The joy of morphine sulphate

Two football friends, brothers, Mick and Pete, came to visit last week. We’ve been going to matches together since 1969, aged 12, in the good old skinhead days when the police enjoyed a punch-up as much as anybody. We used to travel all over the country on Lacey’s Coaches for away games and looked up to the older hooligans as gods. Those dockers were good honest scrappers, kind, fearless and very fun, in an era long before the sociologists or politicians started paying attention or hooligans wore designer jumpers. Mick still goes with Arthur, his son. Me and Pete haven’t been to a game since the team moved to its soulless new stadium.

They were staying in Languedoc and made a day-long detour to see their old mate, whom they’ve always known as Clarice. Both Spectator readers, they were under the impression, I think, that they would be just in time. They were expecting to pay their hushed last respects to an emaciated, delirious individual breathing his last. To see me not only up and about but toddling joyously down the hill to meet them – shorts, long hair, tan – confounded them, I think.

I suppose the reason I don’t yet look like a chap on his last legs, and am possibly a disappointment, is that I have an appetite still and Catriona is a wonderful cook. The cancer is presently on manoeuvres in the upper storey only, and everything lower down is still operating freely and making hay with her wonderful daubes, lasagnes and chillis. I eat up my dinner and ask for seconds. What makes people with a terminal illness truly look the part, I’m guessing, is malnourishment.

Look closely at me, however, and I’m wheezing like a punctured football.