Old Goat
Administrator
Picture the scene.
I am driving to work in my own Pajero. I paid for it. I pay for the diesel, insurance, tyres, maintenance and whichever obscure Japanese component has decided to bankrupt me this month.
Beside me sits a grown man who catches a lift with me every day.
He does not smoke. He does not vape. He also contributes precisely bugger-all towards the diesel.
Then the police pull me over and tell me that, under South Africa’s proposed tobacco-control legislation, I may not vape because a non-smoker is sitting in my vehicle.
Right.
He can get out and ask the cops for a lift.
My journey to work can take up to an hour and a half. That drive is my time. It is where I unwind, listen to my music and mentally prepare for work—or recover from it on the way home.
I choose the music. I decide whether we stop at the shop. I decide whether we take a detour. I decide when we leave.
Why?
Because it is my bloody car.
If you climb into my passenger seat expecting a free chauffeur service and then announce that I may not vape for the next ninety minutes, buddy, you can fuck right off.
Before anybody starts shouting “selfish vaper,” let us put some science on the table.
Second-hand vape aerosol is not nothing.
A 2023 vehicle study measured PM2.5 around the passenger seat while people vaped inside their own vehicles. Median particle readings rose from roughly 4.8 micrograms per cubic metre at baseline to 107.4 after a controlled vaping period.
That is a measurable change in air quality. I am not going to insult your intelligence by calling it harmless water vapour.
Another controlled car-and-room study found a much smaller increase. During 30 minutes of vaping, median PM2.5 in the vehicle reached 16 micrograms per cubic metre—roughly twice the baseline. Most airborne-nicotine measurements and every biological marker tested were below the limit of quantification, although some bystanders reported dry throats, irritated eyes and noses, and phlegm.
Different device. Different liquid. Different car. Different puffing. Different ventilation. Very different result.
That matters because there is no single scientific quantity called “second-hand vaping.” A tiny pod used twice beside an open window is not the same exposure as somebody chain-vaping a dual-coil fog machine inside a sealed hatchback.
Vaping changes the air. Passengers may inhale particles, propylene glycol and, depending on the product and conditions, nicotine. A considerate vaper should admit that.
I am an Old Goat, not an inconsiderate arsehole.
If somebody asks me politely not to blow vapour in their face, I will not blow vapour in their face. If a passenger is asthmatic, ill, pregnant or genuinely uncomfortable, we can discuss it like adults.
What I will not accept is government pretending that vaping and smoking are scientifically identical.
They are not.
The US National Academies found moderate evidence that second-hand exposure to nicotine and particles is lower from e-cigarettes than from combustible cigarettes.
A 2024 literature review reached the same broad conclusion: hazardous substances from vaping were generally found at much lower levels than those from cigarette smoke, although second-hand aerosol was not completely benign.
That is the honest answer:
Not harmless. Not cigarette smoke. Not the bloody same thing.
For second-hand cigarette smoke, the case is overwhelming. Combustion produces a toxic mixture with established links to cardiovascular disease, respiratory illness and cancer. The CDC states that there is no risk-free level of second-hand tobacco-smoke exposure.
A systematic review of cigarette smoking inside vehicles found PM2.5 concentrations ranging from 47 to a frankly revolting 12,150 micrograms per cubic metre—even in studies where at least one window was partly open.
Nobody should smoke around children in a car.
Nobody should turn a taxi, work vehicle or public transport into a mobile smoking lounge.
Nobody should deliberately trap an unwilling person in smoke or aerosol.
But the grown man voluntarily accepting a free lift in my Pajero is not a trapped child, paying passenger or employee ordered into a company vehicle.
He knows that I vape.
He is an adult.
He can ask me not to vape. I can decide whether that request is reasonable. We can open a window, wait a few minutes or reach some other arrangement.
And if he does not like the arrangement, he can decline the lift.
Or ask the cops.
Adults negotiate conditions inside private vehicles every day.
I choose the music because I am driving.
I stop at the shop if I need something.
I take a detour if I have somewhere to go.
If I leave later, the lift leaves later.
A free lift does not include a controlling interest in the Pajero.
It certainly does not grant the passenger power to turn my hour-and-a-half decompression period into ninety minutes of irritation because government has decided he is incapable of making an adult decision.
Children deserve firm legal protection because they cannot meaningfully consent or find alternative transport.
Adults can.
That distinction is not an excuse to expose people carelessly. It is the basic difference between protecting somebody and infantilising them.
Government can point to particle measurements and correctly say that second-hand aerosol exists. It must still explain why that fact justifies treating a private agreement between two competent adults like involuntary exposure in a public space.
Measurable exposure does not automatically establish equal harm.
“Not harmless” does not mean “the same as smoking.”
A particle counter does not magically transform droplets of PG and VG into burnt-tobacco soot.
And science does not relieve politicians of the duty to make proportionate laws.
Protect children. Protect vulnerable people. Protect passengers who have no realistic choice.
Tell vapers the truth: your cloud does not disappear into another dimension merely because it smells like mango.
But do not tell me that any adult who plants his arse in my passenger seat automatically acquires statutory authority over my private vehicle.
My car.
My diesel.
My music.
My detours.
My ninety minutes to unwind.
My rules.
If my passenger wants different conditions, he is welcome to discuss them before we leave. If he wants complete control, he can contribute towards the vehicle, arrange his own transport—or ask the police whether their smoke-free taxi service is running.
Until then:
If you want authority over what happens in my Pajero, bring diesel money. Otherwise, bring walking shoes.
Would you support an absolute ban when children are present while allowing informed adults to decide for themselves—or should every passenger automatically turn a private car into a regulated vape-free zone?
I am driving to work in my own Pajero. I paid for it. I pay for the diesel, insurance, tyres, maintenance and whichever obscure Japanese component has decided to bankrupt me this month.
Beside me sits a grown man who catches a lift with me every day.
He does not smoke. He does not vape. He also contributes precisely bugger-all towards the diesel.
Then the police pull me over and tell me that, under South Africa’s proposed tobacco-control legislation, I may not vape because a non-smoker is sitting in my vehicle.
Right.
He can get out and ask the cops for a lift.
My journey to work can take up to an hour and a half. That drive is my time. It is where I unwind, listen to my music and mentally prepare for work—or recover from it on the way home.
I choose the music. I decide whether we stop at the shop. I decide whether we take a detour. I decide when we leave.
Why?
Because it is my bloody car.
If you climb into my passenger seat expecting a free chauffeur service and then announce that I may not vape for the next ninety minutes, buddy, you can fuck right off.
Before anybody starts shouting “selfish vaper,” let us put some science on the table.
Second-hand vape aerosol is not nothing.
A 2023 vehicle study measured PM2.5 around the passenger seat while people vaped inside their own vehicles. Median particle readings rose from roughly 4.8 micrograms per cubic metre at baseline to 107.4 after a controlled vaping period.
That is a measurable change in air quality. I am not going to insult your intelligence by calling it harmless water vapour.
Another controlled car-and-room study found a much smaller increase. During 30 minutes of vaping, median PM2.5 in the vehicle reached 16 micrograms per cubic metre—roughly twice the baseline. Most airborne-nicotine measurements and every biological marker tested were below the limit of quantification, although some bystanders reported dry throats, irritated eyes and noses, and phlegm.
Different device. Different liquid. Different car. Different puffing. Different ventilation. Very different result.
That matters because there is no single scientific quantity called “second-hand vaping.” A tiny pod used twice beside an open window is not the same exposure as somebody chain-vaping a dual-coil fog machine inside a sealed hatchback.
Vaping changes the air. Passengers may inhale particles, propylene glycol and, depending on the product and conditions, nicotine. A considerate vaper should admit that.
I am an Old Goat, not an inconsiderate arsehole.
If somebody asks me politely not to blow vapour in their face, I will not blow vapour in their face. If a passenger is asthmatic, ill, pregnant or genuinely uncomfortable, we can discuss it like adults.
What I will not accept is government pretending that vaping and smoking are scientifically identical.
They are not.
The US National Academies found moderate evidence that second-hand exposure to nicotine and particles is lower from e-cigarettes than from combustible cigarettes.
A 2024 literature review reached the same broad conclusion: hazardous substances from vaping were generally found at much lower levels than those from cigarette smoke, although second-hand aerosol was not completely benign.
That is the honest answer:
Not harmless. Not cigarette smoke. Not the bloody same thing.
For second-hand cigarette smoke, the case is overwhelming. Combustion produces a toxic mixture with established links to cardiovascular disease, respiratory illness and cancer. The CDC states that there is no risk-free level of second-hand tobacco-smoke exposure.
A systematic review of cigarette smoking inside vehicles found PM2.5 concentrations ranging from 47 to a frankly revolting 12,150 micrograms per cubic metre—even in studies where at least one window was partly open.
Nobody should smoke around children in a car.
Nobody should turn a taxi, work vehicle or public transport into a mobile smoking lounge.
Nobody should deliberately trap an unwilling person in smoke or aerosol.
But the grown man voluntarily accepting a free lift in my Pajero is not a trapped child, paying passenger or employee ordered into a company vehicle.
He knows that I vape.
He is an adult.
He can ask me not to vape. I can decide whether that request is reasonable. We can open a window, wait a few minutes or reach some other arrangement.
And if he does not like the arrangement, he can decline the lift.
Or ask the cops.
Adults negotiate conditions inside private vehicles every day.
I choose the music because I am driving.
I stop at the shop if I need something.
I take a detour if I have somewhere to go.
If I leave later, the lift leaves later.
A free lift does not include a controlling interest in the Pajero.
It certainly does not grant the passenger power to turn my hour-and-a-half decompression period into ninety minutes of irritation because government has decided he is incapable of making an adult decision.
Children deserve firm legal protection because they cannot meaningfully consent or find alternative transport.
Adults can.
That distinction is not an excuse to expose people carelessly. It is the basic difference between protecting somebody and infantilising them.
Government can point to particle measurements and correctly say that second-hand aerosol exists. It must still explain why that fact justifies treating a private agreement between two competent adults like involuntary exposure in a public space.
Measurable exposure does not automatically establish equal harm.
“Not harmless” does not mean “the same as smoking.”
A particle counter does not magically transform droplets of PG and VG into burnt-tobacco soot.
And science does not relieve politicians of the duty to make proportionate laws.
Protect children. Protect vulnerable people. Protect passengers who have no realistic choice.
Tell vapers the truth: your cloud does not disappear into another dimension merely because it smells like mango.
But do not tell me that any adult who plants his arse in my passenger seat automatically acquires statutory authority over my private vehicle.
My car.
My diesel.
My music.
My detours.
My ninety minutes to unwind.
My rules.
If my passenger wants different conditions, he is welcome to discuss them before we leave. If he wants complete control, he can contribute towards the vehicle, arrange his own transport—or ask the police whether their smoke-free taxi service is running.
Until then:
If you want authority over what happens in my Pajero, bring diesel money. Otherwise, bring walking shoes.
Would you support an absolute ban when children are present while allowing informed adults to decide for themselves—or should every passenger automatically turn a private car into a regulated vape-free zone?
