Updates from Stealthvape

We did it people, it’s official – we made vaping sexy. Those with little else to do and extraordinary memories will recall that we demanded everybody make a special effort. Well you did, even if you didn’t know it. You, Auntie Gladys, Barry Onions from the bookies, you all did it. You sexy beasts, you.

Department of Health’s new Tobacco Control Plan “Towards a smoke-free generation” offers up something that nobody previously thought possible, a way to unite people on either side of the Brexit debate. In one short, swift sentence, the government stated that leaving the European Union will open up an opportunity for harm reduction and the reversal of restrictions placed on vape manufacturers and vendors.

By the end of this year there will be 2.2 billion people playing video games. They will have spent £0.9 billion over the twelve months on disks and downloads. But gamers have been getting more than just some software to play with, and this has serious ramifications for vapers and tobacco harm reduction. Is vaping Doomed?

We need to ban vaping. No, you don’t need a herring aid. We’ve contemplated life if it carries on under the Tobacco Products Directive - and fins are serious. We’ve not been at the sauce, we aren’t pickled. Kipper lid on it for the moment, but we reckon we’ve sean … err, sea’n … no, this isn’t working, the pun machine is broke

Before Tom Hanks saved the lives of airline passengers, by masterfully guiding the stricken aircraft into water, he ran Disney. He’s been a cowboy, solved daft puzzles in Paris and collected special winter train tickets. Normal people don’t get to do this much stuff, but that’s because they’ve not been alive since World War II, (where Tom saved Matt Damon so he could go on to become the worst Batman ever). Thanks for that last one, Tom. Thanks a lot.

Do you remember when ole whatisface started vaping at some award ceremony for Americans? How about her, that singer nobody has heard of, when she created mayhem in the States because she vape…oh, let’s face it, nobody cares. Nobody on this side of the Atlantic knows who these celebrities are or what they do. In the United Kingdom, if tabloids and TV scheduling are to be believed, we care about one thing: shallow young people fumbling and frotting with each other on a tropical island.

Do you remember 1979? Odds are that you don’t because you are either too young or, if old enough, your mind has slowly started to ebb. If you show someone my age a picture of a packet of tasty Tooty Frooties their eyes will light up and they’ll then be able to recall the great Mod revival of the time. It consisted of three songs, one of which was Time For Action by Secret Affair.

“The problem is,” they say, “that there’s not enough information out there – we simply don’t know…” and it is at this point you can cut them off. Rather than there being no research, there is so much of the stuff that it has become impossible to keep on top of it all.

We were there, and it just goes to show the bias in the media that you know nothing about it. We were there with the Beckhams, the Foos and the Biffy Sheeran. They all lied, it wasn’t Corby crowds – they were there for Stealthvape and we have the pictures to prove it. Yes, we were definitely at Glastonbury. Honest.

It was the summer of ’69, but I didn’t know anybody with a porch. “Oh, and when you held my hand - I knew that it was now or never,” sang Bryan Adams. Someone was holding my hand, it was the ambulance lady, and blood was cascading down my face. David Somebodyorother was in too much of a hurry to get out to play, Thatcher hadn’t got her act together, and my face was shoved into a crate of milk bottles.