Wellness Can Do One

I was in a café the other day – one of those places where the menu looks like it was written by a depressed poet. This young one turned up and the young ’un behind the counter asked her if she wanted her turmeric latte with “oat” or “almond mylk.” I couldn’t help it, I yelled, “What the fuck is that?” People looked at me like I’d admitted to kicking puppies.

That’s when it hit me. The wellness industry has won. We’re beaten. Surrendered. A nation that survived multiple wars, bomb attacks, and now fucking Keir Starmer is paying nine quid for a green juice that tastes like a lawnmower’s arse.

Back in the day, self-care was a cup of tea and a biscuit if you’d been good. Depression was called “a dose of the nerves” and cured by someone telling you to crack on. Nobody did breath-work. They just went out for a smoke and bitched about the neighbours. It worked. Sort of.

I served in the army in the Eighties. I spent time in Northern Ireland. It was proper rough, but we all lived by a simple rule: we were all in the same shit. One day, one of our bomb disposal officers was on a job and the “wheelbarrow” packed up – that was the remote-controlled robot we used to approach a suspected car bomb. So what does he do? He asks us to cover him, suits up, and walks down to defuse the fucker with a set of pliers and a screwdriver.

Afterwards? Back in barracks, the piss-taking went on for hours.

“That robot will never get over it. By leaving it out of the job you’ve traumatised it.”

“NASA phoned. Their rocket is bollocksed. Can they borrow your pliers?”

Nobody talked about trauma, or “regulating your nervous system.” We just took the piss, lit another cigarette, and got on with it.

Now we’ve got yoga instructors half my age telling me I need to “align my chakras.” Mate, the only thing misaligned round here is the housing market. I’ve got friends who worked their butts off for forty years and still can’t afford a decent gaff, and some twat with a man-bun is charging them £120 a month to sit on a mat and say “namaste.”

It’s all bollocks. Manifesting. Vibrations. Journeys. These people talk like they invented suffering. Try working your arse off six days a week and still not having enough money for a pint. Yeah, tell me about your “abundance mindset.”

The worst part is the guilt. Religious guilt has been replaced by wellness guilt. Can’t sleep? You’re not doing enough magnesium. Feeling anxious? Must be the gluten. Fat? That’s not the three stone of potatoes you ate as a child, it’s because your aura is blocked.

I’m not against looking after yourself. Walk the dog. Have a pint of water now and then. But when some skinny nobhead in £200 trainers starts lecturing me about “mindful drinking” while I’m trying to enjoy a civilised strong coffee, I reserve the right to tell them to fuck off in a very mindful way.

My innards have been on their own journey since 1965. They don’t need your app.