Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  Right, that’s it. I can’t be arsed to write any more. What the hell else am I supposed to say anyway?

  Apparently my rant above isn’t good enough, according to my wife. She’s just made that fact very clear to me in an hour-long screaming argument. My eardrums may never recover. Zoe’s now taken herself off into the bedroom and is refusing to speak to me again until I write something a bit more constructive in this stupid diary.

  ‘You’re not happy being fat, you lying git!’ she screeched at me. ‘Stop talking bollocks and be honest!’

  ‘People are going to read it,’ I pointed out to her.

  ‘That’s the reason we’re doing it!’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’

  I hate squirming. It’s something five-year-olds do.

  Nevertheless, here I am—sitting at the dining room table, squirming like a worm in the clutches of a particularly psychotic child—under the baleful gaze of my irate wife.

  ‘It’s part of the deal, Greg,’ she says. ‘If we don’t write these diaries, we don’t get to stay in the competition.’

  ‘S’not a problem with me,’ I mumble.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Squirm. Squirm. ‘What am I supposed to say, then?’

  ‘They told you what to write about. Your emotions, Greg. How you feel. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Right now I’m feeling extremely bullied.’

  ‘About how it feels to be fat, I mean.’

  I cross my arms. ‘You mean how bad I’m supposed to feel about myself? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, Greg! We’re both miserable. You know we are.’

  ‘I’m not miserable. I’m perfectly okay, thanks.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Zoe’s arms also fold across her chest and she shoots daggers at me. ‘What about Roger’s barbecue last week?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you? You weren’t happy about what happened there, though, were you?’

  ‘There’s no way I’m writing about it.’

  ‘Yes, you are! That’s the point of all this!’ Zoe lets out a weary sigh and sits down next to me. ‘Come on, Greg. Stop lying to yourself. You’re no happier than I am. We’ve spent the past ten years eating far too much and moving about far too little.’ She shakes her head. ‘Too many takeaways in front of the telly. Too many hours spent sitting on the couch. It’s just piled up and piled up, until we’re at the point where I can’t look at myself any more, and I’m pretty sure you can’t either.’ Her eyes go wide. ‘I wheeze, Greg. A woman of my age should not bloody wheeze! We need to make a change in our lives, and if this competition is the only way to do it, then that’s what we’ll do.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. ‘Something’s got to change, baby. We’re not getting any younger and we can’t keep rolling around like a couple of Weebles.’

  ‘Weebles?’

  ‘Yes Greg. Weebles.’ Zoe gets up again. ‘I’m going to read in the bedroom. Sit here and write about what happened at Roger’s . . . the same way I did with the incident at M&S.’

  ‘I can’t write as well as you can. You’re a lot funnier than me.’

  ‘Bullshit, Gregory Milton. You write for a living.’

  ‘I’m a technical writer for an electronics company, woman, not a journalist.’

  ‘Well, just treat this as a user manual for being fat.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes! Get writing, Greg, and stop making excuses!’

  And with that, Zoe turns around and marches out of the living room, leaving me sitting here at this computer, trying to avoid having to spill my guts, but knowing that if I don’t I’ll face a verbal crucifixion from my enraged spouse.

  You wouldn’t expect an invitation to a barbecue in the first week of March, would you? Especially not in the South of England.

  It’s no more than five degrees outside, and a raw, bitter wind blows across the whole country. Not exactly the ideal conditions for standing around outside eating a burnt beef burger.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Roger assures me in my office a week before the barbecue. ‘I’ve hired these bloody great big heaters and we’re having a gazebo put up. Seriously, I can guarantee it’ll be like the Bahamas under there!’ He gives me a friendly poke in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Besides, you’re a big lad. I’m sure you’ll keep warm,’ he finishes with a grin.

  Why do people automatically think that because you’re carrying extra weight you don’t feel the cold? I’m not a fucking walrus. My blubber is not that beneficial when it comes to staving off cold temperatures.

  ‘Okay Roger, we’ll come along,’ I tell him.

  At least the food will be good. Roger has a two-thousand-pound barbecue he bought for less than half price when the local garden centre went out of business last October. I know he’s been dying to use it ever since. His impatience is most probably the reason for the event’s ridiculous timing.

  It helps that his wife is a chef, which will at least lessen the chances of us coming away with food poisoning.

  ‘Great!’ Roger says, and turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, he drops the bombshell on me. ‘Oh, Eileen wants it to be a fancy dress party.’

  ‘What?!’ I say, failing to hide my horror at the prospect.

  ‘Yeah. It’ll be fun!’

  ‘No it won’t, Roger, it’ll be awful.’

  ‘Eileen wants it,’ he says and picks at an imaginary piece of fluff on his jacket.

  I’ve known Roger enough years to know that what Eileen wants, Eileen gets. He and I are very similar in that respect. ‘Oh, fuck a badger, alright,’ I say in disgust. ‘I’ll just do what I always do. Stick on my funeral suit and come as John Travolta in Pulp Fiction.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s themed.’

  ‘Themed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Roger looks like someone’s wafted something unpleasant under his nose.

  I know I look like someone’s just shot my favourite childhood goldfish. ‘What’s the theme, Roger?’

  ‘Children’s television characters.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘British ones only. From the 1970s and 80s.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Why doesn’t she just stipulate it has to be programmes broadcast between 3 and 4 p.m. on independent local television in 1985 and have done with it?’

  ‘I told her it might be a bit too specific.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Roger affects a conciliatory smile. ‘The fun kicks off at eight, Greg. Looking forward to seeing you both!’ And with that, he’s out the door and gone before I can kick up any more fuss.

  So now I have to come up with a costume for a British children’s television show from the seventies or eighties.

  ‘You could paint yourself blue and go as what’s-his-name from “The Trap Door,” ’ Zoe says that evening while we’re discussing the matter.

  ‘What? Berk? Don’t be ridiculous. Apart from anything else I’ll freeze to death.’

  ‘Grotbags?’

  ‘Grotbags?’

  ‘Yeah, you know. She used to turn up on that show with Rod Hull and Emu.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting that I cross-dress as a green witch, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You need to be quiet now, Zoe. Please.’

  Zoe shrugs her shoulders and walks into the kitchen, leaving me with my conundrum.

  It’s alright for her—she decided on her costume in less than three seconds. Zoe is going as Thelma from ‘Scooby Doo.’ Her costume has been in our loft ever since her mum’s similarly awful fancy dress party five years ago. She concedes it might need letting out a bit thanks to
her more recent weight gain, but Zoe’s always been a dab hand with sewing so, bar an hour or two of cutting and stitching, she’s pretty much sorted. While not technically British, the cartoon was on here for so many years, Zoe is confident she’ll get away with it.

  ‘What about Captain Pugwash?’ she hollers at me from the kitchen over the sound of the microwave.

  ‘Can you stop suggesting fat people, please?’ I shout back.

  ‘Sorry!’

  Another couple of minutes roll by until inspiration strikes.

  ‘Aha!’ I say in triumph.

  ‘Got something, have you?’ Zoe asks from over her mug of steaming hot chocolate.

  ‘I have indeed. Is my suit ironed?’

  Zoe groans. ‘You can’t go as John Travolta again.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m going as Mister Benn!’

  ‘Mister Benn?’

  ‘Yeah . . . you remember, don’t you? Cartoon from the seventies. Bloke in a suit and bowler hat would go into a clothes shop, pop on a costume in the changing room out the back, and find himself on some adventure relating to the costume.’

  ‘What, like if he dressed as a ninja, he’d wind up in Japan cutting people’s heads off?’

  ‘I don’t think he ever did that. It was a kids’ show. But yes, you get the point.’

  ‘You haven’t got a bowler hat.’

  ‘They’re bound to have one in that fancy dress shop in town, aren’t they?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Probably turns out to be definitely. I manage to pick up a plastic bowler hat that just about fits on my head the next day on my way home from the office.

  By seven that evening I’m standing in front of the mirror dressed in my black suit and tie, with the cheap hat on my head. I don’t quite look exactly like the cartoon character, but this is a fancy dress party being held in someone’s back garden, so I don’t think anyone is expecting the costumes on offer to be hyper-accurate doppelgangers of the real thing.

  This is just as well, as it is plain to see that the suit doesn’t fit me anymore. I’ve had to strap on my biggest, thickest belt to stop the trousers from popping open at the clasp, and I can’t lift my arms above a 45-degree angle. I tell myself that it is only for one night and that by the time nine o’clock rolls around everyone will be heavily intoxicated and therefore unlikely to care. I’ll be able to take a majority of it off with no fuss.

  ‘You look very dapper,’ Zoe says, kindly.

  ‘I look like an utter dickhead, love, but I wasn’t expecting much else.’

  Zoe gives me a withering look. ‘Oh, cheer up. It might be fun.’

  ‘I suppose so. Let’s just hope Roger’s heaters do their job okay. The forecast is for two degrees tomorrow night.’

  ‘Good job my Thelma sweater is pretty thick, then.’

  . . . and orange. Really, really, blindingly orange.

  As we walk to the car the next evening, I can’t help but feel that I’m being accompanied by a giant ambulatory tangerine. I have the tact to keep this to myself, though.

  The drive over to Roger’s is an uncomfortable one, what with the suit jacket being so tight that I can’t lift my arms properly, and the tightened belt around my waist feels like its burrowing its way into my intestinal tract.

  The car dashboard readout tells me it is in fact a balmy zero degrees outside already, and it’s only 7.30. Those heaters had better be very, very big.

  ‘Evening!’ Roger exclaims joyfully as he throws the front door open.

  I say Roger, but what I really mean is Roger dressed in an alarmingly bright Bananaman costume.

  Roger Jarvis is six foot three inches tall, has been a prop forward for ten years on the rugby team, and is built like a particularly sturdy garden shed. But even he can’t make a bright yellow and blue superhero costume look anything other than the gayest outfit on the face of the planet.

  ‘Want a banana?’ he asks and waves a bunch of Fyffe’s in our faces. ‘They give you superpowers!’

  ‘No thanks, mate,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t want to ruin our appetites.’

  ‘Fair enough! Come in, both of you.’

  Zoe enters first and I follow on behind, trying to protect my eyes from the glare radiating from Bananaman. What with Zoe’s bright orange jumper, I’m starting to feel a seizure coming on.

  ‘Hello!’ Eileen waves at us from the lounge. She has donned a blonde mullet wig over her cropped red hair, and is wearing a bloody awful silver jacket, complete with lapels which are so large that they would be ideally suited for hang gliding. The jacket is paired with red chequered flares that defy belief, both in terms of garishness and flappiness around the ankles. The ensemble is topped off by the enormous Long Island Ice Tea she’s waving around in one hand.

  ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’ I blurt out, almost involuntarily.

  ‘My costume, you mean?’ she says and grins like a maniac.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I’m Cheggers!’

  For a second, I don’t quite get what she means. Is Cheggers a newly discovered disease of the mind that forces you to dress like an utter twat?

  Zoe is quicker on the uptake. ‘Cheggers! I used to love that show!’

  Then it clicks into place. Cheggers . . . ‘Cheggers Plays Pop.’ The seminal children’s quiz show from the 80s, hosted by short, chubby British institution Keith Chegwin.

  ‘You’re dressed as Keith Chegwin, aren’t you?’ I say in stunned disbelief.

  ‘I am!’

  My eyes narrow. ‘Was this entire fancy dress party manufactured to give you an excuse to dress as Cheggers, Eileen? Be honest.’

  ‘It was!’ she cries, unashamedly.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Zoe crows and gives Eileen a hug.

  ‘I love the Thelma costume, sweetheart,’ Eileen tells my wife, before looking at me a bit cockeyed, clearly already under the influence of Long Island’s finest alcoholic beverage. ‘Not so sure about yours, Greg. Never really liked Thomas the Tank Engine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re dressed as The Fat Controller, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m Mister Benn!’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Really?’ Roger says from behind his mask of banana-flavoured justice. ‘I thought you were The Fat Controller as well.’

  My face goes red with embarrassment . . . just like The Fat Controller’s. ‘I’m dressed as Mister Benn,’ I tell them through gritted teeth.

  Both Roger and Eileen realise the implications of their mistake and employ that nervous laugh people fall back on as a get-out clause at times such as this.

  ‘Great costume!’ Roger exclaims.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Eileen agrees a little too quickly.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say with a fake smile plastered across my face.

  Still, the social faux pas they’ve just committed can now be brushed under the carpet without another mention. We’ll all just pretend they didn’t mistake who I’ve come dressed as just because I’m a big fat bastard.

  ‘Shall we go through to the garden?’ Roger asks, inadvertently looking down at my gut. ‘I bet you’re both hungry.’

  Oh, of course we’re both hungry, Roger. We’re big fat balloon people who can’t walk past an edible substance without immediately grabbing it and stuffing it into our giant, slobbering maws.

  This party is starting to go south fast.

  What’s really bloody annoying is that I am starving, having not eaten anything since lunch. But now that Roger and Eileen have neatly highlighted how blubbery Zoe and I are, we’re going to have to eat like shrews so the rest of the partygoers don’t look at us like we’re the evening’s entertainment.

  I can just about stand looking idiotic in an uncomfortable and badly put together fancy dress costume, but i
f people are staring at me and my wife like we’re a freak show who eat everything in sight, I might just have to kill myself.

  The audience will just have to do without a performance from ‘The Colossal Balloon Twins’ this evening.

  ‘Lead on,’ I say to Roger with a poorly concealed sigh.

  I was worried that it would be too cold under the gazebo as a result of the March weather. I needn’t have worried.

  Roger has bought not one, not two, but eight large outdoor heaters that he has placed around the edge of the party area. Each one produces a similar amount of heat to what you’d find on your average afternoon in the Serengeti. People are actually standing away from them, and some are even leaning out into the cold night air to get a bit of respite. The plastic patio chairs they’ve put out for guests to sit on are probably in danger of melting into puddles of white gunge.

  Were this heat not enough, it’s married with the inferno being put out by Roger’s enormous barbecue sitting along the back wall of the house. Clearly, we’ll all be lucky to get out of here without third-degree burns and kidney failure brought on by severe dehydration.

  There’s roughly twenty people under the gigantic white gazebo. Happily, Zoe and I know (or at least recognise) a good 80 percent of them. Most are from my work or the rugby club, and are the same motley collection of lunatics I’ve socialised with for the past decade.

  ‘Fuck me! It’s The Fat Controller!’ I hear a voice cry from just beyond the ring of infernal patio heaters. The unmistakeable cockney accent belongs to Ali, my friend, fellow rugby enthusiast, and utter prick of the highest order.

  He emerges from the frigid garden wearing the biggest turban I’ve ever seen in my life, a couple of gun bandoliers strapped across his otherwise naked chest, and a set of black balloon pants that terminate in combat boots. I don’t remember this getup from any TV shows I watched when I was a kid. Ali is taller and broader than both me and Roger, so the ensemble is pretty terrifying.

  ‘I’m not the sodding Fat Controller!’ I snap at him as he walks towards me.

  ‘Father Christmas at a job interview?’ he retorts, sniggering.

  ‘I’m Mister Benn!’

  Ali peers at me, laughs, and takes a swig from the huge Tiger beer bottle in his hand.