He repeats his news.
I am stunned by the announcement. To say that the news hits me like a football-sized chunk of uranium contained in a safe that has then been placed in an iron-framed grand piano and sent plummeting from the fifteenth floor window of the Institute of High Gravity Studies with a member of sixties hippie combo ‘The Mamas and the Papas’ tied to each leg (John Phillips having a large quantity of loose change in his pocket) followed by an antelope, a large bag of ball bearings and a parcel marked ‘DANGER OF INJURY! Do Not Attempt to Lift This’ would be an understatement.
“Weightwatchers?!?” I gape, looking round the kitchen.
The news is confirmed.
“I wouldn’t mind going as well,” somebody else says.
There is madness in the air. We are meant to be a proper snooker club, albeit the worst snooker club in England. Now there is a breakaway delegation thinking of attending Weightwatchers on our nights off.
“It’s a complete rip-off,” I explain. “All they do is tell you to lose weight and then when you turn up the next week, ask you if you’ve done so.”
“Well that’s a motivational thing, isn’t it?” says Eddie.
“Look,” I counter desperately, in my official Club Secretary capacity. “I’ll do a table in Excel and stick it up on the noticeboard. We can each aim to get our weight in stones below our highest breaks.”
My idea is dismissed as unrealistic. We now not only have the worst snooker club in England, but we have the worst snooker club in England (on diets).
“You’ve no dignity. None of you,” I mutter sadly.
“Show us yer phone,” somebody retorts.