Fat Chance (12 page)

In fact, the only issue that arises then is that there are
nine
weigh-ins altogether over the course of the competition. By the time we reach the final Zoe will be down to just a head, provided I’ve chopped the torso up into several pieces.

I have visions of placing my wife’s disembodied head on the scales and have to suppress my mirth as I take my seat at the end of the row. In my painkiller-addled daydream, Zoe’s head is still very much alive—and berating me for not wearing clean boxer shorts from where it sits on the scale’s platform.

‘What are you laughing about?’ says the complete version of Zoe Milton by my side.

‘Nothing, baby,’ I reply and stare at her face. ‘You have very nice hair. Can I stroke it for a bit?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Greg.’

‘For fuck’s sake indeed. Fuckity fuckity fuck pants. Fuuuuuuuucccck. It’s a great word,
fuck
, isn’t it?’

‘Just sit there and be quiet so we can get through this.’

I chuck off an ugly salute. ‘Yes ma’am.’

Will and Elise are still talking. They’ve now moved on to thanking all the sponsors who are footing the bill for this entire debacle.

As I slump in my chair awaiting my turn in the spotlight, I become uncomfortably aware that my dreamy, happy buzz is slowly being replaced by the overwhelming urge to sleep.

My eyelids have become very heavy and my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool.

I try to concentrate on what our DJ hosts are saying to bring myself out of it, but their identical, manufactured disc jockey tones are actually having a soporific effect on me, making the situation even worse.

If I can just get through this weigh-in, we can go home and I can crawl into bed.

A dopey smile reappears on my face as I think about the soft white sheet beneath me, the warm, cosy duvet wrapped around my body, the comforting feeling of the pillow against my cheek . . .

‘GREG!’

‘Wsftgl?’

‘GREG!’

‘Hmnmnnm?’

‘Wake up, you idiot!’

I regain consciousness to find Zoe shaking me violently.

‘It’s our turn on the scales. Snap out of it!’ she hisses.

With bleary eyes I look up and see two hundred expectant faces peering at me. From the front of the stage, Elise is staring, less with expectation and more with blind panic.

I wave my hand. ‘S’fine everyone. Just restin’ my eyes.’

I stand up and rub my face.

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself, smile at the crowd, and walk forward.

At least it feels like forward, but the direction I actually go in is
right
.

. . . as in right off the edge of the stage.

A collective gasp erupts from the crowd as my left foot drops off the side of the stage, swiftly followed by the rest of me.

‘OH FUCK!’ I cry in such a loud voice that I’m sure it will end up with Stream FM being fined again for swearing.

Luckily the drop is only about six inches; otherwise they’d probably have to call an ambulance. As it is, my foot painfully jars on the carpet and I stumble forward like a newborn elephant.

I’ve lost a bit of weight, but I’m still pretty damn huge, so coming to a halt is going to be something of a problem at this juncture.

So much so, that by the time I’ve managed it, I’ve
actually
p
assed bac
k out through the large open double doors to the
conference
room.

The audience must think I’ve fled in terror of the scales. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve just seen a man get to his feet
uncertainly
, take one look at proceedings, and immediately run away like a frightened six-year-old child.

I turn myself around and scurry back into the room. ‘Sorry! Sorry, everyone!’ I apologise as I retake the stage next to Zoe, my cheeks burning bright with embarrassment.

‘We thought we’d lost you there for a second,’ Elise says and laughs in that unpleasant staccato way people do when they think things are beyond their control.

‘Ha! No, no I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘Just had a little smumble.’

‘A what?’ Elise asks.

‘A stud . . . stundle . . .’

‘Pardon?’

Oh great. The ibuprofen has now decided to attack the speech centres of my brain. I concentrate hard. ‘A . . . a
stumble
. I had a
stumble
, Lisa.’

‘Elise.’

‘If you say so.’

Understandably, Elise terminates our conversation and bids Zoe get up on the scales. My wife does as she’s told.

Her starting weight of fourteen stone, seven pounds appears on one side of the over-complicated scoreboard. We all wait with
bated breat
h as the scales do their job. Someone plays cheesy
countdown
music over the speakers until Zoe’s new weight appears with a
triumphant
blast.

Fourteen stone dead.

The sound of a wet fart would have been more appropriate. That’s just seven pounds in six weeks.

The look of catastrophic disappointment on Zoe’s face is heartbreaking. Right now, I want nothing more than to grab her hand, lead her off stage, and have nothing more to do with this stupid circus.

‘Your turn, Greg!’ Will tells me as Zoe steps down and off to one side.

Feeling nauseated from my mild drugs overdose and sick to my stomach thanks to my wife’s distress, I take to the scales.

I couldn’t give a fucking toss how much weight I’ve lost, to be honest.

That is until I see that I’ve dropped well over a stone.

From twenty stone, two pounds to a pound under nineteen stone.

Bloody hell.

I can picture Alice at home right now jumping around the place and kicking her cat.

‘That’s an excellent loss Greg—congratulations!’ Elise says and claps me on the back as she leads me off the scales.

I can’t help but smile. I wasn’t expecting to have lost a whole stone!

My temporary pride is quashed the second I look at Zoe. She’s trying to smile as best as she can, but I can see the disappointment writ large in her eyes. ‘Well done, honey,’ she says and takes my hand.

‘It’s nothing sweetheart,’ I reply, trying to minimise her distress. I squeeze her hand. ‘I have a lot more to lose than you, remember?’

She nods, but I know for certain my words haven’t helped.

The quicker this farce is over today, the better.

Needless to say, we don’t win the weigh-in. That honour goes to the oldest couple in the competition, George and Valerie. They’ve both managed to drop over a stone each. It’s a fantastic result for them.

Just behind them are Frankie and Benny. When Benny sees they missed out on winning by only two percent, he looks
crestfallen
and furious all at the same time.

Zoe and I end up coming third, so our performance can be considered decidedly average.

‘We could have won,’ Zoe says to me forlornly as we’re leaving the green room about half an hour later. ‘If I’d managed to lose more, we could have won.’

‘Stop thinking like that,’ I reply as I put my jacket on. ‘This is supposed to be about making our lives better. There’s no point in doing it if it’s just going to make us miserable.’

‘You did alright.’

‘Yeah, well, I had a skinny maniac torturing me for a week. You ate cabbage and farted a lot.’

This has the desired effect. Zoe giggles.

‘I guess I have to find a better diet,’ she says with a rueful grin.

‘I’d say so!’

By the time we get home Zoe’s mood has lifted enough for her to suggest a walk in the forest this afternoon. I could really do with just lying down and pretending to be dead, but if she needs a walk to clear her head, then so be it.

We set off after a healthy lunch of chicken and salad. A bacon sandwich would have gone down a treat, but Alice would murder me in my sleep if she ever found out.

Zoe thoroughly enjoys the two hours we spend traipsing through the countryside, but I spend the entire time thinking about that look of disappointment she had on her face at the weigh-in—when I’m not trying to ignore the dull ache in my legs, that is.

I don’t think either one of us can take it if this experiment with our lives ends in failure. If Zoe doesn’t lose the kind of weight she expects to, the stress and anxiety it will cause her will be too much for me to bear.

The scale of the challenge ahead hits me for the first time as we walk through the sun-dappled woods.

If we succeed and lose the weight, it will be positive and life changing.

. . . but if we fail, the harm to our already damaged self-esteems could be very high indeed.

Right at this moment, I just don’t know if the risk is worth it.

ZOE’S WEIGHT LOSS DIARY

Monday, May 19th

13 stone, 1 pound (1 stone, 5 pounds lost)

I
got recognised in the street today.

I’m ambling down the road to post a letter when a small
grey-haired
woman of indeterminate age holding a teacup Shih Tzu bustles up to me and says, ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s you! You’re part of the fat show on Stream FM. You’re the one who can’t have a baby.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s me,’ I sigh. ‘Part of the fat show and childless.’

‘I’m really enjoying it. Ladybird and I listen to Elise and that gay chappie all the time.’

‘Ladybird?’

She holds up the constipated-looking miniature dog, who gives me a rueful look. ‘This is Ladybird.’

‘It’s a dog.’

‘Yes.’

‘You named your dog Ladybird.’

‘Yes!’

‘Okay.’ I shake my letter in her face. ‘Well, must get on. Nice to meet you, though.’

‘When do you think you won’t be fat?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When do you think you won’t be fat?’

This is the most depressing question I’ve ever been asked. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I hope you’re not fat soon.’

‘Well, thanks for that.’

‘I really want you and Shane to win.’

‘I’m married to Greg.’

‘Oh, I thought you were Shane’s wife.’

‘No. I’m married to Greg.’

‘Oh. Well, I don’t really like you two, to be honest.’

‘Really? Your dog has a stupid name and it looks like a toilet brush. Goodbye.’

And with that, I’m gone up the street before this lunatic can accost me further. I would try to run away from her as fast as possible, but achieving much more than a hurried scuttle would be impossible right now thanks to yesterday’s Fat Chance challenge.

Allow me to explain . . .

You see, it’s not enough for Stream FM to pit each couple against one another in a race to see who can lose the most weight. That would be far too easy.

Not only do we have the indignity of the weigh-ins, we also have to take part in a couple of challenges over the next two months that are designed to test our levels of stamina and endurance as we continue down the path to a healthier, happier lifestyle.

The first of these is a ‘spinning’ challenge.

You know what spinning is, of course. It’s become extremely popular with people who think spandex is fashionable. Quite why they just can’t call it what it is—communal exercise biking—I have no idea. I guess it wouldn’t look as snappy on the promotional
leaflets
.

The challenge has been organised in conjunction with
Fitness4All
, the gym chain that’s one of the sponsors of the
competition
—the main one, in fact. They’ve donated the use of their facilities and a pot-load of cash in exchange for constant, unremitting wall-to-wall publicity across the whole of the radio station’s output for six months. Every break is loaded with their adverts; every poster is emblazoned with their garish logo.

It doesn’t end there. Human beings are being press-ganged into being walking billboards for Fitness4All. I should know, because I’m bloody one of them.

‘There’s a big box just been delivered!’ Greg calls up to me on Saturday morning.

‘Yeah, that’ll be the uniforms,’ I reply as I yawn my way down the stairs.

‘Uniforms?’

‘Yeah, you know. Elise mentioned it Monday. Fitness4All have requested we all wear t-shirts from now on for the show, starting tomorrow at the challenge.’

Greg tries to hold up the box. It’s enormous. ‘I don’t think this just contains t-shirts, love.’

And he’s absolutely right.

‘Oh, good Lord,’ I say under my breath as he cuts open the top of the box and starts to pull out its contents.

There
are
t-shirts. Many, many t-shirts.

‘They go down in size,’ Greg remarks.

‘For when we lose weight,’ I surmise.

Greg holds one up. It’s a hectic shade of red, and covered in a variety of brightly coloured blue and white writing. I inspect it closely as my husband waves it around.

‘Mine are different to yours,’ Greg comments.

‘How so?’ I respond.

He holds up another shirt and I see what he’s on about. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ I say.

Emblazoned across the front of the t-shirt is a huge Fitness4All logo, written in one of those stupid swooshy fonts that’s supposed to denote speed, but just ends up giving everybody with dyslexia a screaming headache. The Stream FM logo sits in the top left-hand corner, giving the shirt the unmistakable appearance of a cheaply made football jersey.

On the back things really go downhill.

Much like football shirts, our names are writ large across the top. We don’t get numbers assigned to us below this, though, like you’d see on your average premier leaguer.

Instead, Fitness4All and Stream FM have decided we all need our own catchphrases. In BIG BOLD LETTERS right across our backs.

Greg’s reads: I’M LARGIN’ IT.

Mine is even worse. It says: FAT BUT FABULOUS.

I see several shades of red, all darker than the shirts.

Not fat AND fabulous.
Oh no
. That would just be wrong on every level.

After all, fat people are social rejects who can’t be fabulous
and
fat—even if we’re decorated head to toe in sequins and shine with the light of a thousand suns.

No, I’m apparently fabulous
despite
the fact that I am the size of a fucking hippo.

I have somehow managed to overcome my hideous deformity, and have achieved a degree of fabulousness hitherto unreachable to anyone with a waistline over a size fourteen.

I am a miraculous person. To be cheered and applauded throughout the streets.

How absolutely insulting. How totally crass.

How completely and utterly
unsurprising
.

Greg knows me very well, so it only takes him about half an hour to peel me off the ceiling.

‘Don’t let it get to you,’ he says. ‘It’s just a silly t-shirt.’

‘Easy for you to say. You spend your entire time
largin’ it
. I’d have no problem with that.’ I hold up one of my shirts. ‘But Greg, I am not fucking
largin’ it
, am I? No, no, no. I’m fat
but
fabulous. I’m huge
but
happy. I’m chunky
but
cheerful.’ I throw the shirt across the room. ‘You know what Fitness4All are, don’t you, Gregory?’

‘No dear, what are they?’

‘Fit
but
full of shit.’

‘Yes, dear. Shall we have a look at the rest of this gear before you rupture something important?’

‘I suppose so.’ I hurl the t-shirt back into the box. ‘I’m not letting this go, though.’

‘No, I wouldn’t think you were for a moment.’ Greg pulls another garment out. ‘Oh, look, they’ve put hoodies in as well. We’ll look like the local scumbags who hang around the high street.’

‘Great. I can be fat but fabulous
and
hang around bus shelters worrying old people.’

‘There are hats, too.’

‘Are there, Greg? And do they also announce to the world that even though I have an arse the size of a houseboat, I am still able to maintain a respectable level of fabulousness?’

‘Nope, they’ve just got the swishy Fitness4All logo on them.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

A scant few minutes later, both Greg and I have changed into our new duds and are inspecting one another.

‘I look like Timmy fucking Mallet,’ Greg points out.

He’s not wrong. The big red baseball cap, combined with the red t-shirt, red hooded top, and red tracksuit bottoms, do all conspire to make him look like the unholy offspring of a children’s TV presenter from the eighties and a tomato.

What am I saying?

We both look like it.

Two red tomatoes standing in front of one another trying not to burst into tears.

The next time we have to go to a fancy dress party we can just stick beaks on our noses and go as the Angry Birds. Specifically the big fat biffer you get after several rounds, who can wipe out loads of piggies with one twang of the catapult.

‘I can’t go out in public like this,’ Greg says in a small voice. ‘People will think I’m broken.’

‘We won’t have to. We just have to wear it for the show tomorrow.’

‘What? The live challenge that’s being streamed across the planet via the internet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where there will be photographers who will take pictures for the local paper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh well, that’s fine, then.’

‘Shut up, Timmy. I’m no happier about it than you are.’

. . . and I’m really not.

Tomorrow I get to be a fat but fabulous tomato on an exercise bike.

I can’t wait.

Fitness4All tries its best to look like the kind of place you’d want to hang out even if you weren’t trying to burn five hundred calories.

It has a bar, for instance.

Not a
proper
bar, obviously. There’s no alcohol here. But if you want to grab yourself a low-fat soy milkshake or a smoothie that’s mostly ice water, then this is the place to come.

There’s a nice lounge where you can sit and chat with other people who are also attempting to burn five hundred calories. A flat-screen TV dominates one wall of the lounge, hooked up to Sky Digital. The Food Channel is blocked, of course, but you can watch hours upon hours of The Active Channel and Fitness TV if you should choose to do so.

Most of the interior is decked out in a variety of pleasing shades of pink and mauve. What’s left is brushed chrome or glossy black, including the shiny marble floors and sweeping staircases.

What you resolutely
can’t
see any sign of is anyone engaged in exercise. There are no windows through to the gym and no obvious signs of activity of any sort. Standing in the foyer at reception you could be forgiven for thinking you were in a swanky London hotel or a particularly posh cinema.

This is deliberate, of course. The last thing the proprietors of Fitness4All want you catching sight of from the front door is a bunch of sweaty, unattractive people trying to burn off five hundred calories. The looks of pain, misery, and hopelessness on their faces might put you off coming in and handing over a month’s wages for the dubious privilege of joining them.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Greg says as we walk in.

‘Yeah.
Nice
,’ I reply, not willing to commit myself to a more complete answer at this moment. Then I catch sight of what’s lurking over in the corner and the niceness of the gym interior becomes largely irrelevant. ‘What the hell is that?’ I spit.

Just off to one side of the reception area is a large cardboard standee, the kind you get in the cinema advertising the latest releases. Only this one is a good fifteen feet wide and features every person involved in the Stream FM competition. Above all our gurning faces are the competition and Stream FM logos, along with a strapline that reads ‘MEET THE FAT
CHANCERS HERE
SUNDAY
MAY 18TH! Come and see the challenge!’

They couldn’t have chosen a worse photo of me if somebody had threatened their first-born sons.

I am making what I can only describe as a horse face.

You can see I’ve attempted to smile, but the process has got stuck somewhere in the middle, leaving me showing my teeth and my lip curled upwards like I’m expecting a sugar lump.

I’m also standing in a slight stoop, so I’m not even a proud upright-looking horse . . . but a trembling spavined nag, ready for the glue factory.