Back in the 1700s, resuscitation was less defibrillator drama, more chimney sweep improv. Doctors—ever the optimists—decided one possible cure for apparent death was to insert a tube into the unfortunate’s rectum… and blow tobacco smoke straight up it.
Yes. That actually happened.
They believed the nicotine hit might stimulate the lungs or jolt the heart. Pipes were fashioned. Bellows were used. Somewhere along the Thames, a man in a waistcoat probably shouted, “HE’S NOT DEAD, HE’S JUST SULKING!”
It gets better: the Royal Humane Society kept kits near rivers for emergency resmoking. Imagine pulling someone out of the water and thinking, “Right, where’s the arse-tube?”
Shit job? Absolutely. But in an era without hazard pay or therapy, the upside was clear: free fags and fewer hours mucking out the lepers. Every puff a gamble, every bellow a prayer.
And that, dear reader, is where the phrase “blowing smoke up your arse” began. Not a metaphor. Not a myth. Just medicine at its most delightfully deranged.