Like Archduke, Viceroy, Prince or Tsar,
I languish in once-Grand Hotels
of Matlock, Droitwich, Woodhall Spa,
Strathpeffer, Crieff, Llandrindod Wells,
and slim as hard as anyone
(starved half to death in Leamington.)
I've lain encased in Malvern mud
without emerging any thinner.
Buxton might have done me good
but following that eight-course dinner
(a recipe for chronic gout)
I was invalided out.
One tiptoe down the primrose path
(Bollinger and chocolate cake -
one small indulgence when in Bath)
seemed not to palliate the ache.
The Turkish baths of Harrogate
don’t wash. I just put on more weight.
They dub me gourmet, bon viveur;
but surely you’d expect a treat
if some burly brute masseur
had pummelled you to sausage meat?
For pity's sake, I would have thought
I've earned one tiny glass of port!
Haunting pump rooms, I'm immured
in glum, run-down Victorian splendour.
Nibbling, sipping, I've matured
till, rather portlier than slender,
I set all diets at defiance.
My symptoms have defeated science:
this stubborn, unexplained complaint
and its stomach-rumbling cure
would try the patience of a saint.
Here for the season, I endure
the regimen, and with distaste
I slowly fast. But what a waist.