Not much of a video unfortunately, what with it being not much more than a picture of the album cover, but it does feature the whole track and not just that famous Rimmer misquote. Think yourselves lucky it’s not the live version featuring a rather portly Jim Bob parading around the stage with his cock in a sock.
The disadvantage of having three months a year to do anything you like (renovate the cellar, write a best-selling novel, invent the better mousetrap) is that what actually gets done is mainly a lot of slobbing around the house wearing jogging pants, drinking tea and fooling with the interweb. Granted we did go on holiday for a bit, and I spent a weekend supervising the installation of a new kitchen at the Chateau des ‘Rents but neither of these was what you’d call strenuous and both involved too much food and a not insubstantial amount of wine. Far too much wine, in fact – if you ever get invited to one of Sheffield University’s alumni shindigs, I recommend you go.
So upon hopping (oh all right, lumbering) onto the scales last week I was somewhat displeased to have them tell me that the verdict was hovering somewhere between Fat Bastard and Who Ate All The Pies. And that was naked, before breakfast and after having a wee, so no way of getting a more optimistic result short of cutting a limb off.
In the absence of enough spare cash to replace half the wardrobe plus ski gear, it’s back to WeightWatchers for the rest of the interseason. This has the advantage of being cheap, but is unfortunately also quite boring.
Still, it could be a lot worse – at least it’s not one of those ridiculous faddy celeb-diets where you aren’t allowed to eat anything other than hydroponic alfalfa sprouts and goji berries for three days followed by two weeks on nothing but raw liver and pork scratchings. And I don’t believe I’m obliged to go around wittering on at all and sundry about ‘detox’ and how jasmine tea makes you immortal, while constantly sucking on a baby bottle full of overpriced branded mineral water. Thank God.
In fact, the advantage of WeightWatchers over other schemes of its ilk is that you can eat whatever you like. Just not enough of it. You can even drink wine, though you have to accept that if you’re out to get slaughtered you won’t be able to eat anything at all for the rest of the day, a strategy which is likely to end in tears quite early in the evening.
But whatever you do, don’t read the little booklet thing they send you, and don’t go near their website either. (Unless you happen to be a mush-brained idiot with no self respect, in which case be my guest.) Their suggested solution to ‘avoiding grocery store temptations’, for example, involves some kind of faffing around with a mobile phone followed by jogging three times round Tesco without buying anything and then restricting yourself to goods which are almost out of reach so that you have to jump up and down a bit to get your paws on them. Rather than, say, just not buying that BOGOF pack of Mr Kipling’s French Fancies because you know very well you’re not supposed to be eating them. We’re just a bit fat, all right, not completely brain-dead. I blame the likes of Cosmo and its half-baked psychobabble about your ‘relationship with food’. Just eat the stuff for God’s sake. Or if you’re having a problem getting through doors and find yourself taking up two seats on the bus, stop eating it.
Now then. Tomorrow’s menu …. Rice Krispies, carpaccio and salad for lunch, then baked potato for dinner. And if I yomp three times round an Alp in the afternoon I should be able to notch up enough exercise points for a bottle of Muscadet. Probably not what the WeightWatcher nannies had in mind, but as they’re not the ones who can’t have a pizza until Christmas they can sod off.