Theodore Dalrymple

At my time of life, and in my circumstances, I ought to be calm and unruffled. I should be like a saddhu in a Himalayan cave, whose pulse rate no merely external event in the world of appearance can raise. Instead, whenever I read the Guardian (which is often), a wave of irritation comes over me like a Jacksonian fit, the epileptic seizure that starts with a twitch in the toe and ends in a generalised convulsion. The other day, for example, I was reading an article about an Indian film just released called Water. It is about the doleful fate of poor widows in India, and apparently the film achieved the highest of all artistic goals, the breaking of a taboo.

I was sitting in a train recently, wondering why everyone’s mobile telephone conversations, except my own, were so utterly banal, when a young black man sitting two rows behind me answered the irritating wail of his instrument of the devil. He began to speak, and I wished that I had learnt shorthand. ‘Hancock’s definitely put in a plea,’ he said. ‘Moran’s in the early stages. I’ve got to go back next week, but for the moment I’m on bail.’ As is often the case, his telephone rang non-stop. ‘There was a lot of negotiation going on while we worked out a plea bargain,’ he said.

Not hell, but drunkenness, is other people. This insight was vouchsafed me in the London Underground the other evening. I had just passed a notice from the Mayor of London warning passengers to be careful after a few drinks. In the previous year, it said, two people had been killed and hundreds injured after a few drinks. I myself had had what I would call a few drinks, but I do not think I was in much danger. What the Mayor meant by a few drinks, of course, was the appalling uncontrolled drunkenness of the shameless young adults of all classes who so disfigure our capital city, many of whom would have voted for him. We have come to expect dishonesty — of which this little lie was an example — at every level of society.

This week Theodore Dalrymple begins a new column — on globalisation, moronic technology and modernity in general.Whenever I read the French newspapers I come to a strange conclusion: that I hate anti-globalisation as much as I hate globalisation. What, then, do I stand for? I don’t know, really. But it seems to me clear that, just as the globalisers are the party of the triumphant corporatists, so the anti-globalisers are the party of the French train drivers who want to retire at the age of 50 at the expense of all the people unfortunate or foolish enough not to be French train drivers. I think I must be what a consultant doing his ward round called the illness that his lymphoma patient had — neither cancer nor leukaemia, but something in between the two.

A taxi driver in Mexico City, who in my presence had just paid la mordida (the bite) to a traffic cop, taught me some lines by the 17th-century Creole nun and poetess, Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz:     O who is more to blame,    He who sins for pay    Or he who pays for sin? The application of this particular moral conundrum to the recent events in our own country is all too obvious.

Theodore Dalrymple, who lives in France, says that the presidential frontrunner faces an awesome range of problems — unsettlingly similar to those that will confront the Prime Minister unlucky enough succeed Gordon Brown Les Vans During the height of the Dreyfus affair, a cartoon appeared depicting the setting of a bourgeois dinner party before and after it had taken place. Afterwards, the room was wrecked, as if a platoon of marauding soldiers had passed through it. The problem was that the guests had talked about the affair. The current French election is a little like this. The word Sarko is enough to raise the temperature and the heart rate at any family gathering. He is the best of men; he is the worst of men. He is a true patriot; he is an unscrupulous opportunist.

I don’t much care for Napoleon, but I’ve always had a sneaking sympathy for Napoleon III. His boundless ambition combined with an ultimate lack of ruthlessness, his self-importance and vanity combined with flashes of insight into his own personal insignificance, make him a far nicer man than his odious uncle. I mean no self-praise when I say that men who are failures are in general much more attractive than men who are resounding successes. It was my sympathy for the Emperor of the French that impelled me to pick up a little volume entitled Napoleon III (My Recollections) by Sir William Fraser, Bart. Sir William was elected MP for Barnstaple in 1852, but was unseated because he was deemed to have won by bribery.

My copy of Schopenhauer’s essays was owned before me also by a doctor, J. Raymond Hinshaw, MD. Hinshaw, a former Rhodes Scholar, was professor of surgery at Rochester, New York, and an expert in the use of lasers in surgery upon which subject he wrote a book. He died in 1993, aged 70, and the postgraduate medical centre in Rochester is named in his honour. I am not sure how far Schopenhauer is suitable reading for a doctor. Whatever their mental reservations, doctors are committed to optimism, to the belief that life can be made better or at least more bearable. Schopenhauer, on the other hand, sees human life as a dialectic between pain and boredom.

I was about to write ‘Everyone knows the story of James Lind, the Scottish naval surgeon, who conducted the first controlled trial in the history of medicine to prove the curative value of citrus fruits in scurvy’ when I realised that it would have been a silly and, worse still, a snobbish thing to say. After all, my clinical experience suggests that a good, or should I say a bad, percentage of British youth does not know the date of a single great historical event, such as the Battle of Hastings or David Beckham’s marriage, let alone has any familiarity with medical history which, however glorious and uplifting, must always remain a minority interest even in the best-educated households.

Though I say it myself, who perhaps should not, doctors make very good writers. They are usually down to earth, not a quality always found among the highly educated. They are the ultimate participant-observers of life; and a little literary talent, therefore, takes them a long way, further indeed than most others. No doubt I shall be accused of prejudice in favour of my own profession. To demonstrate that I am an unbiased critic, however, I shall cite the work of a doctor who wrote very badly, execrably in fact, the late Dr David Cooper. He was an associate for a time of R.D. Laing, the talented but wayward and self-destructive psychiatrist, and during the Sixties and Seventies of the last century his ravings in book form had a vogue that was (how can I put this kindly?

Sometimes I feel like a doctor in Chekhov: worn out, prematurely balding, old before my time and utterly superfluous. The trouble is that I’m not surrounded by Mashas, Irinas and Yelenas, but by Lees, Dwaynes and Craigs. As for birch trees, mandolins and tables set for tea, there’s not a one to be seen. On the other hand, there’s quite a lot of shooting offstage. A patient said something to me last week that brought Chekhov to mind: ‘I’m bored out of life.’ Some critics believe that Chekhov was an optimist, and that it is wrong to stage his plays wistfully, or as the dramatic equivalent of faded cotton prints. And, as if to bear these critics out, my patient added brightly, ‘But, doctor, I’m going to make a new leaf.

Why do people insist on leading such terrible lives? Why do they choose misery when contentment is so easily within their grasp? Why is complete disaster so attractive, and modest success so repellent? This, surely, is the question that any unprejudiced observer of British life must ask himself. Personally, I think that soap operas have a lot to answer for. As is well known, each episode ends with a crisis, and since an episode lasts only 30 minutes, the impression is given that an interesting life, that is to say one worthy of portrayal on the little screen, must be nothing but a succession of sordid crises. I don’t propose this as the whole answer to the puzzle, of course.

I went to a different prison last week, in an ancient market town, to see a man about an arson. He had set fire to a house with four of his friends — or should I say former friends (his subsequent apologies not having been accepted by them) — in it. He said that he had been under a lot of pressure lately, ever since he had discovered that his ex, the mother of his two children, was injecting herself with heroin in front of them. So was their latest stepfather, her current boyfriend. ‘What has that to do with setting fire to the house?’ I asked. He answered much as Mr Blair, or any other politician, might have answered in the circumstances. ‘I’ve never done it before,’ he said. ‘I don’t get no buzz off of starting fires.

Having spent so long, if not in the lower depths exactly, at least among their inhabitants, it is not surprising, perhaps, that I see the lower depths wherever I go. My experience haunts me, and I am on the lookout for them. For example, not long ago I was in a bookshop in a chic part of Paris when I picked up a book by a young woman who called herself simply Leila. The title of the book was Mariée de force (Forced Marriage), and the cover showed the eyes of a young woman peering out of a slit in a black veil. The book recounts the life of a young woman, born in France of Moroccan parents. And everything she recounted reminded me of my young female patients of Pakistani origin: everything, in fact, was exactly the same.