It was the first day back at school after the Christmas holidays. I was 14 and the school was a comprehensive, just outside of Richmond, Surrey. A rough place, its’ catchment area was full of council houses with working class families, many moved from the bombed-out dockland areas after the second world war. The government policy at the time was to split up the riff raff amongst “New Towns” all over the country to pulverise their collective bolshieness. The boys supported Chelsea, Millwall, Spurs, Arsenal, and other shitty London clubs with violent supporters. The predominant atmosphere at the school was one of aggression and “gobbing” was popular, with some lads virtuosos in the art of hawking fat balls of spit over incredible distances at unfortunate pupils.

We gathered in a lecture room, not our normal classrooms, for the start of term. Two male teachers walked in, with their corduroy jackets with the wide lapels. One of them faced the assembled hooligans and said “Right, it’s off the B and H, and back on the Number 6”.

B and H meant Benson and Hedges cigarettes, which came in a flashy gold packet and were relatively expensive. Number 6 came in a shoddy packet and were the cheapest make. I tried smoking them once and even my inexperienced teenage taste buds could tell they were rubbish.

The phrase has stuck in my mind ever since, poetic in its brevity and simplicity, yet brutal in the assumption that those 14-year-olds all were smokers. Which I guess most of them were.