My favourite warning photograph on cigarette packets is the one of the lady coughing up blood into a handkerchief. There is something terribly beguiling about the woman. I much prefer it to the chap blowing smoke into a baby’s face or the man staring forlornly at his own, apparently malfunctioning, penis.
When these images were first introduced I used to find it fun to collect them, much as I did football cards as a kid. It got to the point where the woman at the cigarette counter in my local supermarket would keep the rare ones back for me. “Would you like the man with a hole in his throat, the bloke with no legs, or the woman standing by her husband’s grave?”