Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  Or anywhere else where there are trees, birds, grass, or sky.

  Ten minutes later and I’m walking slowly through the doors of Tesco Express. The pain in my upper back and shoulder is so acute now that it’s making me a little light-headed.

  I stand in the medicine aisle for a good minute trying to decide on which painkillers to buy. There are the brand names and the cheaper superstore equivalents. I plump for a pack of these as I’ve never been one for trademarks.

  I pick up a box of 200 mg ibuprofen and take it over to the girl at the counter.

  ‘These are quite strong, you know,’ she says as she puts them in a bag for me.

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ I tell her.

  I don’t know what she’s on about, though. The last time I took these pills was when I twisted my ankle last year. Two didn’t touch the pain, so I had to take three in the end to even get a little relief.

  The pain I’m in now is far worse, so I dry-swallow four of the little white pills as I walk back to the house. This should be enough to take the edge off.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ Zoe says as I come through the door. ‘You look awful.’

  ‘Thanks, baby.’

  ‘Have you been run over?’

  I think of Alice’s bulgy eyes and stern expression. ‘Yes, I rather think I have.’

  ‘Well, we’re due at the station in an hour so you’d best go have a shower and get dressed. Remember to wear decent shorts—we’re being weighed today with hardly any clothes on.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agree and slope off upstairs.

  The shower is invigorating and by the time it’s finished I’m actually feeling pretty good about myself. The pain in my back is almost completely gone. Those painkillers are better than I thought!

  I even start to whistle as I get dressed, and by the time I walk back down the stairs I’ve got a broad grin on my face.

  ‘You look better,’ Zoe says as I enter the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah . . . yeah, I feel better,’ I reply in a dreamy tone of voice.

  Actually, it’s not a dreamy tone of voice, it’s a stoned tone of voice. Those pills must have been a lot stronger than I thought.

  I amble over to the medicine drawer where I’d put them earlier and inspect the packet.

  Oh no.

  I picked up the wrong ones in the shop.

  I thought I’d bought the 200 mg, where in actual fact they are 400 mg. Twice the fucking strength.

  No wonder I’m a bit spaced. I’ve ingested enough anti-inflammatory medicine to stun a gorilla.

  ‘You alright?’ Zoe inquires from right beside me. I hadn’t noticed her enter the room.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you’ve been staring at that packet for five minutes.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes, Greg.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you going to be alright to go out?’

  I put my hand on her shoulder. The softness of her jumper under my fingers is amazing. ‘Mmmmmm. ’Course I am, baby.’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I may have just taken a little too much ibuprofen.’

  ‘Oh, Greg!’

  ‘Sssshhh,’ I tell her and put my hand on her soft, warm cheek. ‘It’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine. Fine and dandy. Dandy wandy.’

  ‘Oh, good grief.’

  ‘You have lovely skin. I don’t tell you that enough.’ I stroke my finger up her face. ‘Lovely, lovely skin. Skin, skin, skin, skinny, skin.’

  ‘I’m driving,’ Zoe says, breaking away from this disturbing analysis of her epidermis.

  ‘Okay, sweetheart. You drive. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

  I drift off to somewhere warm and bouncy for a moment.

  ‘I’ll not drive,’ I eventually say.

  ‘Oh, this is going to go well,’ my wife says with a level of exasperation I am completely oblivious to.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ I cry happily and then walk straight into the kitchen door.

  On the drive to Stream FM I’ve decided that ‘kumquat’ is the nicest word in the dictionary.

  By the time I’m stripped down to my t-shirt and shorts and am waiting in the green room I’ve changed my mind. ‘Albumin’ is in fact the nicest word in the English language. ‘Kumquat’ is a distant second, with ‘moleskin’ crashing in to third place, slightly ahead of ‘wombat.’

  ‘I can’t believe there’s going to be a bloody audience for this,’ Zoe says from beside me.

  The weigh-in is to be conducted in the large conference hall here at Stream FM’s offices. They’ve converted it into a temporary studio for this very purpose. A specially selected audience of a couple of hundred have been invited along to lend a certain atmosphere to proceedings. The weigh-in will go out live on air and will also be streamed on the website.

  This is all making Zoe understandably nervous.

  I couldn’t give a rosy, red fuck. I’m too busy thinking of words that rhyme with albumin.

  I glance around at the other five couples, unable to wipe the dumb smile off my face. Frankly, it’s a miracle I haven’t started dribbling.

  Most of them are looking as terrified as Zoe—other than the two scumbags whose names escape me right now. She’s taking pictures of her enormous child on her iPhone and he’s picking his nose with the kind of enthusiasm you’d normally see from a dwarf in a gold mine.

  I do remember Shane’s name, the largest of all of us. Even in my creamy ibuprofen torpor I can tell he’s lost a fair bit of weight, even in the past week. This sharpens my foggy mind a bit. If he’s lost some of his enormous bulk, I’d better have as well.

  My male pride has taken a right kicking in the past few days at the hands of Alice Pithering, but standing here sizing up the competition has kick-started it again in no uncertain terms.

  Sadly, I’m also still as high as a fucking kite, so my competitive edge is dulled again fairly quickly as I realise the word ‘albumin’ is quite close to ‘album.’ As in ‘Have you heard the latest Green Day albumin? It’s great . . . no yolk.’

  This awful, awful pun sends me into a giggling fit that passes only when Lottie the production assistant comes into the room and tells us that it’s show time.

  And what a show it is! A veritable cornucopia of razzle, dazzle, and glitz!

  It’s either that or I’m off my tits on over-the-counter drugs, and the weigh-in is actually just a set of large scales, an LCD scoreboard above them, and two hundred vaguely bored-looking people sitting in chairs waiting for something fat to happen.

  We’re paraded in through the large set of double doors to the side of the conference room, and I have to resist the near overwhelming urge to start mooing.

  Elise and Will, who look very shiny this morning, are speaking to the crowd and the wider listening audience, as they wander around the temporarily erected stage at the back of the conference hall.

  A large sign on canvas—one that must have cost a fortune—is hanging behind the stage and reads FAT CHACE! Somebody has come along and attempted to change the misspelling by squeezing in the N, but everyone in the room can see where the cock-up has occurred. It’s obvious that the sign was knocked up by the reprographics department during their lunch break.

  ‘And here they are!’ exclaims Will as we file in. ‘Our twelve contestants, ready to join us on stage for the first weigh-in!’

  ‘That’s right! Let’s give them all a big round of applause!’ Elise adds.

  The crowd is suddenly energised. They’ve been given their cue, and by golly, they’re going to provide a heartfelt contractually obligated response if it kills them.

  A roar of applause rolls over our heads as we take to the low stage. There’s even a few whoops and cheers going on too. I swear I hear somebody make a
mooing noise, but that’s probably just the ibuprofen talking.

  Twelve seats are arranged for us at the back, and we each take a pew as Will and Elise tell the audience how the weigh-in will go.

  Each couple will step up to the scales and will be weighed one after another. Our combined weight will be totalled up and put on the elaborate scoreboard, along with the combined weight loss percentage. When all six couples have had their turn, whoever has lost the most body fat will win the first weigh-in—and the weekend break in London to see a show.

  This is all a very neat way of assessing which of us is doing the best job of shifting the fat. However, I can’t help thinking there’s something of a loophole. If I just cut one of Zoe’s legs off, that’ll win us the weigh-in no problem.

  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 passed back 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 breath 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 th
at,’ 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.’