Chiswick High Road is posh, innit (posher now that I don't sully it with my local residence). We don't do cigars down here in the badlands, just big fat blunts. Usually a ganster-wannabe on a stolen Apollo full suss, wobbling down the pavement, chugging like a marijuana-powered steam train, can of strong lager wedged between hand and trigger shifter, mobile in the other hand, pressed permanently against the ear. Pure, south London class.