Life's too short for lettuce and longing

When my doctor solemnly informed me of my high cholesterol, brandishing a prescription for statins like a sentence to culinary purgatory, I couldn't help but lament. Yes, these drugs might work wonders, but at what cost? The potential side effects - muscle pain, liver damage, and a general sense of malaise - seemed a steep price for a few extra years of butterless existence.

As I embraced this pharmaceutical tyranny, I spied life's endless array of flavours and experiences shrivelling to a bland crust. I realised there was little point in extending one's lifespan if it means giving up the very things that make life worth living. So I resolved to savour every buttery morsel, every creamy indulgence, and meet my maker with a satisfied palate rather than shuffle through my twilight years, dry of the palette and in a state of sensory deprivation. Life's too short for insipid food and cholesterol paranoia. So pass the cheese board and chutney, please!

Middle age arrives like an unwelcome maître d' in the grand buffet of life, ushering us towards the dreary salad bar of gastronomic subsistence. Gone are the days of carefree indulgence, replaced by the tyranny of medical checks and GP-mandated dietary restrictions. A wretch might yearn for the halcyon era when "high fibre" referred to a particularly robust tweed suit rather than the contents of a glutinous breakfast bowl.

As I am cajoled by experts to crawl through this gastronomic wasteland, my once-vibrant palate dulled by an endless parade of steamed vegetables and skinless chicken breasts, I can't help but question the prevailing medical narrative. Is this really living or merely existing in a flavourless purgatory, counting down the days until the next damning blood test?

Time, with merciless indifference, marches on with the subtlety of a steamroller. One moment, you're gorging on a carefree diet of takeaways and lakes of butter, swilling vodka and full-fat milk with gleeful abandon. The next, you're peering at menu offerings through bifocals, desperately searching for the 'heart-healthy' options while your younger dining companions snicker behind their artisanal cocktails.

Oh, to relive those blissful days of youthful extravagance! We only measured the number of empty bottles at the end of the night, not the amount of saturated fat in our morning toast. But, alas, here we are, middle-aged and middling, our wild oats sowed and replaced by a pathetic porridge of induced sensibility and the doctor's thrifty prescriptions.

The sad irony of it all is that just as our palates and wallets have matured sufficiently to enjoy the finer things in life - the subtle notes in a well-aged wine, the intricate interplay of flavours in a properly baked buttery casserole - we are admonished to refrain. "No, no," decrees the medical establishment, "your sputtering heart can't take such indulgences anymore. Boiled broccoli and steamed fish for you, Sir."

Yes, for my own benefit. As if there is any good in a life without butter, cream, and the occasional decadent indulgence. We're expected to give up our joie de vivre for a few more years of flavourless living, slogging through our golden years on a diet of green leaves and regret. I'm reminded that, even if I don't live any longer, culinary boredom will make it feel that way.

Remember when eating out was an adventure? When scanning a menu was an exercise in possibilities, rather than an anxiety-inducing game of nutritional roulette? My peers and I are now practising culinary contortionism, determining which foods are less likely to kill us. Gone are the days when the most pressing issue at a dinner party was whether one's wit was sharp enough to keep up with the conversation. We're now encouraged to worry about whether the host remembered our long list of dietary restrictions.

It's enough to push a person to drink; if only our shrivelling livers could tolerate it. Instead, we are instructed to nurse our glasses of sparkling water while reminiscing about the days when we could drink a crate of beer without fear of organ failure.

Perhaps there's a certain dignity and wisdom in embracing the inevitable march of time, in going gently into that good night with arteries clogged and taste buds singing. After all, what's the point of reaching a ripe old age if one can't enjoy a properly ripe glass of port along the way?

In this era of clean eating and wellness obsession, I raise a glass in quiet solidarity with those brave souls who dare to rage against the dying of the light – and the dimming of the dinner plate. May we find the courage to occasionally eschew the kale smoothie in favour of a full Irish, consequences be damned. In the end, is it not better to have lived and eaten well than to have merely subsisted on lettuce and longing?

I will not go gently into that good night of dietary restriction and flavourless fare; instead, I shall rage against the purging of taste from our diets. Can't I embrace my mortality with zest, savouring each meal as if it were my last, which, given my cholesterol levels, could very well be?

Why should I waste my remaining years selecting between boring salads and insipid protein shakes when I might enjoy the world's God-given and limitless diversity of flavours? Is extending one's life through abstinence truly worthwhile if it lacks joy, comfort, or the simple pleasure of a perfectly cooked steak or an indulgent chocolate bar?

Besides, nutritional neurosis does not sit well with me, layered as it is on so many others, so I reclaim my right to eat, drink, and be merry. Yes, tomorrow I may die, but at least I'll do so with the taste of butter on my lips and the glut of rare steak in my belly.

When we're on our deathbeds, will we look back with satisfaction on all the salads we dutifully consumed? Will we find comfort in knowing we scrupulously avoided saturated fats and excess sodium? Or will we rue the missed opportunities, the declined desserts, the bottles of wine left unopened in homage to the gods of longevity?

I, for one, choose to err on the side of indulgence. To embrace the joy of a life lived fully, flavours savoured utterly, and meals shared unreservedly. After all, what is the point of prolonging our existence if we're not truly living? And I do love to cook, so why not cook well?

So I will feast as if every meal were my last, for one day, inevitably, it will be. And when that day comes, may I meet our maker with a satisfied palate and a grateful but clogged heart, having squeezed just enough dietary pleasure from this magnificent banquet we call life.

In the immortal words of Julia Child, "Life itself is the proper binge." So binge I shall, and cholesterol be damned.

But not all is lost, and I am not without conscience. There I was, gleefully fattening my arteries to spite Big Pharma's statin empire, when I stumbled upon the unsung hero of the fungal world: red yeast rice. This plucky little fermenter is nature's very own statin factory.

This red-tinged marvel apparently packs enough punch to make your naughty cholesterol cower in fear, all without the joy-sucking side effects of its pharmaceutical cousins.

So here's to you, red yeast rice, my new best friend, one capsule before bedtime – may you continue to befuddle cardiologists and delight cholesterol contrarians everywhere.

So excuse me, dear friends, I'm off to celebrate my newfound longevity with a nice, bloody, butter-laden steak.