Friday, 19 December 2008

Beware of Mince Pies...

My festive cheer has been dampened somewhat this morning. Boo and hiss and humbug and much baaahing.

After cramming four days worth of advent calendar chocolate into my gob and kissing Mr Blokey goodbye, I clambered into my car and set off for work. When I'm driving alone, it’s imperative that I have music to facilitate a party / nu-age rave for one, complete with whilstles, recreational drugs and glo-sticks. Smack yer bitch up, etc. You see, in a previous life I was very possibly Elvis, or so I like to think, even though I was still alive when he ate one burger too many and slipped off life’s dish. Oh well.

Anyway, my current selection of CDs weren’t tickling my festive fancy today, so I opted for the radio. With my eyes firmly fixed on the road, I randomly pressed the buttons on my car stereo, searching in vein for Radio 2 and the soothing yet comedy genius tones that constitute Terry Wogan’s breakfast show. Sadly, I stumbled across The Chris Moyles Show, where the host thought it right and proper that he eat down the microphone. Immediately my nostrils flared in manner of Trevor McDonald reading news pertaining to murderers, floods in the third world or obese kids in bad clothes at fat camp eating cake on the sly. I hastily hit the scan button and came across Heart FM. Not in the mood for dated 80s pop with a tinny beat, I scanned again and came across Magic FM.

Aaah, good old Magic. Can’t beat it… One minute, you’re depressed as the traffic jam you’re in seems endless… Next thing you know, Magic FM comes on and it’s as though Karen Carpenter is sitting on your lap (before she got fat), singing On Top of the World directly to you. As Karen finished seducing me with her velvet voice, "Dr" Fox, the host of the show, filled my car with his early morning musings. And then he floored me. His revelation that the average mince pie contains almost 400 calories made me almost drive into the double decker bus in front of me whilst screaming obscene things that should not be uttered as we look to celebrate the birth of Baby J. 400 calories? This should not be allowed. In days of yore, when I actually utilised my gym membership, I would spend three days at a time, huffing and puffing away on the treadmill, looking like a panting beetroot, only to find - as the emergency services tried to resuscitate me -that my slavings had only managed to rid me of 5 calories. Imagine my horror, then, as my mind cast itself back to the previous evening when I found myself inhaling four mince pies in succession. I don’t know what came over me, but I was like a man possessed. Possessed, I tell you. That’s 1600 calories, all in the space of time it took to watch the adverts during Coronation Street. No wonder my love handles have been fingered as advertising space by huge blue chip conglomerates.

Apparently, in order to burn off these evil calorific inventions, you need to walk something like 268 miles. Okay, 5 miles then. This is not good. This means that I may have to use the gym I’m currently paying £50 a month for… Alternatively, Santa might just spurt forth Winter Vomiting Disease from his unrelenting sack, and I'll honk it all up in a heartbeat.

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