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Authors: Charlie Brooker
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work.
Of course, it’s possible he’s simply done it for his own sense of wellbeing. Although I doubt it. He probably consults an image analyst each time he wipes his arse, just to check he’s using the brand of bog roll with the highest voter approval rating. And instead of leaving the bathroom and theatrically wafting a hand under his nose and saying, ‘Pherrrrrgghh, I’d give it 10 minutes if I were you,’ he blames Gordon Brown for using it before him, then promises to reduce future emissions by a factor of 10 within six months.
That’ll be difficult if he’s been taking the slimming pill Alli, which I read about the other week in this very newspaper. Alli, currently available in the US, is a weight-loss wonder drug that works by ‘limiting fat absorption’ in the body. And apparently it works pretty well, if you’re prepared to overlook some of the side effects, which include producing bassoon-like farts and walking around with hot slicks of oily excrement leaking out of your backside.
The manufacturers actually advise people taking the pill to ‘wear dark pants and bring a change of clothes with you to work’. That or get used to leaving a damp brown trail behind you, like an incontinent slug. It’s not ideal, really. Presumably many of the people buying Alli do so in order to make themselves more attractive topotential sexual partners. Which is fine until you’re in the bedroom, and they’re ripping your clothes off in a lust-crazed frenzy, only to discover molten shit running down your thighs. As passion-killers go, that’s worse than overhearing a police press conference about a missing child on the radio during intercourse.
Pity, because like many people I find the notion of an instant slimming pill pretty tempting. My physique’s wired up all wrong. Even if I sit indoors eating deep-fried cake for a month, my arms and legs stay skinny, while my neck and face bloat like wet dough. And my head’s too big for my body anyway. In fact, I’m built like a novelty Pez dispenser. A disappointing one. The last one left in the shop, after all the Donald Ducks and Popeyes and even Geoff Hoons have gone.
Thankfully, women are able to overlook such physical defects and see the person within. Or at least they can if it’s a potential partner they’re looking at. When they stand in front of a mirror, all that pent-up criticism comes rushing back and their brain reinterprets the image until all they can see is a flabby, unlovable sea cow staring back at them.
(Not all women, OK? I’m not generalising. Just describing what 99% of women think, and doing so in crushingly authoritative terms.)
It’s demented, because even though men are shallow and fussy, we’re also desperate. And this blinds us to much of this perceived blubber. Besides, extreme skinniness is horrendous. Ever had sex with an incredibly skinny person? It’s like fighting a deckchair. They could have your eye out with one of those elbows. That’s not sexy. That’s terrifying. If the lights are off, you have to keep kissing them just so you can tell where their head is. Actually, if they’ve been taking Alli, that’s probably dangerous in itself. One minute you think they’ve got saliva running down their chin, and the next you suddenly realise it’s not their chin at all. And it’s definitely not saliva. Best to keep the lights on and remain certain. And the next day, hide the pills and buy them a cake. Heck, you can share a few slices together. Now that’s romantic.
Shut up shut up shut up [15 October 2007]
Earlier this year I was watching The Seven Ages of Rock , and during the episode on indie music they showed a clip from a home video (by a Libertines fan) in which Pete Doherty and Carl Barat were holding an impromptu late-night gig in their own home. Swooning followers were sardined into the living room as the celebrated duo entertained them with their distinctive blend of clunking pub rock and self-regarding
Of course, it’s possible he’s simply done it for his own sense of wellbeing. Although I doubt it. He probably consults an image analyst each time he wipes his arse, just to check he’s using the brand of bog roll with the highest voter approval rating. And instead of leaving the bathroom and theatrically wafting a hand under his nose and saying, ‘Pherrrrrgghh, I’d give it 10 minutes if I were you,’ he blames Gordon Brown for using it before him, then promises to reduce future emissions by a factor of 10 within six months.
That’ll be difficult if he’s been taking the slimming pill Alli, which I read about the other week in this very newspaper. Alli, currently available in the US, is a weight-loss wonder drug that works by ‘limiting fat absorption’ in the body. And apparently it works pretty well, if you’re prepared to overlook some of the side effects, which include producing bassoon-like farts and walking around with hot slicks of oily excrement leaking out of your backside.
The manufacturers actually advise people taking the pill to ‘wear dark pants and bring a change of clothes with you to work’. That or get used to leaving a damp brown trail behind you, like an incontinent slug. It’s not ideal, really. Presumably many of the people buying Alli do so in order to make themselves more attractive topotential sexual partners. Which is fine until you’re in the bedroom, and they’re ripping your clothes off in a lust-crazed frenzy, only to discover molten shit running down your thighs. As passion-killers go, that’s worse than overhearing a police press conference about a missing child on the radio during intercourse.
Pity, because like many people I find the notion of an instant slimming pill pretty tempting. My physique’s wired up all wrong. Even if I sit indoors eating deep-fried cake for a month, my arms and legs stay skinny, while my neck and face bloat like wet dough. And my head’s too big for my body anyway. In fact, I’m built like a novelty Pez dispenser. A disappointing one. The last one left in the shop, after all the Donald Ducks and Popeyes and even Geoff Hoons have gone.
Thankfully, women are able to overlook such physical defects and see the person within. Or at least they can if it’s a potential partner they’re looking at. When they stand in front of a mirror, all that pent-up criticism comes rushing back and their brain reinterprets the image until all they can see is a flabby, unlovable sea cow staring back at them.
(Not all women, OK? I’m not generalising. Just describing what 99% of women think, and doing so in crushingly authoritative terms.)
It’s demented, because even though men are shallow and fussy, we’re also desperate. And this blinds us to much of this perceived blubber. Besides, extreme skinniness is horrendous. Ever had sex with an incredibly skinny person? It’s like fighting a deckchair. They could have your eye out with one of those elbows. That’s not sexy. That’s terrifying. If the lights are off, you have to keep kissing them just so you can tell where their head is. Actually, if they’ve been taking Alli, that’s probably dangerous in itself. One minute you think they’ve got saliva running down their chin, and the next you suddenly realise it’s not their chin at all. And it’s definitely not saliva. Best to keep the lights on and remain certain. And the next day, hide the pills and buy them a cake. Heck, you can share a few slices together. Now that’s romantic.
Shut up shut up shut up [15 October 2007]
Earlier this year I was watching The Seven Ages of Rock , and during the episode on indie music they showed a clip from a home video (by a Libertines fan) in which Pete Doherty and Carl Barat were holding an impromptu late-night gig in their own home. Swooning followers were sardined into the living room as the celebrated duo entertained them with their distinctive blend of clunking pub rock and self-regarding
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