Fat

by Rob Grant

  Don't Lose It

  We often talk about people being beside themselves with rage. What we mean is they are no longer reacting as they normally would. They are reduced to the role of onlooker in their own life. It's vitally important to maintain control of our responses, in all situations. Below are some techniques to avoid 'losing it'.

  1) Walk Away

  This is the first and most powerful anger management tool. If you remove yourself from the scene, even for a few moments, you dramatically improve your opportunities to find the correct response to a situation.

  2) Buy Some Time

  I don't advocate the old chestnut of 'counting to ten'. It might work the first few times, but it rapidly loses power and becomes a meaningless exercise. Sometimes, counting to ten can actually build your anger. A more advanced tip is to memorise a short poem you like, one you can recite to yourself in your head. It can be anything: a Shakespeare sonnet, an amusing limerick, anything that makes you feel good. It's especially powerful if it makes you laugh. When you feel the blood rising, repeat it to yourself, mentally. You'd be surprised how often this can diffuse a potentially confrontational situation. And if at any point you feel that poem is no longer working for you, find a new one. It's important to keep it fresh. I have reproduced a selection of suitable pieces at the end of this book. It's not, as some of the more unkind detractors of the first edition cruelly suggested, merely 'a dismal way of padding out a thin pamphlet with painfully few ideas and absolutely no new ones into a sellable-sized volume'. It's valuable. It's probably saved lives. Use it. (My own current favourite is 'There Was a Young Woman from Philly'. I had to use it quite a lot when I read those reviews, let me tell you!)

  3) Reproject

  Try imagining the person on whom your anger is focused is someone you love. It's hard to feel hatred for your dear old grandma, much less punch her lights out!

  4) Slow Down

  What's the rush? Racing from one place to the next is creating unnecessary stress in your life. If you're in a rush, you risk a rage. Set off earlier. Always try to drive five miles an hour slower than you think you have to. If you're walking, don't just put your head down and try to cover the distance. Stroll. Saunter. You'll find it improves the quality of your life quite dramatically. Enjoy the journey. Smell the roses!

  5) Avoid Your Triggers

  Many of us find certain situations or people repeatedly cause us to lose our tempers. It's important to recognise them and, wherever possible, avoid them. It might be an obnoxious work colleague. It might be rush-hour traffic. Sometimes it may be difficult to avoid them altogether, but I have found in almost every circumstance it's possible, at the very least, to minimise your contact with them. If it's the traffic, for instance, think about leaving home earlier. If it's someone in your office, contemplate moving your desk -- it's usually possible. Failing that, think about moving to another branch, or even another career!

  6) Don't Feed The Monster

  Sometimes our misplaced anger is the result of outside stimulus. Some people only get angry when they drink alcohol, or a certain type of alcohol, or a certain amount. Cut it down, or cut it out altogether. If you use recreational drugs that consistently induce anger in you, the answer is very simple: stop. It's illegal anyway, unless you're Dutch.

  7) Walk Away

  I know, I know, this is the same as the first technique, and I'm not including it again because, as some fools have suggested, I can't actually think of seven different techniques to satisfy my publisher's remit, but because it's so valuable, I felt honour bound to include it twice. If you're facing a situation where you can feel yourself losing control, get out of there. Don't walk, run. Or at least saunter quickly!

  In the following chapters, we will explore all these techniques in much more detail, and I have included several case studies which illustrate the concepts, and show us how my temper-control course has improved countless lives. In most cases, just reading this book properly will help you wrest back control of your life, and keep your Furies where they should be: caged and under your command. In some of the more extreme cases, however, a more personal consultation may be required. Check out my website, which lists my current seminar program. If you would like to become a fully licensed Roth Anger Counsellor, log on for details of online courses and franchise details.

  Take your time with this book, and enjoy it.

  And remember: don't be an onlooker in your own life.

  Dr Alan Roth *

  * Dr Alan Roth is not a medical doctor, and has never claimed to be one.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hayleigh was in her psychiatrist's office. Oh, yes, hadn't you heard? Standard procedure for a broken leg, regular visits to the nut doctor. Endless hours of dull, dull dullness. You'd better not break two legs round these parts, me old cock sparrow: they'd probably lock you up in the loony bin and throw away the key. They'd probably tie you up in a straitjacket and shoot one million volts of electricity into your brain.

  She was sitting in silence as usual. Hayleigh had, quite literally, not said one single word in any of their sessions. For the first three sessions, neither had the psychiatrist. They had simply been seminars of silence. In fact, by her fourth visit, Hayleigh had almost started to look forward to the break from her mother's endless prattle. A tiny little oasis in the desert of Hayleigh Griffin's existence.

  But the nut doctor had caved and started talking. He'd tried, at first, asking questions, but Hayleigh had no intention of answering any questions, ever. Under the Geneva Convention, she was required to give her name, rank and serial number, and that was all. And since she had no rank or serial number, as far as she was aware, and since they already knew her name, she was not obliged to say anything at all.

  She had talked at first, when she came out of the swoon after the operation. She'd had to talk to defend her corner in the food-regulations negotiations, but once they were settled and set in stone, she had not said one word, not one single word to anyone. She was on Talk Strike.

  So the nut doctor had given up his interrogations, and that had been that for session four.

  In session five, however, he'd tried a different tack. He'd started talking at her. He'd obviously got his ammunition from la grande vache herself, because he seemed to know an awful lot of intimate information about her. Hayleigh managed to shut most of it out. She just had a nice chat with herself, thank you very much. The occasional barb penetrated, though. She did realise, didn't she, that everybody was only trying to help her? Yeah, right, they were torturing her for her own good. If she didn't start eating properly she could cause herself serious damage. Does this face look bothered, mate?

  And, gradually, she'd been able to phase out his voice, so now, by what must surely have been session one million and seventy-five, it was nothing more than a background hum. White noise.

  But then he said something she could not tune out. Something so outrageous, it could probably give you a heart attack, and you could drop down dead on the spot.

  What he said was: 'Would you like to meet Jason Black?'

  To hear that name, coming from her tormentor's lips, sent Hayleigh's head spinning. Her stomach started flopping around like a freshly landed fish. She tried not to react, but he must have seen her stiffen, because he carried on with the filthy business, and there was triumph in his tone.

  'I mean, I'm not sure we'll be able to swing it, but I can get in touch with his people, give it a shot. Would you like that, Hayleigh?'

  She could feel her own face colouring with fury. To drag Jason into this hideous business. How dare he? The one, the only decent part of her life. The safe haven she kept in her head. They'd reached into her most private place and violated it. The filthy, filthy bastards.

  'I mean, you'd talk to Jason, wouldn't you?'

  Stop saying his name! She shook her head violently. It wasn't talking, but it was communication. She hated herself for handing him this tiny victory, but this had to be stopped. It had to stop now.
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  'He's probably got a busy schedule, but he might agree to pop along.'

  Hayleigh was fighting back tears. She would not give him the satisfaction. She tried to concentrate on the Litany. Jason Black. Age twenty-two. Born in Cheadle, Manchester. Birthday: September 25th. Star sign: Libra. Favourite colour: purple. Fave food: beef burrito. Biggest luv: haven't met her yet (natch!) Most embarrassing moment: going on stage without trousers...

  But it wasn't working and she couldn't stop the tears now. And the nut doctor knew he had done a bad thing finally, because he was apologising and asking what was wrong. Well, here's what's wrong, Mr Psycho: when you're a prisoner in a tower, when your every waking moment is torture, and your gaoler even sleeps on the sofa in your room, and you aren't left alone for more than three minutes in a week, you need something to cling on to, I'll tell you that much. You need some kind of hope. Because this is unbearable, and somebody, somebody has to come and rescue you. There has to be somebody out there who just might steal in, in the dead of night, and whisk you up in his strong, brave arms and carry you away. Because you're a prisoner of conscience, you're a princess in a tower, and we all know they need a handsome prince, there has to be a handsome prince out there for every princess prisoner, doesn't there? And when you start talking about inviting the prince over for tea and bloody biscuits, you're shattering a dream, you're stealing a person's hope. Because somebody has to come to the rescue, and if not Jason, then who?

  If not him, then who?

  And then Hayleigh felt a terrible coldness invade her body, as if she were back on that dreadful drip again, only this time they were filling her veins with pure ice.

  Nobody was going to come.

  There would be no rescue.

  She'd known it all along, really. It was a stupid, immature fantasy, when you faced up to it. She hadn't really been fully aware she was clinging on to it with such intense desperation. It had just been there, at the back of her mind, dreamy and opaque. It never had a chance of standing up to scrutiny.

  And suddenly, she felt more weary than she had ever felt in her life. She just couldn't go on. It was as simple as that. She had no struggle left in her. She barely noticed her mum was pushing her down the corridor back to their cell. Back to the unbearable routine.

  She couldn't take it any more.

  And there was only one way out.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Grenville finally tracked down the producer. He was cowering in the edit suite, the stuck-up spineless snake. His face fell for just an instant when he first saw Grenville, but he recovered quickly and made all the right facial moves to give the impression he was delighted to see him.

  'Grenville.' He crocodile-grinned. 'We didn't know whether or not to expect you.'

  'Why? I work here.'

  'Well, with all that... you know... business yesterday. We thought you might want to keep a low profile for a wee while.'

  'Oh, that was all blown out of proportion. It was nothing, really. You know how the tabloids are for making a mountain out of a molehill.'

  'For sure, for sure.' The producer agreed too quickly and nodded just a little bit too enthusiastically for Grenville's liking.

  'Soooo. What's Bob Constable doing here?'

  'Bob? Oh, did you bump into him? Yes. Well, he stepped into the breach for us yesterday, as t'were, and we couldn't get hold of you and your agent didn't seem to know where you were, so we sort of... Look, I might as well tell you. He's your replacement.'

  'My temporary replacement, you mean.'

  'Uhm. No. He's your replacement, full stop.'

  Right, Grenville. Steady on, now. Try the Happy Poem.

  There was a young sous chef from Hitchin...

  'You cannot be serious.'

  'I'm sorry, Grenville. I really am.'

  'Bob Constable?'

  'We were lucky to get him at such short notice.'

  'But Bob Constable?'

  'What's wrong with Bob Constable?'

  'What's wrong with Bob Constable is he's not fit to lick my backside.'

  'Bob's a fine cook.'

  'He is not a fine cook. He's an idiot. I am a Michelin-starred chef. Bob Constable cannot even spell the word "Michelin".'

  'Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree on that, Grenville.'

  OK, Grenville. Walk away. 'Hang on. Can you just excuse me for a second? Will you just excuse me for just one second?'

  The producer looked slightly baffled, but nodded his assent. Grenville stepped out of the room and into the corridor.

  There was a young sous chef from Hitchin

  Whose wife was consistently bitchin'...

  This was unbe-fucking-lievable. Cunt bloody Bobstable? Yes, it was anger he was feeling, and yes, it was appropriate, and no, he wasn't beside himself. Right.

  Grenville strode back into the room. 'I'm shell shocked, here. I really am. I mean, why? Because of that stupid nonsense in the car park? I mean, there's no such thing as bad publicity, is there? It's not as though I went on a five-day three-in-a-bed cocaine binge orgy with a former Blue Peter presenter.'

  'No, it's not just your rampage--'

  'It was not a rampage.'

  'If you say so. No, it wasn't just because of that. I'll be blunt. We've been getting pressure from the network. They think you're bad for the image of the show.'

  'Bad for the image of the show? In what way am I bad for the image of the show?'

  'Well, your...' The producer looked him up and down. 'Your size.'

  'My size? You're sacking me because I'm overweight?'

  'Not in so many words, Grenville. They've been looking for an excuse to replace you for a bit, now, and that... business yesterday: you handed it them on a plate, basically.'

  'You're sacking me because I'm fat?'

  'You present an image the network doesn't want associated with their cookery output.'

  'In other words, they don't want a fat chef on their channel.'

  'Your words, Grenville, not mine. Look, I've been honest with you. I could have said it was because of your rampage, not that it was a rampage, but I didn't. I told you the truth.'

  Grenville was actually feeling dizzy with rage. He could feel himself swaying. He tried to reproject. He tried to imagine the man was, in fact, his sainted grandmother, but it was no use: no matter how hard he tried, the bastard still looked like an ugly shit you wouldn't want to find in your toilet bowl. Time to walk away again.

  'Will you excuse me again, just for a sec?'

  And again, the producer looked a little bewildered, but nodded, and Grenville stepped out of the room again.

  There was a young sous chef from Hitchin

  Whose wife was consistently bitchin'.

  Without any bluster...

  And sod this for a game of soldiers. Grenville stormed right back into the edit suite. 'Can you even do this? I mean, I've got a contract. Is this even legal?'

  'Yes. There's a morality clause. The network lawyers say it's cast iron. Check with your agent, if you like. Run it by your own lawyers.'

  Grenville didn't think he'd be running it by his own lawyers. He wasn't convinced his own lawyers could even read. 'So that's it? Just like that, I'm gone?'

  'I'm sorry, Grenville. It's been a privilege working with you. I'm sorry it had to end like this. If it were up to me--'

  'But what about the book?'

  'What book?'

  'The next Cook It, Change It, Dig It! book, for next Christmas.'

  'Well, presumably Bob will be doing that.'

  'Can he write?

  'There's no need to be like that--'

  'No, seriously. I'm not even sure he's got opposable thumbs.'

  'Look, I don't want to be mean, but you're not exactly the world's greatest cookery writer yourself, are you?'

  'What? What do you mean?'

  'Oh, nothing. Let it pass.'

  'No. I can't let that pass. You made an assertion that is the exact opposite of the truth. I want to know what
you meant.'

  'I mean, seriously: ten pages on how to boil an egg. It's a bit--'

  'It was not ten pages.'

  'Ten pages, Grenville, on how to boil an egg.'

  'That's including illustrations, though.'

  'Perhaps. But ten pages? Everybody in the world knows how to boil an egg.'

  'Only if they've read my recipe.'

  'Are you suggesting you're the only person on the entire planet who knows how to boil an egg?'

  'Of course not. Nico Ladenis can probably do it, too, you cocky little moron.'

  'Right, Grenville, I think you should go now, before this starts getting nasty.'

  'It's already gotten nasty, mate. It got nasty when you stood there and fired me for being a big fat bastard.'

  'Do I need to call security?'

  'You can call who the fuck you like, you suppurating little shit. Call your mother and make her apologise for not aborting you.'

  The producer picked up the phone. 'I'm calling security.'

  Grenville stormed out. He had to. He was on the brink of punching the dick-wad to within an inch of his life, and he had a criminal record now, so that would never do. Besides, what would Dr Roth have to say about that?

  There was a young sous chef from Hitchin

  Whose wife was consistently bitchin'.

  Without any bluster,

  He killed her and trussed her...

  Right, he'd handled that confrontation much better. Apart from the abortion remark and the 'little shit' remark, he'd pretty much kept his cool. He'd practically been dignified.

  He was furious, but, surely, he had every right to be furious. They had fired him, not because he was untalented or incapable of doing the job, but simply because he was too fat.

  He strode past the production office, valiantly resisting the urge to dive in and scream a host of abuse at anyone who happened to be standing about, which was symptomatic of the new Grenville, who was not an onlooker in his own life, who was in complete and total control of himself, but just before he hit the exit door, he wheeled round without stopping, threw open the production office door and yelled, 'And fuck the lot of you, right up the backside!'