You are what you are

Has Gillian McKeith resorted to catnapping?

When my agoraphobic and morbidly obese cat went missing, we feared the worst. Two weeks of leaving strategically placed chunks of Brie around the garden and there was still no sign of the notoriously antisocial beast. Something was wrong. Pringle would never turn down a fine cheese.

As hard as it was to accept the fact that she was dead, it was the most feasible explanation. Despite the (huge) feline shaped hole in their lives, the whole family attempted to carry on as best they could. But one day, like a fluffy Jesus, Pringle returned from the dead. She’d lost about half her body weight and seemed a little vague, but was otherwise intact.

At the time, I was too busy rejoicing her lack of deadness to contemplate her whereabouts during her two-week disappearance.

In retrospect I’d like to think that she’d been on a debauched bender with local catty Casanova, but her haggard looks and irrational fear of blue-green algae and alfalfa sprouts could only offer one conclusion: she had been abducted by Dr. Gillian McKeith. It’s hardly surprising; Michelle McManus may have shifted a few pounds but she’s still as chubby and ruddy-cheeked as the next deep-fried Mars Bar aficionado. Recent accusations that she may be talking shit (as opposed to studying it) and isn’t, technically speaking, a doctor per se could force her to take drastic action to save her dwindling career. She needs a muse with speedier weight-loss potential than a twenty-three-stone Glaswegian with a failed singing career. It’s time to think small. Animals lose weight just as quickly as toddlers but can’t answer back as much. And besides, forcing pre-schoolers to diet might, just might, be considered unethical. The next step for our nutritionist friend should be to set up a detox farm for unhealthy creatures. This is surely preferable to simply snatching them from suburban gardens? As much as I try and convince myself that Gillian McKeith has stolen my Granddad, I think it’s fair to say that as of this week, he is no longer of this earth. Granddad was a chronically unhealthy man. He preached the importance of a ‘tot’ (read: pint) of whiskey before bed. He saw ‘no point’ to sun protection, insisting that all the years of rubbing engine oil onto his skin while in the navy had done him no damage. This was after he’d had a cancerous lump removed from his ear, which the doctor had attributed to sun damage. “Don’t give me any of this five-a-day mumbo jumbo” was a typical retort to anyone who attempted to get him to eat some fruit and vegetables. His ludicrously tiny shorts were sported in the most severe of weather conditions and locals saw them as a sign of the changing seasons. Forget the call of the cuckoo – the amount of thigh exposed was directly proportional to the advent of spring. In essence, he had absolutely no regard for his own wellbeing, yet still managed (at the ripe old age of eighty-three) to look younger and healthier than Gillian McKeith. Perhaps our generation are all so focused on staying healthy that we’re making ourselves ill. My grandfather lived through eight decades without ever ingesting a single acai berry. Let’s hope that good ol’ Gill follows the career path of that equally annoying health ‘professional’ Mr. Motivator (appearing soon at a Woolworth’s near you) and we can get on with worrying about the more important things in life, such as happy slapping and bird flu.