It probably comes as no surprise to those that know me well, that I do not engage in anything that may be described as strenuous. This is primarily because I made myself a promise, on leaving the armed forces many moons ago, that I wasn’t going to run flat out for anything or anyone ever again. I live at a sedate pace. I walk with my dogs, I don’t run with them. I do not own a bicycle. I drive a car. Everywhere. I prefer to relax in my armchair than work my ass off in the garden and I eat what I like and smoke my pipe and drink beer. I also eat at least one Mars bar a day and have a well developed sweet tooth. I weigh 110 Kilograms, my blood pressure, measured last week, is 140 over 83. I have no idea what that means, but it is supposed to be around the ideal. Woo-hoo!
Beyond that, I get to go to work five days a week and that can be a regular work out in itself, every Monday to Friday. Physical activity is not my best, nor favourite, subject under life’s curriculum.
The health nuts don’t like me. I am seldom sick. I do not visit my doctor weekly. I do not suffer from depressions, nervous disorders, a dodgy ticker or anything else that my chosen lifestyle should cause me to suffer from. I am 56 years old this year and still going very strong, thank you. I have only been in hospital once in my life. For colic. I was twenty three at the time. A young and very fit soldier.
What’s this all about, you may ask? Well, I heard the news today and, once more, the nanny state do-gooders are about to infringe on my private life again. The latest suggestion from the oh-so concerned Social Democrat guardians of my welfare, whether I like it or not, is to have shops and supermarkets remove sweets and cigarettes from public view.
Sugar and smoke. The two single most deadly substances known to the green people. The fat crusaders have joined the fray along with the anti-smokers and the anti-drinkers, believing that by banning anything enjoyable, we shall all live forever.
Wonderful. More bloody nonsense from the anti-life brigade.
At the same time, though apparently not worthy of the same depth of coverage, the news also reported the finding of a jogger in someone’s drive. He was dead. He probably jogged himself to death. A form of suicide by which many have shuffled off the mortal coil of late, as the health nuts get us up out of our comfortable armchairs where we sit with our pipes full of poisonous weed and eat our sticky, heart clogging chocolate bars. Had this health fanatic been sharing my experience at the time, he would still be alive today. I don’t jog. I wouldn’t dream of it. My body is built for comfort, not speed. This guy just sped himself into an early grave. He was 57 years old. Strangely enough, the report didn’t mention whether or not this guy smoked, drank, ate sweets or just took his time to sit for a few hours a day, relax and ponder life’s complexities in silent pursuit of the inner peace that smoking my dreaded and, now proven, not so dangerous pipe brings me. I know what works for me, and physical exertion ain’t it. I’m in no hurry to overwork my vital body parts.
Here’s the thing. We’re all gonna die. You, me, my wife, my kids, your wife, your kids, your husband. The greens, the reds, the in betweens and the do-gooders. The criminals, the insane and the geniuses. All of us. The question is, how much you are going to enjoy yourself while you are able to enjoy yourself? I believe the content among us live longer than those who worry themselves over everything and, especially, on other’s behalf.
As I said somewhere else in a moment of inspiration, I don’t have a due by date stamped on my ass. I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow. So for now at least, I will enjoy what I like while I can. I may not live longer than you but I will have a good time of it while I’m here. If I do live longer than you, well, then I was right!
Now let’s see, pipe, tobacco, beer and a Mars bar. Yep, got it all. What’s on the TV?