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!’ E lise a dds.
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
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!’ E lise a dds.
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
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