Keith’s elegantly wasted days started when his grandfather let him have his first drag on a cigarette in New Cross.
From the autobiography p, 46:
Gus never bored me. On New Cross station late at night in deep fog, Gus gave me my first dog end to smoke. “No one will see.” A familiar Gusism was to greet a friend with “hello, don’t be a cunt all your life.” The delivery so beautifully flat, so utterly familiar. I loved the man. A cuff round the head. “You never heard that.” “What, Gus?”
Grandfathers get away with that sort of shit al the time, I’ve noticed.