This may come as a shock to all you non-smoking, non-drinking, yoga-practicing, mung bean-eating healthy types but YOU TOO will die.
And you might even die before me — a drinker, a smoker, a person who has never set foot in a gym in his life (fuck that, gym is for numpties), who considers jogging to be possibly the most stupid activity ever invented and who believes that all those lycra-clad cyclists who clog up the roads are in fact nothing more than closet homosexuals with a fetish for tight clothing and ostentatious crotch display (I mean, I’m gay and even I find the whole lycra-clad crotch thing disturbing…).
I mean, I’m not suggesting you just lie back and mainline cheese-burgers through every orifice (though that does have its attractions) — I myself like to swim in the sea, I walk a lot and I do pay (moderate) attention to my weight. What I’m saying is what is the point of taking the whole exercise/eating ‘healthy’ food (food a hungry rabbit would turn its nose up at) thing too far? What is the point of those masochistic hours spent in the gym, surrounded by brain-dead stick insects or steroid-injecting Neanderthals or jogging yourself into needing a new pair of knees by the time you’re 50? Most particularly, can you explain to me in what Universe is there any point in denying yourself the pleasure of a cool beer, a bar of chocolate, or a crafty bowl of ice-cream? Really, come on, what is the point of yet another stupid fad diet when there’s pies to be eaten and a nice bottle of red to be drunk?
Because at the end of the day, all that ‘healthy living’ is no protection against the next lunatic who decides to pick up a gun and start shooting people dead, it’s no protection against a new virus or antibiotic-resistant bacterium that decides to have a pop at you and it’s no defense against the random, sometimes beneficent, but all too often inexplicably and unforgivably cruel, Blind Old Weaver of Fate.
And let’s be brutally, frankly honest here— the best you’ll achieve with all that healthy stuff is to outlive your friends and loved ones, get really old, get Alzheimer’s and end your days mumbling to yourself, dribbling and rocking back and forth in a lonely, cold room in a piss-reeking old peoples home. Oh, and then, guess what, you’ll die and your last thought will probably be ‘damn, was that it, was that my life?I wish I hadn’t lived so bloody long and had a bit more fun, instead…’
So — live, love, eat, drink — its far, far better to be fat and happy than to be slim and miserable!
If you liked this, you’ll also like my outrageous, rude, completely not political correct novel set in the world of (highly dysfunctional) celebrity – ‘Dying To Be Famous’: