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 HEALTH IS BACK IN FASHION.
It’s stylish, New Age, progressive, and CHEAP. Yes cheap.
This is what has me, and others of my ilk, clambering on the “healthy
holiday” bandwagon. All you have to do is book an inexpensive
airline ticket, Standing-And-Barfing-In-Toilet Class if possible.
You fly to an exotic beach destination, squeeze into your spandex
day-glo bikini or palm-tree-print boxer trunks and proceed, languorously,
to starve yourself. If there’s not too much complaint, you
can starve your family as well.
It has been scientifically
proven that there is a direct correlation between near-death food-deprivation
and high self esteem, healthy marital relationships, sexual prowess,
speedy immigration queues, Vogue covers and nirvana, though I’m
not sure exactly what.
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As I dragged my
half-starved carcass about Koh Samui, it came as no surprise then
when a visiting lovely sashayed up to me with a smile that could
melt a safe. I won’t begin to tell you what it did to my PDA,
watch and mobile phone – but, thankfully, I had insurance.
I suggested we get to know each other over coffee but she had a
better idea. “Why don’t you join me for a colonic irrigation?”
she cooed, beaming, melting my Cross pen and key-chain.
I offered her a coffee. She suggested a colonic irrigation, which is a rather different way of imbibing caffeine
This is a rather
different way of imbibing coffee, and one favoured by healthy New
Age types. It involves common household appliances, like the garden
hose and a fire hydrant which, imaginatively combined with something
like the Iraq Oil Pipeline, can be put to a profound, new purpose.
This is something the ancient Mayans practised in Mexico, except
they used alcohol. It was a neat way to get sozzled without a hangover
or an aching tummy. The Mayans realised, as have modern colonic
experts, that it is not a good idea to consume hot Brandy Alexander
with a large pineapple garnish, this way.
“Colonic
irrigation, eh?” I gasped. “WOW!” I was sorely
tempted but, fearing the soreness this temptation might cause, I
politely declined. Anyhow I couldn’t afford to have any more
of my expensive personal items – like teeth fillings –
reduced to molten crud. I retreated out of range of that laser smile.
I said at the start
of this column that starvation is free. Right? Wrong. Times have
changed. These days you fly to an exotic beach destination, squeeze
into your spandex day-glo bikini or palm-tree-print boxer trunks
and proceed, languorously, to starve yourself at a Spa Resort or
Wellness Centre where you get charged astronomical prices in return
for no food and no alcohol. If you make a fuss, they turn on the
Iraq Oil Pipeline, which is one way to apply pressure. I have never
seen anyone who actually looks well at a Wellness Centre.
Spa menus are about as incomrehensible as French restaurant menus with one difference. French menus come with food
Today, people pay
through their noses to splash out on holidays where they are starved,
deprived of alcohol, whipped with seaweed, and have their skin stripped
off – though the menu may intriguingly describe it as a soothing
skin-glow Balinese “lulur” etc. Spa menus are about
as incomprehensible as French restaurant menus but with one difference.
French menus come with food, even if it’s just one nouvelle
pea tobogganing around a large, empty plate. In medieval times,
people who believed the earth was flat, still had the commonsense
to correctly describe the process of “exfoliation” as
being “flayed alive”.
As I backed away
from the fatal attractions of the Samui Spa Resort, one resident
who looked like he’d been tossing bottles with SOS messages
into the sea for years, dragged his bony frame across. With eyes
sunk so far back in his head he had to tie a bandana to keep them
in, he gasped, “I have never felt better in my life.”
I was about to call his mother but decided to call Vogue instead.
“I’VE FOUND A COVER MODEL WITH SHARP CHEEK BONES BUT
YOU’D BETTER GET HERE QUICK.”
When my brother
and I were kids my mother would strip us down to, well… not
much, save for startled expressions, and proceed to vigorously massage
us with mustard oil. Then we had to sit in the garden, under a blazing
Indian sun, attracting solar Vitamin D and sneaky glances from the
girl next door who watched through the hedge. She would later report
these events to the entire school population along with a review
of the Verghese family attributes or lack of them.
Yes, growing up
was healthy. I believe my mother invented the first Indian Spa &
Wellness Centre, right on our front lawn. AND IT WAS FREE. Oil was
cheap, and so were several of my young neighbour’s comments.
My brother and I learned a valuable lesson right there and then.
If you’ve got it, flaunt it. If not, holler like hell to get
the hedge converted into a solid seven-feet-high brick wall –
if Ariel Sharon is free. What’s for dinner?
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