Today I plan to use the blog to discuss two hot topics: misbehaving footballer Ashley Cole and, though it’s had less press recently, my appendix.
This week, as every time Cole does something awful like sending pictures of his genitals to a floozy, or bedding a hairdresser, or writing an autobiography, the papers were full of defiant pictures of Cheryl looking sexy. There she is at the Brits, giving as fine a vocal performance as one can without using one’s actual voice. There she is with a hat on, even though she’s indoors. There she is cuddling that horribly smooth-faced young oik who won the X Factor. And all over it, headlines: ASHLEY, HOW COULD YOU? WHAT WAS HE THINKING OF? Etc. If you read celeb magazines or listen to pretty much anyone discussing this sorry business, the consensus is the same: Cheryl is beautiful, so Ashley’s bang out of order.
I think this is quite odd. I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to cheat on your partner whether she’s a glamorous Girls Aloud singer or not. I don’t think the standard marriage vows go ‘till death us do part, or until such time as you become tubby’. Rather than emphasising how awesome Cheryl is, people should just be condemning Cole for being the sixth worst person in the world or whatever he is now (I read he’d overtaken Pol Pot). It should be reported as ‘awful man does awful thing’. Not ‘awful man does awful thing to sexy Geordie’. Otherwise we’re missing the point of morality, which is that, unlike almost all the other blessings of the modern world, ugly people are allowed to benefit from it too.
Now, onto my appendix.
The longer my life goes on without this mysterious body part causing me agony, the more suspicious I get that it must have something really special in store for me. It psyches me out, that little tube. It’s the sort of thing you can go for an awfully long time without giving any thought to. I’d go so far to say that I didn’t think about my appendix once for, say, the whole of 2007. But that’s what makes it such a threat. There’s that bit in The Usual Suspects where they say the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist, and I can’t help feeling this is the same sort of deal.
I don’t know what the solution to this is. I just don’t like the thought that whatever non-appendix-related business I fill my days with, it’s there on the sidelines all the time waiting to burst, or get inflamed, or whatever it was that used to occasionally happen to kids at school who then got a week off. And I like even less the idea that, as the doctor confirmed the diagnosis, I’d be thinking ‘I knew it, I bloody knew it’.
Yep, the appendix is like a gun that’s been pointed at my guts for thirty years. All I can really do is have it X-rayed, say, three times a day from now on – once after each meal – and then maybe again before I go to bed, to be on the safe side. I know if it decides to go, there’s not a lot I can do about it. But I’m not letting it have the last laugh because I took it too lightly. That’s all.
If I were a journalist I’d be obliged to end this ‘column’ by linking back to Ashley and Cheryl in some deviously contrived way, e.g. ‘I’m not letting it have the last laugh… and I don’t think Cheryl will let Ashley, either.’ Luckily, as this isn’t a newspaper, I’m free to leave the two glaringly unrelated parts of this blog to sit uneasily together. What will I tackle tomorrow? Crisps and Communism maybe?