WELL, if dear old Tony Blair ever gets the bullet (I mean politically, of course), we have our man: John Reid, the Health Secretary. Anyone brave — or foolish — enough to provoke the wrath of that most self-satisfied of lobbies, the anti-smoking brigade, gets my vote. The 8.20am Today slot with John Humphrys will seem like a spell on the Richard and Judy sofa after ASH has finished with him.

Mr Reid’s sin is to suggest that, were one unfortunate enough to find oneself living on a sink estate, a quick fag at the end of a long day of broken lifts, foul smells and social workers might not be the worst thing in the world.

ASH immediately weighed in with its usual bleating about second-hand smoke and unempowered bar workers. But I suppose what really got ASH’s goat was the comment about smoking being “an obsession of the learned middle classes”. I don’t know what an average ASH meeting is like, but I suspect it doesn’t take place on the 45th floor of a tower block while hooded youths patrol the corridors with baseball bats.

It is quite diplomatic of Mr Reid to call the middle classes “learned”. What he really means, of course, is opinionated, which is just a polite word for bossy. As self-appointed arbiters of all that is Right and Decent, Middle England does have a habit of trying to force its views on everyone else. Anyone who disagrees is chastised for being irresponsible.

Smoking, along with obesity, speed bumps, foxhunting, GM foods and the breastfeeding of your baby, are all busybody issues. They appeal to a peculiarly middle-class British mentality, one that naturally assumes that its lifestyle choices, based as they are on a careful appraisal of the facts, a strategic assessment of the risks and an awful lot of chablis-fuelled dinner-party debate, are the right and only course of action.

In the past, such unfettered self-belief propelled us to world domination. Nowadays we turn our attentions closer to home. Like many middle-income, middle Englanders living in London, my house is within easy drive-by-shooting distance of several large estates. Each day, vastly overweight teen-agers from the local comprehensive waddle past my gate, shedding crisp packets as they go. In the afternoons, girls who ought to be sitting their GCSEs perambulate past with their progeny, sharing fags as they head for the local one o’clock club. Every middle-class bone in my body shudders in horror; I am hardwired to disapprove.

I have no right, of course. What do I know about their circumstances, who am I to judge them? But the truth is, they upset me. Not so much because of my strong social conscience; more because they destabilise my middle-class certainties, impinge on my own calorie-controlled, organically certified idyll. In short, they spoil the view.

What I would like most of all is for everyone to be like me. To re-cycle, to eat their greens, to drive within the speed limit, to exercise regularly, to read edifying bedtime stories to their children. But I am a fool. Those kids wandering past my house no more want to be me than I want to be them. It would be the most unutterable pomposity to assume otherwise. And that is why Mr Reid is so right and ASH is so wrong.

Of course, the annoying thing is that on the matter of smoking, ASH is right. It is a filthy habit, and if you do too much of it, it will cost you your health. But if your circumstances are dire, and your life is getting on your nerves anyway, it is a far better option than, say, a £10 bag of smack. It is a relatively cheap, relatively harmless, release. Ditto sugary snacks. When you risk your life daily just by stepping out of your front door, what difference is one more triple McChicken burger going to make?

It is those in happier socioeconomic circumstances who have the time and the inclination to worry about such things. Once you have eliminated all immediate risk and genuine hardship from your life, you start to look farther afield. Your home is a smoke-free zone — why not your your local pub? Your child goes all mushy over the local urban fox cubs — let’s force our dur-brained country cousins to stop killing them. You breastfed little Gypsy until she was 2, and as a consequence she now has an IQ of 175. Well, bully for you, but some of us have jobs to go back to.

What we need are more politicians like Mr Reid. People who, however cackhandedly, at least try to see the other point of view. Mr Reid’s 21-year-old single mum on her sink estate may not have much of a voice but she ought at least to have the right to a gasper.

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