Get Them Fell In

I spent last week as a National Health patient in the local Taunton hospital with a painful and undignified affliction called a fistula, on which I do not propose to dwell. Unlike many people, I flourish in hospital; I enjoy operations and adore the attention of pretty, sympathetic, efficient young nurses in their ravishingly attractive uniforms. On the first and only occasion I was asked to appear on the BBC’s Any Questions—it must have been about ten years ago and I have an uneasy feeling that if I was going to be asked again, I would have heard by now—somebody asked where the panel would like to spend its retirement. At the time, I was rather taken with mental hospitals, as I was visiting a friend who had temporarily lost a few screws, so I brightly remarked that I would like to spend mine in a loony-bin.

The other guests were Enoch Powell, Lord Wigg, and the inevitable Mar-ghanita Laski. Everybody was rather nervous at the time in case Enoch said something shocking. I can’t remember where Enoch said he would like to spend his retirement—probably on some Greek island or other—but when he was speaking the telephone rang on David Jacobs’ desk and we all relapsed into terrified silence.

AW

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Auberon Waugh

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I spent last week as a National Health patient in the local Taunton hospital with a painful and undignified affliction called a fistula, on which I do not propose to dwell. Unlike many people, I flourish in hospital; I enjoy operations and adore the attention of pretty, sympathetic, efficient young nurses in their ravishingly attractive uniforms. On the first and only occasion I was asked to appear on the BBC’s Any Questions—it must have been about ten years ago and I have an uneasy feeling that if I was going to be asked again, I would have heard by now—somebody asked where the panel would like to spend its retirement. At the time, I was rather taken with mental hospitals, as I was visiting a friend who had temporarily lost a few screws, so I brightly remarked that I would like to spend mine in a loony-bin.

The other guests were Enoch Powell, Lord Wigg, and the inevitable Mar-ghanita Laski. Everybody was rather nervous at the time in case Enoch said something shocking. I can’t remember where Enoch said he would like to spend his retirement—probably on some Greek island or other—but when he was speaking the telephone rang on David Jacobs’ desk and we all relapsed into terrified silence.