It began, as so many of life’s disasters do, with confidence.
On Thursday, January 15, I woke up buoyant, smug even — Arsenal had just beaten Chelsea 3–2, Declan Rice was playing like a man worth twice his £105 million fee, and I felt annoyingly healthy after a flu-free Christmas and a golf-heavy holiday in Barbados.
History suggested this optimism was reckless.
My family has long accepted that holidays are merely elaborate warm-ups for my next injury. Over the years, I’ve broken ribs on Segways, ribs again courtesy of Brett Lee’s fast bowling, more ribs playing tennis with my son, and an ankle on the first night of a French holiday. Returning from the Caribbean unscathed felt like tempting fate.
Fate, as it turned out, was waiting in a Mayfair hotel.
The Five-Inch Step That Changed Everything
After a productive lunch meeting, I forgot about a small step connecting an alcove to the restaurant floor. Neil Armstrong managed “one small step for man” on the Moon. I couldn’t manage mine on Earth.
I stumbled, windmilled, and hit the floor like a collapsing tower block.
The pain was instant and spectacular — my hip and thigh felt as though they’d been set alight. I lay there, sweating, trying to maintain dignity while wondering whether a man can actually die of embarrassment.
Initial medical checks were reassuring. Nothing broken, they thought.
Then the X-ray arrived.
The doctor stared at the screen and sighed.
“Oh no…”
Two words you never want to hear from anyone in a white coat.
“You’ve fractured the neck of your femur,” he said. “Bad break. You’ll either need it repaired… or a new hip.”
A new hip. At 60. From tripping in a restaurant.
Surgery, Statistics — and Staring at Mortality
The choice was grim but clear: repair the hip and spend three months on crutches with a 30 per cent chance it would fail — or replace it now with a 95 per cent success rate and a faster recovery.
I chose the new hip.
Being wheeled into theatre focuses the mind. I’d discovered the mortality rate for hip replacements is just 0.3 per cent — reassuring, until you realise that still means 300 people a year don’t come back.
If that sounds paranoid, consider the odds of fracturing your femur in a five-star hotel restaurant.
Anaesthesia solved that anxiety in under two minutes.
I woke late that night to the reassuring words: “The operation went very well.”
Hip, hip, hoorah.
Hospital Life, Humour — and Hard Truths
The days that followed were a blur of morphine, physiotherapy, and visitors.
My sons arrived to watch Arsenal with me, mercilessly quoting Rocky Balboa about life beating you to your knees. Friends flooded in with messages: Gordon Brown, Rishi Sunak, Joan Collins, Rod Stewart — all offering support, advice, and, in Joan’s case, stern instructions never to skimp on physio.
The nurses, many from war-torn countries, quietly reminded me how trivial my complaints were. Perspective arrived daily, uninvited.
Social media, predictably, went feral. Rumours of imminent death were swiftly countered by me announcing the injury myself — which only made it global news. Apparently, my hip made headlines in India.
I blame Arsenal.
The Humbling Reality of Recovery
Going home was both welcome and brutal. Cats indifferent. Crutches ugly. Pride dented.
At 4am one morning, I discovered I’d left my grabber out of reach, removed my socks, and rendered myself completely helpless — forced to wake my wife and ask her to put my socks on.
There are moments that stay with you.
This was one of them.
A Final Lesson (Reluctantly Learned)
Breaking a hip falling over in a restaurant is not a glamorous story. Even Genesis guitarist Mike Rutherford, who broke his skiing, agreed mine was worse.
But here’s the truth: this week frightened me. It made me feel old for the first time. It reminded me how quickly strength vanishes, how suddenly life humbles you, and how essential it is not to wallow.
As D.H. Lawrence wrote:
“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.”
So I’ll do the physio. I’ll endure the pain. And I’ll aim to be fit enough for Arsenal’s title run — because nothing motivates recovery like the prospect of victory parades.
My physio arrived smiling yesterday, announcing:
“I’m the luckiest man in Britain — I get to hurt Piers Morgan for months.”
The long road back has begun.
And next time I see a five-inch step?
I’m taking the long way round.