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But should it? Is it really any more dangerous than picking your nose, rooting around in the centre console for an American Hard Gum, or tapping out that great Ginger Baker fill on the top of the dashboard?

Selflessly, and on behalf of all who indulge in the weed, I set myself a simple scientific experiment in order to find out.

The apparatus was as follows: one 2005 Porsche Boxster, mine, with immaculate leather upholstery and absolutely no cack in the little crevices around the switches; one birthday Bolivar, hand-rolled on the glistening thigh of a dusky lovely, and one 20-mile round trip embracing A and B roads, a bit of motorway, a town centre and every other hazard that could lead to airbag deployment and me blowing smoke out of my arse.

I disgorged the cedar-wrapped delicacy from its Zeppelin-like tube and prepared myself for some pure smoking pleasure.

A few problems manifested themselves immediately. Firstly, Porsche seems to be in on the anti-smoking movement and has provided the Boxster with an ashtray that would barely accommodate a packet of Rizlas. The chances of scoring a direct hit with a three-inch slug of spent Bolivar looked pretty slim from the off.

Secondly, the electrical induction device that the handbook probably likes to call a 'cigar lighter' doesn't work, and never has done.

It's a special small-diameter version aimed at people who smoke menthols and was nowhere near big enough to embrace the girth of the great belching engine wedged in my face, Churchillian style.

Fortunately, I had also acquired a box of extra-long, contaminant-free cedarwood matches and struck one at the first set of lights, which I found were not timed in accordance with the requirements of the cigar connoisseur.

The head had barely burnt away, than they had changed to green and in turn instigated a lot of hooting from the Silk Cut Ultra smoker in the Renault behind.