wetherspoons before shuffling across the road to an equally grubby nightclub. Not before a quick pit stop at the brightly lit ‘Vape Selection’, where a cash-only lemon and lime Crystal Bar awaited us. This route was well-trodden, as many an LED light and fruit-flavoured puff marked the darkened club. Rarely, if we were fortunate enough to afford a pack (or more realistically, leech from someone else), the rogue Malboro would make an appearance. 

There was something exclusive about the cigarette, how when someone lit one up, the herds would come running. I found myself enjoying being that person with the packet, as I would exchange bizarre details about my life with strangers in the club’s smoking area. ‘Smoking socially’, in all senses of the term, gave me a buzz. As an extrovert, I was happy to be a part of the 11.6% of 18-24 year olds who enjoyed a late night fag and a deep chat. 

While I had always viewed smoking as a luxury, largely down to its price, I had never viewed anyone any differently for puffing on a Superking or an Elf Bar. There was no hierarchy, nor was it a marker of identity. But university changed that. 

The vape, in Oxford, is practically extinct. Or rather, it is hidden. I noticed how friends who did enjoy a Lost Mary would do so discreetly: a quick inhale before it disappeared hurriedly into a pocket. But the cigarette, on the other hand, was a different story. 

People seemed proud to smoke. They would gather in groups, almost parading their cigarettes, as they dramatically lit one up for a friend. Whether in a pub garden, outside a bar, or simply walking down the street, I would see the same calculated raising of the filter to the mouth, a deep, slow puff, before the cathartic, eye-roll that came with the exhale. It was almost choreographed in its performance. It was alluring, with something frankly sexual about it. 

The return of early 2000s beauty and fashion is nothing new. Clothes are branded with Y2K labels in shop windows, while unhealthily skinny bodies walk down red carpets. ‘Heroine chic’ is back, as dark circles, hollow cheekbones, and malnutrition are flaunted as a physical ideal – particularly for women. Health is not in. Instead, we see something darker and grittier in these trends… certainly exacerbated by frequent paparazzi shots of Paul Mescal, Sabrina Carpenter, and Charli XCX taking a drag. 

However, what struck me was not the universality of this ‘trend’. People have always mimicked celebrities: that is old news. But it was this distinction between the chic, glorified, and even fetishised cigarette, versus the villainisation and trivialisation of the disposable vape that I could not comprehend. Until university showed me its roots in classism. 

The average vape’s bright colouring, cheap price (averaging around £3-5), and sweet flavours make it uncool. A lesser commodity compared to cigarettes, which comparatively average at around £13-20 per pack. I joked with friends about how people were able to afford this lifestyle on a student budget, as I rationed my pack of 20 to last as long as possible. But not only this, I found it hilarious the way in which people paraded around with their cigarettes in Oxford. They were treated like some kind of armour, a status symbol, while I watched my friend shamefully rush their lemon and lime back into their pocket. 

Despite Gen Z’s hyperexposure to the damages that cigarettes can cause via campaigns throughout the 2010s, it was clear that this performance was a symptom of something different. A broader aesthetic desire to appear scruffy, frazzled, and messy, in a way that mimics the working class but conveniently excludes the implications of that. It was poverty porn at its finest – the performance of class as style.  

I grew up with a single mum ashamed of her smoking, a feeling which certainly influenced me as I was told to “stay away” from cigarettes, that I would be broke from my first puff. Cigarettes were never glamorous – they were a burden, both financial and physical. I would never have imagined that, in a different context, they could become something to display with pride.

And yet, here they are – no longer hidden behind cupped hands or apologetic glances, but held aloft, aestheticised, transformed into something aspirational.

What feels most jarring is not the smoking itself, but the selective romanticisation of it. The same act that signified struggle in one context becomes style in another. The difference is not the cigarette, but who is holding it.

In the end, the smoke may dissipate, but its signal is all too clear.