You might have noticed that I've not been posting so many photos lately. Well, here's the reason: while I've not been able to work or go to the gym, about the only exercise I've been able to do has been to eat. In fact, a part of the process of applying for incapacity benefit is an appointment with a dietician. I went along to the appointment about three months ago and she told me some very worrying things about my eating habits and how my cholesterol was dangerously high. I remember the "Carol Vorderman can eat shit and die" episode from the last time this happened, so immediately disagreed. She then arranged a court order taking away custody of my meals and arranged a home visit. I figured it might be serious then so went home and hid all the Tangfastic Haribo, fearing that they might be the culprit.
She arrived at my home a few days afterwards and I cheerfully let her in. She was very polite, commenting on how lovely she thought the bay windows looked and even put her face on my whiteboard of the faces of everyone who visits. It was while I was admiring her handiwork that I felt a sudden dull ache in my arm. I turned to see that she'd jabbed me with a syringe. In panic, I tried to push her away, but everything was suddenly very swimmy and not in a Ladywell Leisure Centre kind of way. I managed to grab onto her arm and uttered a "Wh...?" kind of grunt before everything became desperately heavy and I slumped down onto the sofa, next to the coffee stain from where Robin missed his mouth.
Everything went dark.
When I woke, the room was in darkness, but I could hear figures moving around me. I tried to stand but my legs had been bound and strapped to an elaborate lattice of ropework pinning me to the sofa. My attempt at escape alerted my captors and I could just make out a dark shape moving towards my face in the gloom. I struggled, but one pair of gloved hands held my face forward and another held my nostrils shut. I gasped for air and felt something thrust into my mouth.
For a moment, I thought I'd gone back a couple of years to the period officially known as My Dark Past (tm), but drugs, bondage and facial rape used to be so much better back then. Until, that is, I realised that I wasn't being skullfucked, but forcefed. The dietician was pushing a delicious porridge into my mouth, all soft oats made with cream and cinnamon. I tried to resist, but it was impossible. The meal was washed down with a fragrant hot chocolate and I was her willing slave.
During the three months since, I've had to wear a monitor strapped around my chest that monitors my calorie output. Whenever my activity passed a certain threshold, or if I tried to tamper with the device, it administered a shot of chip shop grease straight into my bloodstream, making me pass out. I'd wake up back in the front room to the smell of chocolate cake and tempura Snickers bars.
I tried to resist for the first month or so, wiggling my toes and trying to burn it off as best I could, but soon Stockholm Syndrome set in. Yeah, when the weather turned cold, I just didn't want to leave the house. Plus, there was Heroes and Smallville to catch up on and someone always wanted to recommend just one more episode of Voyager to me. It seemed like perhaps I'd been wrong to think that I should go through life as the only thin man over 30 in Duckie and that perhaps it was time to bear all.
It was last week that I was watching the news and saw the footage of the 53 stone man who was getting married and figured that if he could be crane-lifted into the chapel and find true love, then perhaps I could too. I settled in to another night of dissing Gok Wan and eating pork pies by the dozen, washing them down with malt shakes. Nothing could make me happier than growing to fill the entire room so I could watch telly with my belly filling the bay windows.
Then came Voyager Season 5, Episode 24. Relativity. Everything changed.
I've got a reasonably high threshold for time travel bullshit, it has to be said, what with Terminator, Doctor Who and reading comic books, but the timey-wimey pointlessness of wearing grey and spouting bullshit about the temporal time directive just made me angry enough to feel very queasy indeed.
It wasn't pleasant or physically very easy, but during those 45 minutes, I managed to projectile vomit myself from 35 stone to 29. I then got a taste for the bile and realised my calorie counter wasn't kicking in, so I put on the news and set myself the task of throwing up every time they said "credit crunch." In total, during the Channel 4 news, I threw up eight hundred and forty six times and dropped from 29 stone to just 17, with a little trickle of goo on my lips. The ropes that had bound me were loose on my sagging skin and I saw my chance to escape.
Slick like an eel, I wormed my way out of the elaborate harness around me and waited for the cardio alarm to go off. The team of lard ninjas burst into the room and slid over in the ocean born of the contents of my capacious stomach. With the last few moments of activity allowed, I grabbed the dietician by her hair and forced her face into the lake of bile and carrot chunks and used my extra weight to sit on her until she stopped struggling and, like a dog, lapped up all my sick from the floor. Her lard ninjas turned upon her and seized her away, forcing cream puff after cream puff into her as she tried to scream. I ended her misery with a jumbo pink wafer and watched the trail of sweat recede towards Wickham Road as she was dragged away from me.
Exhausted, I tore the cardio monitor from my chest, tossing it into the bin, still squirting lipids like some kind of grotesque beesting torn out of the arse of an insect. I pulled in my portly stomach, seized my £2-a-year spazzpass for Ladywell Pool and knew that this madness and obesity had finally come to an end.