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.
‘aim to get our weight in stones below our highest breaks.’
The worst anorexic snooker club in England.
I await your entry where you all weigh 146 stone.
‘Monday, Monday (da-da, da-da-da-da)…’
Lightweights.
Although this is indeed a shocking annoucement, perhaps you could have seen it coming – what with the sausage machine presumably in full production since it’s arrival, and Len’s Christmas gammon being the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.
*snigger*
he has scored a pink one!
Allow me to make the introductions, Jonny. Storm, teacup – teacup, storm. There, that’s better.
Can’t blame them for thinking about dieting, really. Hanging around with a lazy fat git like you inevitably arouses growing feelings of self-disgust. Now that Science has proven that hanging around with fat people makes you fat, what would otherwise be extreme measures become mere self-defence for those around you….
I think your reticence is well founded. Do you really want to resemble Ray Reardon?
And what is more, this plays right into the hands of your government’s exhortations to lose weight or you’ll get no medical care.
Join the resistance. Make sausage.
When I have visited there has usually been one lone man, for whom I have felt compassion. I suspect a group of men would hardly be tolerated. I’d go along jonny – I think there could be fireworks:)
If you’ve ever to become more than the, ‘worst snooker club in England’ – you need the extra cushioning for those difficult, lean over shots.
No-one gets to see if you accidentally move any high scoring balls set close to the edge.
Weightwatchers, are for losers.
weightwatchers? What next group trips to the spa for a manicure? Talks about how to bake the perfect fruit cake during the mid session intervals?
Maybe you could just join the W.I.
I have just had a small roast beef sandwich for my lunch.
That is what losing weight is all about. Not some ridiculous marketing ploy. It is undignified.
What happened to all that running you used to do?
Surely you could take the team out with you for a few laps of the village? Then everyone can continue to eat what they like.
I would also like to know how Short Tony plans on making WeighWatchers friendly sausages in his new machine?
Talking of which, how’s the “non-drinking”, sorry, the “drinking not so much” going?
Maybe you could make them do laps around the Snooker table instead every time they miss a shot?
By the sounds of it they’d be fit and healthy in no time at all.
Could be a good place to pull a fat bird?
So, you’re all a maximum of 15 stone?
This also means that you can’t become the only Bill Werbeniuk look-a-like snooker club either, what a shame.
just and excuse for another night out and then down the pub afterwards
If you can’t beat em….
Just form an orderly cue.
Hahahahahahahaha!
I just love your blog (wiping away tears of laughter)…….
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I’m with Pat here. If you all go along to Weight Watchers just think of the ideas you’d get for blogging.
Mind you, looking at your description of the weight of Short Tony’s announcement I pity any member of the club subjected to your imaginative similes.
1) I am only going because I have tried everything else (apart from eating and drinking less on a regular basis).
2) Some of the people there aren’t actually that fat, which was a bit upsetting. There are some girls there who are positively slim (must be the “afters”).And probably quite cheap to take out to dinner.
3) Last night I saw half of the members in the chippie afterwards.
4) It’s not that unpleasant at the meetings, though it will probably pong a bit in the summer.
5) Jonny will probably join us when he realises it’s not like the post-natal clinic- they do not measure head circumference, merely weigh you.
Short Fat Hairy Tony???
I’ve just spotted the hidden four-letter word in Weightwatchers!
Oooh yes Andy – Cher! How clever of you:)
Never mind four lettered ‘Cher’ – I couldn’t help but notice…tight arse and we eat thighs.
How appropriate.
Aren’t weightwatchers an audience for weightlifters?
I recommend you leave your pink phone behind.
I would leave my phone behind but somebody might call or text me, plus I am NOT ASHAMED OF IT.
It’s all your fault, you with your lurid pink phone, fer shame, fer shame.