Fat Chance (27 page)

The Electromax 2000 is promptly delivered three days later and by the time Downton starts at 8 p.m. I’m wired up and ready to rock. Two pads are stuck to my gut, a further two are placed on my thighs, and the final couple are strapped to my biceps. I look like someone about to enter suspended animation for the five-year journey to Mars.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Zoe asks me from the couch, doubt in her eyes.

‘Of course! I did some research on the internet. The science of this thing is very sound.’

Boy, do I sound pompous when I’m trying to prove a point.

The pads are connected by wires to the big friendly blue Electromax box, which I’ve sat on the arm of the chair. As the Downton credits begin I turn the big friendly blue dial at the top of the box to the on position and sit back, ready to burn off the fat while watching posh people argue politely with one another.

‘Ahh, Lord Poncyface, so nice to see you again . . .’

Bzzzt.

‘And the same to you, Captain Sternexpression . . .’

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

‘I trust your wife Lady Furrowedbrow is well?’

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

‘She is. I was so sorry to hear about your wife’s tragic demise at the hands of that Irish ruffian.’

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.

‘Ow! For fuck’s sake!’ I scream, wrenching the pads from my stomach.

‘Is it painful?’ Zoe asks, pausing Downton and trying very hard not to laugh.

‘Is it
painful
? You fucking bet it is!’ I jump out of the chair and pull the rest of the pads off. ‘How the hell is this thing supposed to make you lose weight?’ I hold a pad up and examine it. ‘Unless the electric shocks eventually clamp your jaws permanently together, meaning you can’t eat anything.’

‘Well, colour me completely surprised,’ Zoe says, in a derisory fashion. ‘You bought a get-fit-quick contraption off the internet and it doesn’t work.’

‘Sarcasm does not help at a time like this, woman. Back to your period drama.’

I gather the Electromax 2000 in my arms and carry it out of the room. It goes into the cupboard under the stairs, where I have every intention of letting it rot.

Two hundred pounds is a lot of money, however, so I have another go with the stupid machine about a week later, while Zoe is out with her friends. This time I lie out on the bed and mentally prepare myself for the self-inflicted torture I’m about to put myself through.

I last about eight minutes.

Seriously, in what universe did somebody think this was a good idea? To run an electric current through your body for the purposes of weight loss?

What’s next? Inhaling vast quantities of helium because it might dye your hair blonde?

About the only thing the Electromax 2000 managed to accomplish in the few minutes I did use it was to make my bowels loosen. Half the reason I turned it off was because I needed to go and take a dump.

The machine went back under the stairs, and it really will stay there until the end of time as far as I’m concerned.

Unless I come down with a nasty case of constipation.

The next contraption I wasted my time and money on was an abdominal exercise machine called the Ab Lunge. It claimed to burn fat and tone your stomach muscles using a combination of forward and lateral movement. You basically kneel down on two platforms that move along two metal runners, grip the handle, and move yourself back and forth, exercising your abs, lats, and other incomprehensible muscle groups.

I bought it after watching one of those late-night infomercials.

You see what going on a diet does to you? The madness it inflicts?

In no other circumstance would I even consider buying
anything
I’d seen on a late-night infomercial. Never in a million years. You will never see me purchase a miracle steamer designed to clean up everything from spilled milk to nuclear waste. Nor will you find me shelling out for a juicer that can crush diamonds and mix you up a tasty banana smoothie in three micro-seconds.

But when it comes to ways to lose weight I am a complete moron. Hence the hundred and fifty quid I spent on the sodding Ab Lunge.

I knew I was in trouble within the first few minutes of unpacking the box out in the conservatory. The instruction manual on how to put the thing together consisted of one thin piece of double-sided A4 paper. On this were a series of amateurish pictures of the Ab Lunge in various states of completion, next to the kind of instructions they would have had a problem deciphering over at Bletchley Park.

It took three hours to put the bastard together, by which time I’d sweated so much that the last thing I wanted to do was jump on it and exercise.

I had a go at it the next day, though.

Down I went into roughly the same position you’d find yourself in on a motorbike. Hands gripped tightly on the handlebars, I started to move forward and back, left and right—just like the infomercial had told me to do. The left‒right stuff didn’t appear to be doing much, so I just concentrated on going forward and back, forward and back. The knee platforms ran smoothly up and down the metal track and in no time I felt myself building up a sweat.

‘Enjoying yourself, are you?’ Zoe asked as she came out into the conservatory with a cup of green tea.

‘Yes! Yes! It’s good!’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes!’

‘That’s just as well, as from where I’m sitting, you look like you’re shagging a mountain bike.’

‘What?’

‘Yep. If I could get you move that enthusiastically when you’re on top of me it’d be a miracle.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Look at those hips go! Be careful, though, you don’t want to go too far with it.’

‘Be quiet!’

‘We don’t want a lot of little mountain bikes wheeling around the house in nine months, now, do we?’

‘Will you leave me alone? I’m exercising!’

Laughing her head off, Zoe leaves me to it.

But now the whole process is ruined. Now she’s pointed out what I look like, I can’t get the image of me sexually molesting the contents of the nearest Halfords bicycle department out of my head.

I stop after twenty minutes and try my level best to ignore my wife for the rest of the day. This proves difficult, as she’s found an old bicycle bell from somewhere, and periodically rings it for the next few hours—asking me if it makes me horny every time she does it.

Like with the Electromax 2000, I have another go on the Ab Lunge a week later when Zoe is once again out with her cronies.

I do a good hour on it and get off feeling very pleased with myself.

Pleasure turns to disgust when I wake up the next morning and my stomach muscles feel like they’ve had a hammer drill run over them in the night. The mere act of sitting up is painful. Going for a shit is nigh on impossible as every time my bowels contract it sends pain right through my stomach region. This causes me to become constipated for the next few days.

. . . which of course gives me the chance to use the Electromax one more time.

The Ab Lunge is now in the loft. I did consider putting it on eBay, but I’m a truthful kind of guy, and I didn’t think I’d get many bids based on my description of the thing:

For sale. Ab Lunge. Used twice. Ever wanted to rape a bicycle? Now’s your chance! Warning—may cause severe backup of the bowels
.

Having now dropped three hundred and fifty quid on these useless contraptions, I thought it best to budget a little more sensibly and go for exercise equipment that wouldn’t break the bank.

I immediately discounted the trampette, as I’m not five years old and have grown out of the desire to bounce up and down until I feel sick. Similarly, the gym ball wasn’t an option either. If Zoe was in hysterics at my attempts to hump the Ab Lunge, the sight of me rolling around on a giant squishy ball like it was my first lover would likely end up in her going to casualty for oxygen deprivation.

Then I saw the StretchFit resistance band.

Oh holy Hell, I really wish I hadn’t.

On the surface, the StretchFit seemed like the cat’s whiskers. It was cheap at twenty quid, and looked like a very simple piece of exercise equipment to use. All it consists of is two long pieces of strong rubber, with plastic stirrups and handles attached. You pull at the rubber band, which provides resistance and tones your muscles.

An overabundance of exercises is available if you buy one of these things. You can put your feet in the stirrups and grip the handles to do any number of resistance activities, such as lunges,
rowing
, arm curls, and overhead presses—to name but a few. But then you can also attach the StretchFit to your wall, banister, or other sturdy object and do even more stuff with it. Pull-downs, pull-ups, lateral twists—all sorts of interesting and varied workout methods are open to you. It’s a whole gym in one easy package!

. . . One of these days I’m going to stop falling for this marketing bullshit. This will also be the day I stop believing what I read in the
Daily Mail
and realise that my local mechanic has been ripping me off for years every time I take the car in for its MOT.

The StretchFit resistance band duly arrives (free postage and everything!) and I immediately set to work.

Of course it turns out to be shit.

Your feet go in the stirrups; you grab the handles and pull. This does very, very little. Why? Because by the time you achieve any real tension on the rubber band, you’ve already stretched your arms out to their maximum limit. Unless I suddenly develop the ability to extend my limbs like Plastic Man this particular product is largely pointless.

For the sake of being thorough, I try a few more of the routines laid out on the A3 poster that comes with the StretchFit. None of them work any better than the standard arm stretch. I do work up a sweat, but it occurs to me that I’d be working up the exact same amount of sweat if I just put the bloody thing down and did the routines without it.

As a final resort I attempt to attach the StretchFit to the end of our banister. This might provide more tension and resistance than I am able to supply using just my body.

And indeed it does! With my back to the banister and each length of rubber band over either shoulder I am able to step a few feet forward and extend the bands out far enough to actually get some resistance on the go.

I spend a happy five minutes pushing my arms out in a boxing motion, and by the end of the routine my arm muscles feel like they’ve had a workout.

Then I swap to lateral twists. This exercise requires you to stand side-on to the StretchFit, pulling it around your body in a twist motion that’s meant to work your lats and abs.

This exercise works, too, though after a couple of minutes I have to stand further away from the banister to get the full effect and maximize my workout. This strains the rubber bands to their limit. I’m not worried, though; the instructions state that the rubber is incredibly strong and will not break no matter how much tension is placed on them.

They are absolutely right. The rubber bands do not even come close to breaking.

Which is more than can be said for the end of my banister.

As I’m at full stretch and enjoying the burning sensation in my abdominals, the rounded end of the banister pole gives way in spectacular fashion. With an enormous
crack!
it flies off,
catapulting
both it and the end of the StretchFit across the li
ving roo
m.

The banister end shoots straight into one of the conservatory windows, smashing the entire double-glazed pane.

The fun isn’t over just yet, though, as the rubber band now springs back towards me at an ungodly speed. The hard plastic foot stirrups fly at my head, and will do some serious damage if I don’t get out of the way.

I duck as fast as possible to protect my face. I am not quick enough to stop the stirrups whacking me in the back of the head, though.

In a concussed daze I stagger into the newly ventilated conservatory and survey the damage.

I then go back inside and pull the Ab Lunge down from the loft.

I figure that once Zoe sees the damage I’ve done, the Ab Lunge is the only thing I’m going to have the opportunity to shag for a long time to come.

In the end, the StretchFit resistance band cost twenty pounds . . . along with another
six hundred
pounds to fix both conservatory and banister.

I considered suing the company. Zoe stopped me when she pointed out that as I’m a local celebrity at the moment, if the press found out about it they’d have a field day. It’s one thing for the local population to know you’re a fat bastard. It’s quite another for them to know you’re a fucking moron.

The experience of Electromax, Ab Lunge, and StretchFit hammers home the fact that these fad machines do absolutely nothing for you, no matter how good they claim to be.

They are all designed to make exercise seem easy and carefree. The problem is that exercise is resolutely
not
easy and it is
never
carefree. It is hard work that tests your endurance and stamina—which is kind of the point when you get right down to it. It’s the effort you put in that squares with the weight you lose. The more hard work you do, the more pounds you shift. It’s as simple as that. Any time you try to make shortcuts or avoid any actual exertion, all you’re doing is wasting your time and draining your bank account.