‘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, wh
o 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.
Greg doesn’t come off much better. He’s sporting a cheesy grin that makes him look ever so slightly retarded. Also, his hair is sticking up on one side, indicating that presenting himself for public consumption is beyond his skills as a human being.
The rest of our motley gang look as bad as we do, but I’m not concerned with their appearance given that I hardly know any of them and therefore couldn’t give a shit.
The only two bastards who look clean, happy, and attractive are Will and Elise, who have been badly Photoshopped over the lineup of fatties behind them. Will’s teeth shine with the light of a supernova and Elise has hair bouncier and more alive than a kangaroo on performance-enhancing drugs.
‘Oh dear, I don’t look at all well,’ I hear a voice from behind me. I turn to see Valerie and George, the winners of the first weigh-in, inspecting the standing display with the same horror Greg and I are.
‘Morning,’ I say to both of them, as does Greg.
‘Good morning, love,’ Valerie replies. ‘I don’t normally look like that,’ she adds, pointing a finger at the cardboard version of herself.
I look back and see that for some reason Valerie is a rather sickly shade of yellow, like she’s had an attack of jaundice. The rest of us look fairly pink and more or less healthy, so I can only imagine it’s another failing of the Photoshopped nature of the display.
‘You look a bit Oriental, dear,’ George says, betraying a slight element of racism in his character.
‘They’re all awful, don’t worry,’ I tell Valerie. ‘I look like Shergar and Greg appears to have had a lobotomy.’
‘They certainly could have consulted us before using such horrible photos,’ Valerie says.
‘From the way things have been going so far, I don’t think our opinions hold much water,’ Greg observes accurately.
‘Good morning, guys!’
We all swing around to see two tanned and spandex-clad staff members walking towards us in a sprightly manner. One is male, the other female. Both are blonde and don’t appear to have an ounce of fat on their bones. I don’t need to look at Greg to know he’s trying very hard not to stare at the girl’s breasts, which have been neatly put on display thanks to the tight spandex t-shirt she’s wearing. I take a swift look to see if I can catch the outline of the guy’s willy, but he’s either hung like a shrew or the spandex shorts he’s wearing offer more comfort and support than they appear to.
‘You guys are here for the challenge, right?’ the girl says in a chipper fashion.
‘Indeed we are, my dear young thing,’ George replies. By the smooth tone of his voice he’s obviously clocked a good look at her boobs as well and doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to charm their owner.
‘That’s fantastic!’ the guy replies.
I’m sure as far as he is concerned everything in the world is fantastic. Spandex is fantastic. His calorie count is fantastic. His body fat index is fantastic. His blood pressure is fantastic. In fact about the only thing that might not be fantastic is the size of his genitals, but he’s probably too concerned with his fibre intake to worry about it. ‘I’m Tristan and this is Hayley,’ he continues.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Greg says, looking directly at Hayley and completely ignoring Mr Fantastic.
‘If you ladies would like to follow me to our changing rooms,’ Hayley says. ‘Tristan will take the gents to yours.’
‘Lead on, MacDuff!’ George says, in a phrase I’ve never really known the origin of.
‘I’ll see you in a bit baby,’ Greg tells me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Now, my husband is not one for the public display of affection, so I can tell he’s feeling nervous about this challenge and needs a bit of TLC. I give him a hug before taking my leave with Valerie and the spandex queen.
Hayley takes us up the stairs to the left while Tristan takes the boys up a set to the right. She leads us through what can only be described as a labyrinth of weights rooms, saunas, plunge pools, and massage parlours until we arrive at our destination, the main ladies’ changing rooms.
‘If you’d just like to get into your kits,’ she tells us, ‘you can then walk through into the main gym where they have the challenge set up for you guys.’
‘I can hear the crowd. They don’t sound very big,’ Valerie says—a little note of relief in her voice.
‘Oh don’t worry, there are loads of th
em!’ Hayley says excitedly. ‘They’re just waiting for the show to start.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Which will be in twenty minutes.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait to parade my big fat arse in front of them.’
Hayley squeezes my arm. ‘That’s the spirit. Good for you.’ The tone is as patronising as it possibly can be.
I bite back a response and head into the changing room with Valerie in tow.
‘I’m starting to feel like the main attraction at a zoo,’ Valerie points out as we both zip up our hideous red hooded tops. Valerie’s slogan is ‘LOSING IS WINNING.’ The fact that I’m quite jealous is testament to just how dreadful my catchphrase truly is.
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘If there’s a guy standing out there with a big stick and whistle I wouldn’t be surprised.’
Valerie smiles. ‘You think they’ll make us jump through hoops?’
I pat her on the shoulder. ‘Valerie, love, we’ve been doing that for two months already.’
Large brightly coloured signs indicate the exit to the main gym at the other end of the changing room, so I take a deep breath, mentally cross myself, and head out to face the crowd.
Who, it turns out, don’t really care much about us fatties at all, judging by their rather lacklustre response to our arrival.
We walk out to find a row of six exercise bikes in the centre of the gym. The crowd sits in a semicircle around them, giving the impression of an amphitheatre. The scoreboard from the weigh-in has made its way here, hanging above our heads and ready to record our time and speed on the bikes once we get on them.
Off to the left-hand side is the temporary radio desk set up for Elise and Will, along with the production assistants who go everywhere with them. Hundreds of wires snake away to God knows where from the array of important- and complicated-looking black and grey boxes.
I sidle over to where Greg is already sitting down. As I join him, I look up at the crowd, which is about two hundred strong. Most are chatting amongst themselves or playing on their smartphones, but some are staring at us like we’ve just been created in a Petri dish. The low murmur of conversation can be heard above the hum of the air conditioning.
‘Well, that’s disconcerting,’ I say to Greg.
Fat Chance Page 10