Inside the confines of the changing cubicle, Vinny Fitzpatrick finally raised a white flag with the body-hugging vest he'd stuffed into his Gola bag. For all his tugging, pulling and dragging, he was unable to prise open a gap big enough for his humpy head to fit through. It was no use; defeat was inevitable.
The battle had been waged for several minutes inside the unisex dressing rooms at Sportslink, the sports and leisure club, off the Old Airport Road.
The venue was unfamiliar to Vinny, but it came on the recommendation of his work colleague Socket Twomey.
“It’s got pools, gyms, a work-out studio, sauna, steam room and a restaurant for a snack after you’ve done the hard graft. As a bonus, all public service workers get a discount. Get your backside in gear and mosey up there for a butcher’s hook,” said Socket.
For Vinny, the change of scenery was necessary if he was to weigh in as a winner alright on St Stephen’s Day.
For he found on his visits to Clontarf Fitness that he kept getting waylaid by folk who knew him from the 130 route. Twice, he'd been ambushed in the showers by blue-haired Gladys Cadwalader of the Clontarf Choristers – not a pleasant sight, for either party.
On a more sensual level, he’d spied Petra, from Fran’s launderette, one morning at the far end of the weights area. The leggy lovely from Lithuania was bench-pressing to an impressive beat, puffing and panting in rhythm, which prompted Vinny to engage in carnal, covetous, thoughts.
He was reminded of Petra, emerging from the shower, steaming and starkers, that night in Poznan during the Euro 2012 finals – an image he would take to the grave.
“Right,” he said, snapping to attention, “it’s high time to park the bus in another gym.”
So far, his dietary/fitness drive had been slow, if fairly steady. He’d snaffled the odd choccie biscuit and two cans of stout at night after Angie went to bed, but otherwise he kept to an even keel.
In two weeks, he’d lost five pounds but the needle was bang on 18 stone, well above the festive target Vinny had in mind. To help him get there, he felt it made sense to pitch tent in a place where there were no distractions.
At the Sportslink reception, Vinny was reassured to note the place was jammers with fellow fatties. Men, women, young and not so young, milled about the foyer.
There were a few skinny malinks in their midst, some holding clip-boards, others talking into walkie-talkies, which Vinny thought was strange.
As he paid his €4, Vinny waddled into the changing area by the pool, nipping under the barrier which was stuck for some reason. His plan was to do 30 minutes in the gym upstairs, followed by a swim and sauna.
It was then Vinny’s plans began to go awry. For several minutes, he had wrestled in vain with the stubborn under armour. Breathing hard, he berated himself for not bringing a baggy tee shirt, before revising his schedule.
Always a useful swimmer, he would spend half an hour in the pool instead. “At a steady lick, with a couple of breathers, I should be good for 80 lengths,” he thought.
Exit door
Having learned the embarrassing way about the perils of loose togs in the pool, Vinny had chosen his tight-fitting scarlet Speedos, which he wriggled into at a push.
As he glanced at his cavernous belly, he felt ashamed at his size. “A little done, a lot to do,” he thought, opening the cubicle and making for the pool.
At the exit door, he was collared by one of the skinny urchins he’d seen earlier, complete with clip-board.
“Ah, there you are. Have you been assessed?” asked the beanpole. “No, I thought not,” she said, answering her own question.
Vinny was a bit taken aback. Perhaps it was all part of Sportslink’s service, he thought. Very impressive for €4. On request, he rattled off his name, age, occupation, height and weight.
“Do you know your BMI?” asked the interrogator. Vinny paused before answering. “I’m an Aer Lingus man myself,” he said.
The skiny malink blinked. “I beg your pardon? Your BMI, body mass index. What’s your reading?”
Vinny shook his head.
The kid tut-tutted. “It’s simple math based on weight over height. Stand on the scales,” she ordered.
Vinny did as told. “Hmm, 252 pounds. For a 5ft 9in male, that’s a 37.2 evaluation; in other words, obesity with a capital O. “You should be glad we got to you. Carry on through.”
By the poolside, Vinny mingled with his chubby cohorts, stood about. All of them had one thing in common, rolls of fat around their midriff. “It’s like a convention of Michelin Men, and women,” he thought.
Roly-poly boat
Suddenly, Vinny heard a voice call out by the top of the pool, through a megaphone. “Could you all walk towards the cameras, please? We’ll do it as a group shot first.’
Vinny was to the rear as the crew wobbled by the edge of the pool, coming to a halt under a cluster of banners, on which was written, “RTÉ”. Cameras? RTÉ? It suddenly dawned on Vinny he was in the right place, but at the wrong time. He coughed and put a stubby hand up. “Excuse me,” he said, prompting a parting of the flesh in front of him. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
The man with the megaphone, thin as a rake, shook his head and approached Vinny. “Come on now,” he said. “Look around you. Everyone’s in the same roly-poly boat. Remember: by fighting your fears, the flab will take flight.”
For Vinny, it was the cue for a different sort of flight: his.
“I think you’ll find you’ve declared one runner too many. As the stick insect with the clipboard put it to me, ‘Do the math’,” he quipped.
A few minutes later, he was crossing the Sportslink car park where he spied a white van with an aerial and scanner on the roof. On one side were the words, “Operation Transformation”.
He glanced at his watch. There was an aqua aerobics class in Clontarf Fitness at noon. If he gunned the car, he’d just make it. What’s more, Petra might be there.
