Final Pizza

I get into the taxi at Sainsbury’s and say 25 Chestnut Grove please. The taxi driver nods. We set off and head down the main road back towards my house. I have two bags full of items from the deli counter including some cooked chicken pieces which the driver can probably smell. If he is a Muslim he might object and curse me.

Stopping at some lights near a row of shops I see two young women walking past the kebab house. They are dressed in their summer clothes – and very revealing clothes they are. I look at their bottoms moving in that way they do. One of them flicks her cig onto the litter strewn grass verge where a small horrible looking dog is cocking it’s leg before the owner pulls it harshly away by the leash. The shops are dilapidated and pathetic with some of them empty with windows boarded up. Christ, what has happened to this country, it is an absolute shit tip. My Grannies generation would not have been seen dead in those clothes. Planet porn lust, that’s what it is now. Yeah and you’ve got people on the news saying of their perpetrators after sentence has been past “I know he will burn in Hell for all eternity.” Christ. Even the Sun newspaper agrees with these sentiments, and that’s why I don’t watch TV either, except the snooker.

When we get to my road I say “Somewhere down near the end please” for the millionth time gathering my food in bags, Christ – I have a problem with going in shops and coming out with food. It’s got to stop. But I am emotionally addicted to fish and chips! The driver makes a noise and as we stop I look at the meter display and as usual it says £3.20 so I hand a fiver and say keep the change. He says thanks very much. I get out and go up the steps around the back of the building and let myself in where I take off all my clothes except my pyjama shorts (I don’t wear boxers or pants anymore, just pyjama shorts from M&S.) Then I go into the kitchen, lower the blinds and eat my ton of food and drink my gallon of Coke.

After this I get my scales out again and stand on them. I weigh 37 stone. I say aloud while standing there my shorts “My life’s gone tits up. I’m a social reject and an unemployable misfit. I have nought friends. The closest thing to socialising I do is blinking at the pigeons who stand on the roof below my living room.”

An hour later I decide to do some exercise and so I go on my exercise bike for all of ten minutes. At the end I am sweating and the infernal machine says I have burned 201 calories. That is the same as two pieces of bread. Why do I bother? Oh well I do usually feel a bit more energised afterwards, so I won’t sell the thing yet.

For the next three hours I play Halo 4 online on my Xbox with the curtains shut and all other players muted. At a certain point I realise this is what I should be doing with my life – playing online Xbox and eating only small portions of rice and fruit etc. I haven’t eaten any greens for years, I will get some. I feel decided and then the thought that I could celebrate these revelations with a take away surface. Shall I get a pizza I ask myself … Hmmmmmmm yeah go on then! I jump up and open my laptop giggling and flexing my fingers. I go on Justeat.com and find the list of nearest pizza shops. Posh Nosh has four and half stars still on customer reviews so I go there again. I order for myself – a fifteen inch pepperami pizza with extra cheese and cheese crust, free garlic bread with cheese, deluxe half pound burger (comes topped with hash browns, bacon, cheese and salad) a double decker chicken burger with cheese and mayo, a foot long hot dog with American mustard and bacon (bacon? On a hot dog!?) the twelve onion rings, hash browns, mozzarella sticks, chicken strips, hot wings, choc chip Haagen Dazs for after and three large fries to make it look like it is not all for myself. I click to go to checkout and then pay with Paypal. But then I realise I did not see dips on the menu, so I had forgetten to order any. I wait until the order has been confirmed by the shop on my screen and ring them up asking for two BBQ and two garlic mayo. The man seems to understand and I hang up.

WOOHOOOH I am getting a pizza! A pizza is on the way! Christ, I must have spent ten grand on pizzas and kebabs since I moved in here! I jump around my flat for a minute clapping my hands and giggling.

After an hour I see a car go past below my kitchen window and a minute later, the same as every time I get a take away as my door is hard to find, my mobile rings. The man says he can find number 21 but not 25. And for the ten thousandth time I say yes the door is round the back, you have to go up some steps. I ask the man if he is at the bottom of the road and he says yes, so I tell him to go back up the road a bit and he will see some steps, go up the steps and turn right. I see his car stop at the usual point as the steps come into his field of vision and he says oh ok I see it now and he soon gets out of his small car with his satchel of pizza. This exchange has happened so many times it makes my soul feel tired and I realise again how much of a fat waster I am. The knock at the door comes next. I take the food and shout back up the stairs “It’s here.” then look puzzled as of course there is no response, I shrug and hand over a pound tip. The man says thanks and leaves, not interested.

I rush upstairs feeling excited again and dive into the kitchen. I quickly open the pizza box first and am pleased with what I see – nicely burnt and lots of cheese. I grab a slice and bite and the taste confirms that I am pleased with my choice of pizza shop. Next I open the big bag of side items and am pleased with them all except the hash browns which taste of fish and also there is no BBQ dip, just two garlic mayos. I ceremoniously crack open one of my five cans of Coca Cola, bring it to my lips and tip my head back in joy and guzzle it down in one, then open another. I eat another slice, dipping it in the dip my movements dance like. Then I unwrap what turns out to be the chicken burger and walk out into my living room stuffing it in my face hardly chewing before swallowing. Bits of onion are dropping out onto the carpet and I suddenly get to the stage where I feel a bit silly. But I finish the burger and eat a couple more slices, half the chicken strippers, some onion rings and a mozzarella stick then half the hot dog which although it looks cheap and nasty is in fact delicious. Then … WHAM it hits me, as it does sometimes after a particularly big food order. I think – what the hell am I doing, if I carry on like this I will get diabetes or heart failure. My breathing becomes ragged. My mood has shifted dramatically and I swallow something in my mouth and look at the accursed pizza in its box. I make a snap decision that this time I won’t throw half the meal out into the garden area for the pigeons like I sometimes do with food high in fat, I will bag it up and take it to the bin outside the pub on the next road over instead.

I grab a bin bag and stuff all the food inside and slip my slippers and a T shirt on. I hurry outside, and hobble up the path looking like a greasy haired, food stained clothes, obese wreck of a man.

I arrive at the bin and shove the black bag inside. Finally. It is over, I say for the billionth time. I am going to loose weight from now on. I look up at the church clock tower and it strikes the half hour at that moment. I take that as a sign. But I have taken that as a sign before and look at me now, at this precise moment I have spent £64 on pizza not an hour and a half ago. Fuck. Then some drunken old men emerge from the pub and I hurry back home in my worn out slippers.

Feeling depressed I open my laptop again and go on Youtube to watch something that has been cheering me up for the past few weeks – it is highlights of French tennis star Marion Bartoli winning Wimbledon with a nice interview with her afterwards on an American news channel. I watch and listen with my belly overhanging the space bar. The video does cheer me up and I realise I am half an hour into my new diet. I lean back with my shoulders back, arms dangling loosely and stare into infinity for a moment or two. Just then my Dad rings.

We talk about football and F1. He asks me if I am still eating all that shit food. I say yes. He replies “It’s gluttony. You’ve got to stop with the crisps and cheese breads!” I agree, then turn the conversation back to football and the possible transfer of Gareth Bale to Real Madrid.

After I put the phone down I suddenly remember the next stage – throwing up. I rush into the bathroom and shove two fingers down my throat. I put all my effort into vomiting up my tea but not much wants to come up, probably because my belly knows how tasty it was. I carry on trying to vomit and the vomiting noises I make are unpleasant and loud enough for the neighbours to bang on the wall again and shout incoherently. I decide no more food is going to come up so flush the bog and turn away saying I will wipe up the excess tomorrow. I plonk down at the laptop my eyes and face red, heart racing and sweat running down my manboobs. I decide to take a nap in renewed disgust at myself. I eventually fall asleep and sleep fitfully but do not fully wake up until morning. I get up and think that I wish I still had that pizza to eat cold. But I am not going to fish it out of that bin …

THE END

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