Restaurant critic goes to the doctor to get the results of some routine blood tests, and the doctor says, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” And then, in a break with the traditional form of the joke, he says, “And then some more bad news.”

Turns out the good news is he’s got Gilbert’s syndrome. “It means your liver produces too much bile,” says the doctor. “Which is not surprising, in your line of work. Ha, ha. No, but seriously, it’s quite common. It’s nothing to worry about.”

If it was nothing to worry about, thinks the critic, it wouldn’t be a syndrome. If it was nothing to worry about it would be called Gilbert’s Prize or Gilbert’s Hurrah.

“This, on the other hand,” says the doctor, running his pen down the list of results and stopping at another item marked with an asterisk, “Is something to worry about. The uric acid levels in your blood are very high. The accepted level is between 274-474. yours is 476.”

“So basically,” says the restaurant critic. “I’m running on wee?”

“Not exactly,” says the doctor. “It means you’re going to get gout.”

Gout? But they got rid of that with smallpox and whooping cough and the fainting sickness. Nobody’s had gout since Henry VIII. The critic is 37. He’s lean as a greyhound. His body is blue, twisted steel. He sometimes eats broccoli.

“Gout is incredibly painful,” says the doctor. “And then there’s the risk of kidney stones. You’ll have to make some adjustments to your diet.”

“Adjustments?”

“Well, you must cut out fortified wines, for start.”

Ooh, no more port. Big concession.

“Also, no more offal.” The restaurant critic feels the floor of his universe tremble. “No livers, no kidneys, no pancreases…”

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