I hardly ever read the insufferable, whiny Liz Jones (former editor of some girls’ magazine, now columnist for the Daily Mail and a lifelong Train Smash Woman), but this article’s headline caught my eye, and I found myself nodding in agreement.
Shouty headlines on Friday morning proclaimed: ‘Couple of glasses a night shortens life by two years! Much more than four bottles a week can lop off five years!’
By that count, I should have died four years ago.
I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve really needed a drink (as opposed to just wanting one), but I’m with Liz this time.
I have always wondered about the veracity of these scare stories, thinking, well, what if your wine glasses are really small?
As Loyal Readers know well, I don’t believe any of these shitty studies and / or scare stories anymore, because all you have to do is wait a couple months, and another study will come out and completely contradict the earlier one. Most of the time, they’ve all been written by scolds and busybodies who want to tell us how to live our lives — and by the way, when did every fucking thing become a matter of public health?
And Miz Jones surely has a point with this thought:
And I cannot help wondering why everyone wants to prolong a life that will inevitably be joyless, as if this were our only ambition.
There’s nothing to look forward to at the end of the day. No point sitting on a terrace with a beautiful view as, with no stem in your hand, all that’s left to do is fiddle with your phone. No reason to crave the interval during a play; I tend to slope off home at half-time, the prospect of Act Two too tedious without bubbles.
There’s no point winning an award or getting married or getting out of bed on Christmas morning. I’m generally asleep by nine, as there’s nothing to do. Nothing to dull the loss of a parent or child. Nothing to hold.
Here’s the thing: speaking for myself, I don’t need any of those reasons to have a drink, not a single one. But I can quite understand why someone else would want or need a drink on those occasions — whether out of joy, sorrow, or just wanting to relax.
As I said, it’s a rare occasion indeed when I agree with Liz Jones; but on this occasion, despite her irritating demeanor, I find myself in full agreement with her sentiment towards these tools: just leave me the hell alone and quit trying to scare me into living my life the way you want me to.
Scary stories are supposed to frighten children into better behavior. And by trying that tactic on adults, it reveals exactly what these “public health” Nazis think we are.
Fuck them all. Time for a healthy breakfast:
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I have finally beat my tendency to be a fat alcoholic by eating and drinking what I want but only when I actually want it. Age seems to have taught how to differentiate between what I want and what I think I want.
Yesterday while traveling through the Gatwick airport I definitely wanted a full English breakfast and a pint of one of the local red ales to wash it down. I was in a chain pub, the Red Lion, but the very pleasant girl behind the bar helped me to order enough extras and accessories to their stock “large breakfast” to make it a proper good damn meal.
The waitress who delivered it to our table told me the cook appreciated someone who appreciated him, had given it his all and added a few bits of this and that without charge. Only problem is that the various belches, gurgles and farts that ensue are problematic when airborne.
Nonsense. That’s part of the joy of a meal well loved. And if anyone asks, blame it on the differential pressures caused by flying.
I had a family member in the local emergency room a few days ago for a minor health scare. There were not many people there – except for a slow parade of women in (at least) their 90’s being rolled in. No thanks.
My mom had to spend the last year of her life in a nursing facility. I’m sure she would have gladly given up that year if she could have passed at home, her scotch in one hand and her Pall Mall in the other.
Love the pic!