Eric Pickles relaxes in his Garden
Andrew Lansley, the new all-action Health Secretary, is taking his axe to the Change4Life public health campaign, which was set up in January 2009 to tackle rising obesity levels. Our Andrew says a new approach is needed, now that “the brand ” has been “pump primed “, and that people need to be “empowered ” to “build self-esteem “, without the government “nudging ” them.
This is all bollocks, of course. What he meant to say was “Fifty million quid saved from the public purse! And the fatties can piss off. “ Though obviously, he wouldn’t say this if Eric Pickles was in earshot.
In days gone by, your editor was built along the same lines as a drain-pipe. Though much, much sexier. (You will have to take my word for this). These days, I am more the girth of the Trans-Afghanistan oil pipe-line. In a little over five years the scales have increased from thirteen stones to sixteen, and my waistline by — actually, I don’t want to discuss it. Still, I don’t believe anyone has noticed.
This is down to a number of factors — a heart-attack, partial retirement, lack of exercise. Though living on chocolate has NOTHING to do with it. Nothing, do you hear? Nothing at all.
So being obese slightly over-weight, I gave myself a nudge, then empowered myself, and took off for Comet, where I bought an esteem-building machine, called a Wii, pronounced wheeeeee!
You Cannot be Serious!
This consists of a small box which hooks up to the TV, a small truncheon-thingey called a remote, and another, different truncheon thingey called a Nanchuck. Thingey One and Thingey Two. Switch the box on, feed it a disc, and follow the on-screen instructions. Even an idiot can do it. Trust me — I AM that idiot.
That was ten days ago. I can now play tennis, baseball, ten-pin bowling… even boxing, without having to wait for the sun to come out. I can get completely knackered performing a host of exercises, such as keeping a Hula-hoop going, which the machine promises will reduce my waist-line, so that I am no longer a prisoner in my own home.
I have fallen hopelessly in love with this gadget. There are a million games you can play on it, but I hate games. I have no time for them. I spit me of games! Games are for teenage boys with spots who are frightened of gurls.
No, I want to get fit. I want to go about bursting with energy, and causing outrage with my rude health because it is just too rude. I want that drain-pipe back. I want to be twenty-six again! (Though I would settle for sixty.)
Back to the tennis, where cartoon spectators leap up and down and cheer enthusiastically at every point scored. (Though it is a trifle disconcerting to notice that none of them have legs.) My opponent — some guy called Federer, I believe — quails before the power of my forearm, the well-disguised backhand flick of the wrist, the awesome spin on my new balls.
The American Game of Rounders
Or perhaps I shall take a turn at baseball (which is only a girlie game of rounders, but the Americans like to believe they invented it). A few home runs will teach them how it’s done.
After that, a two-kilometer ten-minute jog. At home this is on the spot, but my cartoon avatar — called a Meeeeee! – jogs along a tree-lined path while friendly cartoon pedestrians wave to me, and other runners pass by, occasionally falling flat on their little cartoon faces.
In only ten days, I have gone from border-line obese to — well, still border-line obese, actually. BUT — I have lost two pounds. Two whole pounds . Basic maths tells me that, if repeated every ten days, within a year I shall have disappeared entirely.
I have nudged myself. I have self-esteem. I am empowered . Very soon…
… I will be twenty-six again.
