Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  I now have a choice.

  I can eat the fart tomato, or I can stand here and listen to more of Crazy Debbie’s life story.

  The decision is ultimately an easy one. ‘Well, must be getting back to my desk. Lots of work to do!’ I tell Crazy Debbie and turn to leave, holding the fart tomato out in front of me as if it’s a live hand grenade.

  ‘You don’t want to lose too much weight, Greg,’ Crazy Debbie says, ominously.

  ‘Why . . . why not Debbie?’

  ‘You’ll need your reserves of fat to keep you going when it happens.’

  I edge closer to the kitchen door. ‘When what happens?’ I say, not really wanting an answer.

  ‘You know. When the end comes.’

  ‘Okay, Debbie! Nice to speak to you! I’ll be off now. Enjoy the rest of your day!’

  I hurry back to my desk and sit down, not looking up for a good twenty minutes just in case I see Crazy Debbie hovering over me with a copy of the Necronomicon.

  The fart tomato is horrible. Microwaved eggs are never appetising at the best of times, but when you add a tomato into the equation you end up with a watery mess that does indeed resemble something a cat might produce after a night on the tiles.

  The rest of my day is spent coming down off my caffeine high, dealing with my sugar low, and trying not to think about Crazy Debbie as a harbinger of the oncoming apocalypse.

  By the time I get home I feel miserable, tired, and thick-headed.

  . . . and this is only day one of the diet.

  For tea I am allowed a few ounces of red meat and some green salad. It doesn’t stipulate how much green salad, so I take liberties and eat an entire iceberg lettuce.

  ‘How was your first day?’ Zoe asks me as I sip one of the four large glasses of water the diet advises I also consume a day.

  ‘Well, I now hate the soft furnishings at work, will never be able to eat a fry-up again, and have an overwhelming urge to donate money to the Save The Llama Foundation.’

  ‘So you’d say it was going well, then?’

  ‘Oh my, yes.’

  Sometimes I am amazed at my own levels of stupidity.

  I should have just quit the Russian Air Force Diet after day one, knowing full well that it was doing me no good. I can be an extremely stubborn person, though, when left to my own devices, so instead of packing it in, I decide that I will see out the seven days—and be damn well proud of my accomplishment at the end of the week.

  The next morning I consume another three cups of coffee with my dry toast and vibrate my way to work, screaming at innocent motorists like they’ve attempted to have uncooperative sex with one of my elderly relatives.

  We all know that nicotine is incredibly addictive, and that it can take only one cigarette to get you hooked, but I wasn’t aware that caffeine possessed similar qualities.

  By mid-morning I am, once again, feeling bloody dreadful. I’m currently working on a rather complex instruction manual for a medical scanner and need my powers of concentration honed to a fine point in order to put the thing together properly. Sadly, all I can think about as I crouch over the keyboard is how furry my tongue is. I also have a whistling nose. Every time I breathe out I sound like one of those old-fashioned kettles. The combination of fur and whistle are distracting me thoroughly from the task at hand.

  I need something to kick-start my brain into some sort of proper cognitive function.

  I go down to the kitchen and make myself a cup of Kenco. I add two heaped spoonfuls of coffee for good measure . . . which I can cheerfully admit now was a mistake.

  Within twenty minutes of downing the thick, bitter concoction my mental faculties have skyrocketed. The furry tongue and whistling nose are erased from my mind and I am more focused on my work than the Hubble telescope.

  My fingers are a whirl on the keyboard; the mouse flies across the pad at near supersonic speeds.

  When a work colleague comes over to discuss a meeting we have the next day, I usher him away with a few grunts and squeaks, and return to my flurry of work.

  When I come to look back at all this productivity about a week later it will become apparent that what I’ve written is complete tosh, but right now—while I’m in the zone—I feel like I’m doing my best work ever.

  By midday two things have occurred.

  I’ve finished all the work I’d planned for that entire day, and I’ve crashed down from the caffeine high like the fucking Hindenburg.

  Still, lunchtime beckons. Some food should perk me up.

  Today, instead of the fart tomato, I am blessed with a small beef burger and some lettuce.

  Now, I’m pausing here to speak directly to any members of the Russian military who may have picked this diary up for a look.

  My question to you good folk is this:

  Why?

  Oh good God in Heaven, why?

  I know it is cold up there and there’s not much to do once you get outside Moscow and can’t see the red light district any more, but for the love of all that’s holy, why would you make life even worse for yourself by eating such a ridiculous diet?

  Yes, I know the Cold War was a bit of a bugger and getting a decent meal behind the Iron Curtain wasn’t exactly easy, but it’s been over twenty years, people.

  Have you seen what soldiers in the American army have access to? I’m fairly sure I once heard about a McDonald’s being opened on an army base.

  They’re allowed all sorts of tasty food, those Yankee chaps.

  And you know what? So are you!

  Stalin’s dead, in case you hadn’t quite noticed. You don’t have to eat like the end of the world happened three days ago anymore.

  It’s not like the strict diet has helped you win many wars recently, has it? The US kicked your arse in the Cold War, those Chechnyans are still giving you a whole heap of trouble, and the less said about what happened in Afghanistan in the eighties the better.

  I’m not saying that eating Big Macs would necessarily have led to a crushing victory over your various opponents, but at least you could have managed a bit of comfort eating in the aftermath of defeat. A few tubs of Ben & Jerry’s might have softened the blow when the Berlin wall came down, that’s all I’m saying.

  Anyway.

  I choose to eat my solitary burger cold at my desk. I try to imagine myself huddled over a gas stove on the Eastern Front with Germans all around, but the mental image this conjures up is rather depressing, so I dispel it with a swig of my Diet Coke and get back to work.

  Diet Coke acts as an efficient caffeine delivery mechanism, just like coffee, so by the time I’ve finished my second can of the brown fizzy stuff, I’m back up in the clouds and buzzing like a swarm of bees. The rest of my working day passes at lightning speed.

  ‘Are you feeling alright?’ Zoe asks me as I kiss her hello when I get home that night. ‘Your eyes are bloodshot and you’re blinking a lot more than usual.’

  ‘I’m fine, Zoe. Absolutely fine. Just had a little too much caffeine today, I think. It’s this diet I’m on. It’s making me drink a lot of the stuff, you know? Those Russians must really love their coffee. It’s not too bad, though. I got a lot of work done today, and I’m not feeling all that hungry at all, funnily enough. You wouldn’t think that, would you? A couple of days ago all I could think about was being hungry but today I’ve hardly noticed that I’ve not eaten much of anything. I bet I’ve lost some more weight. I’ll have to go weigh myself this evening to check how much I’ve lost. I know Elise said we shouldn’t do it so it will be a surprise at the weigh-ins, but I just don’t think I’ve got the willpower not to check. What do you think, baby?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Have we got any Coke in the house?’

  ‘There’s a bottle of the cheap Asda stuff in the cupboard but I don’t think—’

  ‘
That’s fine! That’ll do! Cheap Asda Coke is fine by me! I mean, it’s not as good as the real stuff, is it? It always tastes a bit more watery to me and never quite as sugary. But then I guess that’s why they can afford to make it so cheap to buy, because they don’t worry about it tasting as good. I wonder where they have it made? Do you think they might make it in Russia and have it imported? That would make sense, because the Russians don’t seem to be too worried about what their food and drink tastes like, as long as it’s nice and cheap. You want a glass, too?’

  It takes Zoe a few seconds to respond. ‘No, thanks,’ she eventually says, a look of deep concern in her eyes.

  ‘Okay then, I’ll go make myself a cup. Cup? Cup? You don’t drink Coke from a cup, do you? I meant glass. You drink Coke from a glass! You drink coffee from a cup. Silly me. I must be hungry.’

  And with that I disappear into the kitchen, leaving my wife sitting in the living room trying to disentangle that whole conversation and derive some meaning from it.

  Needless to say, the next two days proceed in similar fashion.

  I don’t know what being addicted to heroin or cocaine is like, but if my newly discovered dependence to the legal drug caffeine is anything to go by, it must be pretty damn unpleasant.

  If I’m being honest here, I would struggle to give a clear account of that forty-eight-hour period. I know I did some stuff. For instance, Zoe and I went to the cinema. I didn’t see much of the film though. I had to keep getting up to go for a piss every five minutes, so I missed much of the plot. Thankfully, it was a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Aniston, so missing a majority of it was probably a godsend.

  Since I started drinking all this caffeine, my bladder appears to have shrunk to the size of a golf ball. Not half an hour goes by these days without me having to get up from whatever it is I’m doing to visit the little boys’ room. I’m starting to worry what damage all this is doing to my prostate.

  The issue with my dependency on caffeine drinks comes to a head on day five of the diet—more specifically, that Friday evening.

  This was the monthly dinner with the in-laws—an event I never look forward to with much enthusiasm, even when I’m allowed to eat what I want. This occasion promised to be ten times worse than usual, given that my hearty meal for the evening based on the Air Force Diet would be a princely eight-and-three-quarter ounces of red meat. This amounted to one rather anaemic-looking bit of steak from the Tesco meat counter.

  It was our turn to host the meal this month, which was just as well, as turning up on their doorstep with my anaemic steak in a plastic Tupperware container would have been highly embarrassing.

  To not make me look like such a weirdo, Zoe had elected to cook steak for everyone. That way I wouldn’t feel completely left out. I might not be able to eat any of the delicious roast potatoes or steamed crisp vegetables everyone else would be having, but at least I’d be in some proximity to them as I chewed my way through my small piece of beef.

  I’d be chewing the fucker pretty damn quickly, as I’d just finished off my seventh cup of coffee that day. Add that to two cans of Diet Coke I’d also consumed and I was so off my tits on caffeine I couldn’t have stood still if you’d put several guns to my head.

  The doorbell rings at precisely seven thirty. The doorbell always rings at precisely seven thirty when Alan and Barbara Davenport come for dinner. Alan spent thirty years in the merchant navy and Babs has the kind of OCD that usually requires lengthy periods of treatment. As they’ve come in a taxi this evening, I don’t know how they’ve managed to time their arrival so precisely. I can imagine Alan standing outside our front door for ten minutes looking at his watch until exactly half past seven.

  ‘Evening, Gregory,’ Alan says as I fling open the front door. I hate being called Gregory.

  ‘Good evening Alan, good evening Barbara,’ I reply quickly, thrusting out my hand. ‘Can I take your coats?’

  The poor buggers haven’t even got in the door yet and I’m already trying to undress them.

  Such is my loud, decisive, caffeine-laced tone that Alan is removing his coat on the doorstep before he even knows it. ‘Er, thank you, Gregory,’ he says, handing it to me as he walks into the hallway.

  ‘No problem, no problem, glad to be of service!’ I bark and waggle my outstretched hand at my mother-in-law as she follows her husband in. ‘And yours, Barbara? Your coat? Can I take your coat? Give me your coat.’

  Babs looks mildly terrified. She probably has some OCD-based ritual she usually goes through before removing an item of clothing, but I’m giving her no chance to do it tonight.

  I more or less rip the long wool coat off her back as she hurries past me. ‘Thank you, thank you, well done,’ I tell them, as if they’d learned a new trick. I open the door to the cupboard and attempt to hang both coats up. The hooks are overburdened already, though, so I end up just tossing Alan’s over the ironing board.

  ‘Where is Zoe?’ Alan asks as I shut the door and offer him a hectic grin.

  ‘Zoe? Zoe? She’s in the kitchen, Alan, cooking us up a lovely meal. Well, cooking you up a lovely meal. I’m on this diet at the moment, you see. It’s called the Russian Air Force Diet. It’s very good; I’ve lost quite a bit of weight this week. The only problem is I don’t get to eat much at tea time. I’ll have finished mine off before you’ve even popped the first potato in your mouth, probably!’ I end my babbling diatribe with a rather hysterical chuckle. By the time this fades out we’ve reached the living room and I’m jiggling about on the spot like I need a piss. Which I actually do, of course.

  Zoe appears from the kitchen and comes over to give her mother and father a hug. ‘How are you both?’ she says warmly.

  ‘We’re well, thank you,’ Babs replies. ‘Greg’s just been talking at us about his diet.’

  I chuckle again and jiggle a bit more. ‘Yes, yes, yes, I have. Very good diet it is. Very good indeed.’

  ‘It’s certainly given you a lot of, er . . . pep,’ Alan responds.

  ‘Oh my, yes,’ I say and chuckle/jiggle once again. I couldn’t be more disconcerting right now if I was dressed as a clown and licking a paring knife.

  Zoe sighs and rubs her eyes. ‘It’s the caffeine, Dad. The diet means he has to drink a lot of coffee, which he’s not used to, so . . .’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Chuckle/jiggle. ‘Lots and lots of lovely caffeine, every day!’ Chuckle/jiggle. ‘I’m not hungry, though, Barbara!’ Zoe’s mother blanches. ‘I’m not hungry at all! Well, I’m a little bit hungry, but mostly I’m just really, really happy and excited.’ I have the overwhelming urge to give Babs a hug, so I do. I feel her go stiff beneath my arms. ‘And I’m very, very pleased to see you both.’ Now I’m chuckle/jiggling and hugging my mother-in-law all at the same time. This whole thing has descended into levels of creepiness that may require some sort of religious intervention.

  ‘Leave Mum alone, Greg,’ Zoe tells me. ‘Why don’t you pour us all a glass of wine while I talk to them?’

  ‘Okay, okay, that sounds like a lovely idea!’

  I vibrate my way out into the kitchen, giving Zoe a chance to explain, and no doubt apologise for my rather odd behaviour.

  Not only does too much caffeine make you livelier than an electrocuted cat, it can also make you incredibly indecisive. I discover this rather unlovely side effect as I’m standing in the kitchen attempting to pour my in-laws a drink.

  We have wine in all three shades in our house. Given the weight loss regimes that Zoe and I have both been on, not much of it has been drunk recently, but that hasn’t stopped people giving it to us over the past few weeks at parties similar to this one. This has led to something of a build-up, so I’m faced with having to decide between no less than three bottles of white, two of red, and one rosé.

  I spend a constructive couple of minutes jiggling in front of them befo
re I narrow my choices down to just the whites. This only partially helps matters, though, as I still have to decide between Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio, and Sauvignon.

  I’d better ask.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say from round the kitchen door.

  ‘What, Greg?’ Zoe answers.

  ‘Just wondering which wine they’d like to drink. Only we have quite a lot. There’s Chardonnay, Pinot, or Sauvignon. I thought maybe the Pinot as the Chardonnay looks a bit cheap—you know, dear, it’s the one the company gave you for hitting those targets. Well done on that, by the way. Did I say well done already? I can’t remember if I said well done. Well done! The Sauvignon’s the same as that one we bought from Tesco at Christmas. The one I didn’t like. Remember? It was too sweet I thought, for a Sauvignon. Not that I’m much of a wine drinker, anyway. Always prefer a beer myself, but you can’t just drink beer at a dinner party, can you? It just wouldn’t be right, I don’t think. So I’ll go with the Pinot, shall I? Yes, I’ll just pour you all a glass of Pinot. That’ll be for the best.’

  Without waiting for an actual response from anyone I disappear back into the kitchen again. It turns out you can make decisions on your own when high on caffeine; you just don’t realise you’re doing it at the time.

  Ah, but will they want big glasses or small glasses?

  Shit.

  Um.

  Er.

  Big!

  Big is always better!

  I pour Babs and Alan the kind of measures that get you thrown in prison if you so much as look at a motorcar after drinking it. I’ve emptied an entire bottle with two glasses.

  As we’re both trying to lose weight, I prepare two tiny glasses for Zoe and me. What I’m basically saying with my choices here is that I think my wife’s parents are a couple of raging alcoholics.

  Judging by the shocked expressions their faces as I hand them the drinks, they think so too.

  The next half an hour is agony. For the other three people in the conversation, anyway. I’m happier than a pig in shit.