Ants in Their Pants

Remember how I said I was going to write about something cheerful. I lied. In fact, I lied so hard that if you are remotely squeamish, you shouldn't read this post. It's about a banned film and will contain graphic descriptions of its content. I don't want to upset people unnecessarily, so if you find the Saw movies more than you can handle, please stop reading now.

The pictures, by the way, act as a safety valve. If the article gets a bit much, just cast your eye over to them and remember that what I'm writing about is fiction, while the pictures are all real life. Comforting, isn't it.

Last week, the British Board of Film Classification took the rare step of refusing a certificate to a film submitted for DVD release. The film in question is Human Centipede II: Full Sequence, a sequel to last year's cult horror. The first film rapidly gained notoriety in horror circles from festival screenings, with word of mouth leaking into the mainstream press, due to its central idea. A mad surgeon kidnaps three people and sews them together, mouth to anus, to form a "human centipede". Those who have seen the film attest that the film is significantly less shocking than that capsule description implies, but there is still capital drawn in the film from the suffering and degradation inflicted on the characters. In particular, the surgeon character takes special pleasure when the inevitable occurs and the man at the front defecates into the mouth of the woman behind, with the latter forced to swallow to stop herself choking to death.

In the film's denouement, investigating police catch the surgeon in a firefight, leaving all sides dead. With the man at the front having cut his throat and bled to death, while the woman at the back has expired from blood poisoning. This leaves the woman in the middle the only survivor, alone and helpless in a house in the middle of nowhere and surgically grafted to two corpses.

The sequel picks up the unusual idea of someone watching the film and being sufficiently aroused by it to want to make his own version. He is able to kidnap 12 people, joins them together as in the first instalment, and films the results.

The reason the BBFC declined to certify the film is the nature of the fan's behaviour. He is shown watching the first film on DVD while masturbating with sandpaper, and later becomes aroused by the coprophagia forced upon his victims. Ultimately, he wraps a length of barbed wire around his penis before raping the woman at the back of the 'centipede'.

These various acts are, according to the BBFC report, portrayed from the obsessive's point of view, meaning that the audience is encouraged to agree with his attitude that people are nothing but vessels for his own entertainment and that the brutalisation and humiliation of his victims is a source of sexual gratification.
I'm sure that you're starting to guess where the problem lies.

More specifically, the BBFC stated that two pieces of legislation are of concern. The Video Recordings Act 1984 states that the effect a work has on its audience must be taken into account, namely whether it is capable of inflicting psychological harm on a viewer, such as by encouraging a dehumanised view of others, and harm on society by extension. The Obscene Publications Acts 1959 and 1964 may provide grounds for prosecution under UK law for the distribution of such material. The BBFC elected to play safe and refuse a certificate. The distributor, Bounty Films, has six weeks to lodge an appeal, something it is currently working on.

That's enough facts. This is supposed to be an editorial. I've noticed that opinion online regarding the entire situation has trended towards outrage that the BBFC dares to act in such a censorious manner and restrict what consenting adults are allowed to watch. In fact, this is also the line adopted by Tom Six. He has commented that since the film contains no actual violence, it should be released as it is. He has also made some depressingly unoriginal comments about the UK being repressive, while I noted that others have taken the right-on stance of "yeah, but what's the real horror film? This or BBC Parliament? Enjoy living under the spoonfeeding tyranny, losers!" Mature debate, I'm sure you'll agree.

But amidst all the poseur idiocy, the question of whether or not an artistic work - and it is artistic, whether you like it or not - should be banned if no harm was done in its production. The film has been made to serve a market. A very lucrative one, judging by the amount of straight-to-DVD horror released each week. People don't take kindly to being patronised and being told that something will deprave them, so this reaction is entirely understandable. But at the same time, there is a voice gnawing away inside me saying that this sort of thing is repulsive and shouldn't be allowed. What sort of enjoyment can be gleaned from this? It seems as though it would be entirely prurient, gloating over the horrific ordeal of made-up characters. But if a person wants to watch it, surely the choice should be up to them, no matter how revolting the material.


So while the BBFC cannot afford to allow the public to "make up their own minds", since one of those minds might be unbalanced, it still has be prudent in allowing leeway for doubt and artistic licence. A Serbian Film, released in cinemas and on DVD last year, contains scenes that would make Tom Six blanch, but the film is intended as a political allegory of living in the former Yugoslav republic. In deciding to pass the film with over four minutes of the most extreme material removed, including cuts to a scene in which a newborn baby is anally raped, the board took this into account, citing its own remit to consider the makers' artistic licence and intent. The BBFC appears of the opinion that such an argument applies to Human Centipede II. It may be an artistic work, but that doesn't mean you can do what you like and claim your muse told you to do it.

Another factor in the decision, one which requires fewer examples of nightmare fuel, is whether the BBFC even has a role anymore. This is first time that a film has been refused a certificate since 2009, and then it was for similar reasons, but technology has progressed markedly since even then. Torrenting and the importing of Blu-rays means that those who want to see the film will be able to do so anyway, so the lack of a certificate seems to only be blocking the film from those would either stumble upon it or are not interested in seeing it anyway.

The other, more obvious element, is the date on the Obscene Publications Act. When it was last reformed, it was only three years after the notorious Lady Chatterly's Lover trial, when the prosecuting council asked the jury whether it was the sort of book one would want one's servants to read. This badly needs to be reformed, if only to keep pace with changing social trends. Remember that homosexuality was still a crime in 1964. The BBFC's decision-making process, though guided by regular consultations, is still dependent on Parliament providing boundaries as to what is acceptable, and if these are not kept up to date, any modernisation in the board's thinking is wasted.

The whole thing's a tricky situation. Should it be banned? I don't know. Is there any point in a ban? I don't know. The only thing I'm certain of is that I never, ever want to see it.

Grand Theft Telly

The big American television networks announced their lines-up for next season this week, and the news has been pretty interesting. Dead wood like Brothers & Sisters, V and The Event has been axed, seemingly struck by the Curse of Channel 4 - if they buy it in and heavily publicise it, it'll fail. See also Dirty Sexy Money. Meanwhile, remakes of Charlie's Angels and Prime Suspect have been commissioned, as has a remake of Free Agents, a much-ignored and sharply written series from... oh, Channel 4. That explains it.

A larger question is being asked, however. Not the one about how the new version of Wonder Woman from the same creative team as the infamous US version of Life on Mars even got as far as a pilot, but how many of these programmes are actually going to be available to British viewers who don't have electronic equipment bolted to the sides of their houses by multinational corporations.

Lost used to be the one programme that my entire household sat down together to watch. For the first two series, anyway. Then the import rates went up, Channel 4 opted to hang on to Desperate Housewives instead, and Sky bought Lost. You want to watch it. Then subscribe, consumer. And don't imagine that we're putting it on our Freeview channel. We only run that because of obligations to Ofcom, which is why it's filled with cheap documentaries and repeats of Cold Case.

It was at this point that I started investigating what this "torrenting" business was all about. It turns out, it's rather handy.

The same fate had previously befallen protracted right-wing fantasy 24. Two seasons on BBC Two, then WOOSH. Gone. The next two seasons eventually turned up on the aforementioned Sky 3 at about two in the morning. I acquired season five from elsewhere and the remainder is still a mystery. I was hoping that by the final season Jack Bauer was fighting off an alien invasion, since he's already killed every Muslim in the world.
Torrenting was a solution to the Lost conundrum. Seasons three, four and five were delivered to my desktop thanks to some nifty freeware, and the only reason I didn't continue with the final season was the loss of my home broadband connection. So my parents taped it for me. My mum even got up at the crack of dawn to record the final episode on its global simulcast, and watched the whole thing to make sure it recorded without a problem. I wonder what she thought was going on. In any case, she earned a big bunch of flowers for that.

So many other excellent programmes are locked away by Sky, it seems strange that no-one seems to make a fuss. House, Battlestar Galactica, Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Chuck, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Weeds, Futurama. Many of them are produced for the Fox network in the US, which like Sky is a subsidiary of News Corporation, making these deals look the tiniest bit suspicious. You can always buy the box sets, of course, but this is a matter of principle. I expect to see these programmes continue to be shown on free-to-air television, paid for either by the licence fee or advertising, not on a channel for which I need a licence, and a contract with another company, and a man to come to plug in some wires, and EVEN THEN still have to sit through commercial breaks. It's pure greed. Nothing more.

So why do I object? What wrong with Sky? Their business practices leave quite a lot to be desired, for the main thing. As a subsidiary of a multinational media company, it has financial resources to draw upon that cannot be matched by other broadcasters, so it is able to outbid the likes of the BBC and Channel 4 - ITV makes no effort, Channel 5 will shortly stop bothering and few other networks even try. The same company then uses its mouthpieces in the press to attack the competition and try to claim the moral high ground, despite its broadcast news services in both the UK and the United States being at best partisan and at worst guilty of fraud and libel on an unprecedented scale. Even the influence it has over politics is used to expand its domination of the British media - witness the way Rupert Murdoch has been cosying up to the Prime Minster, and how the consultation regarding the complete take-over of Sky has been assigned not to the Business Secretary Vince Cable, an admitted opponent of Murdoch, albeit a professionally-minded one, but to Jeremy Hunt, the troglodyte yes-man squatting in the post of Culture Secretary. And because people keep buying the Sun, keep watching Sky News and keep failing to ask questions, it's only going to get worse until there won't be a medium for you to ask questions  in.

In short, the main reason I haven't been watching Battlestar Galactica is because of David Cameron.

As a quick postscript, there are two other US programmes that are shown on terrestrial, if you can find them. ITV has the rights to the US version of The Office, but the series is so poorly scheduled and promoted it's a miracle I even caught the last series. The other is Community, shown on MTV spinoff VIVA, which I fully expect to lose the rights to the second season, especially since the lack of listings in the Radio Times can't be helping its viewing figures, and by extension its ad revenue.

Blimey, I'm in a right mood today. It must be the comedown after the weekend and yesterday's Doctor Who. Wasn't it brilliant? Didn't you just fall in love with Idris? I certainly welled up quite a bi at the end, but in a very manly, repressed way.

Oh, and the fitness is going well. I've put on weight again, but my appetite is coming under control and I've lost fat and gained muscle. So that's nice. I'm going to try to think of something nice to write about, like why I'd want to live in Brighton, or my favourite shade of green, or which brand of instant coffee is best.

Sorry for the lack of amusing pictures, but the crappy software keeps putting huge gaps in the text when I try to align it to one side. Someone will suffer.

Diary

Of course, since I first wrote the previous post and put it to one one side for later revision, I have decided to bring the diary after all, especially since my life seems to be hotting up in proportion to the weather.

The fun started two weeks ago, with the monthly BFI film quiz. Inevitably, my team won again, but the prizes were so uninteresting I preferred to leave empty-handed. The quizmaster has an odd habit of rambling off the point at great length. At a previous quiz, he threw in the unplanned question of how to attract more visitors to BFI Southbank, and in lieu of actually awarding any points, decided to read out each and every suggestion.

For some reason, he had started talking about how doctors have a tendency to cup your testicles and ask you to cough, and he was incredulous that this has any medical benefit. In fact, it can act as an early signal of hiatus hernia, and I shouted this out when he opened the floor to ideas. When he asked me, yelling across the floor, how I knew, I said I was a doctor. It seemed to be the simplest way out of the conversation.

Then he leaped over and thrust his microphone into my face, asking me to explain further. I leaned into the mike and said, "I'm a doctor, not a public speaker", then sat back. Yeah, that showed him.

The following night was my book group meet. Discussion was lively and enjoyable, but most notable for the book in question - "Gun, with Occasional Music" by Jonathan Lethem - being universally disliked, except by our chief, who was away attending a project management course, and delivered her thoughts by text message.

I thought I might indulge myself in having a pint of beer when I got to the pub, before switching to mineral water for the rest of the evening. However, I was starting on the way home to not feel myself, and by the time I woke for work the following morning I was pretty sure that I was medically ill. I phoned in sick, attempted to watch the previous night's episode of Rubicon - a new US drama about intelligence analysts that has an obvious le Carre debt to pay - but by brain couldn't cope. I retired to bed, and woke again at around 3pm, feeling better.

After an afternoon loafing about in my "study", I thought I'd go out and get some fresh air. A trip to the cinema seemed like a good idea, so off I popped to Canary Wharf. I picked up something to smuggle in for my tea, went to the cinema - and found both films I wanted to see sold out.

This is where my magical new phone came in handy. With only a few squiggles of my index finger, I found out where the film were showing nearby and when, leaped onto another tube and emerged at the GiganticaEnormoDome. The O2 is almost unbelievably vast, so much so that it contains an 11-screen cinema and that is the fourth-largest entertainment venue under its canopy. There are bars and restaurants, poorly-signposted stairwells to get lost in and underground car parks where sinister men unload cardboard boxes from Transit vans at the dead of 10.30pm. I have witnessed this, and I shudder to think what their intentions were.

The 8pm showing of Scream 4 was busy, and I should have learned my lesson from the last time I went to the Dome to see a horror picture on a Friday night. The youths in the audience couldn't stop themselves from talking, screaming at the slightest whiff of tension and generally behaving as though I had paid to see them perform as well. I ate my tea with a scowl, but enjoyed the film.

Continuing my quest for the outside, I decided that I'd take a walk instead of going back to the tube station. This walk, ultimately, lasted five miles and covered the route from the Dome to my front door, via downtown Greenwich - surprisingly quiet for a Friday night - and Tesco, where I bought a packet of hot cross buns which I consumed when I got in. Poor impulse control, there.

The weekend brought the first specks of summer over the horizon, and a friend of mine was in town for the day. Still owing her a decent Christmas present, since I felt that the six-pack of beer I won at a previous BFI quiz was a barely sufficient stopgap, I made a few visits on my way into town to buy some nice soaps, a plush rabbit and some unpasteurised cheese. Mark my words, gentlemen. The way to a woman's heart is not with poetry, or flowers, or chocolates. The simple gift of high-grade cheese is enough to make her heart melt to a spreadable consistency, and for her to be Dolcelatte in your hands.

In the meantime, I was still stocking up on gifts for my mother's birthday. As has become tradition, I help Dad with buying and wrapping the presents from him, as his physical condition prevents him from taking care of it himself. I searched Oxford Street in vain for small gardening tools, but then received a call from Visiting Friend. She was out of her martial arts club, and was at the pub with some of her fellow pugilists. The catch was that she was five miles across town. Challenge accepted.

It is remarkable how easily one can divide a route across a familiar city without the benefit of maps, and less than half-an-hour later, I arrived at the pub near Stepney Green. Another pint of beer was sunk, very kind and wholly exaggerated words regarding my celestial provenance were bestowed upon receipt of my gifts, and recent news was caught up upon. The route home managed to be considerable quickly than expected, thanks to a split second decision to take the Rotherhithe tunnel home, rather than traversing the Isle of Dogs and the Greenwich pedestrian tunnel. I even surprised myself in being able to cycle up the steep slope at the far end, and in top gear no less.

The week after was a little quieter, with one evening spent wrapping presents, another visiting a comedy night founded by a close relative, which boasted several new and entertaining acts, and one for whom I tried to formulate a strategy in order to approach her, engage her in conversation, possibly buy her a drink and then ask her out. It ought to go without saying that I didn't actually do any of those things, but I couldn't come up with a workable plan either so I didn't feel as pathetic as I might otherwise. Heigh-ho.

I did, however, manage to surprise myself with a run on Monday evening. Having already spent a solid half-hour in the weights room of the gym, attempting to fashion my bulbous frame into something less offensive, I started on the treadmill, decided to keep going until I had to stop - while walking briskly for a minute in every five - and managed to cover three-and-a-quarter miles in less than 29 minutes. That's the furthest I've ever run, and I haven't even nearly managed to replicate the feat since then. Could I have dreamed it?

The Easter weekend was spent with the parents, celebrating Mum's birthday, enjoying the coastal sunshine. A trip to the funfair on Sunday was a bad idea, infested as it was with ugly day-trippers, while the main amusement arcade seems to have turned into an indifferently-run deathtrap in the last five weeks. The milkshake from the in-house Wimpy franchise was refreshing though, more so than the frappaccino I tried in Portsmouth the previous afternoon. It definitely put the turd in Saturday.

Easter Monday was spent back in town, with a trip to see Thor - very disappointing - and a frightening visit to the bathroom scales. I'm now up to 85kg. I appreciate that it is scientifically impossible to get more out than you put in, but this is getting depressing. Any suggestions on how I can curb my appetite? Those who suggest I eat less will get a bullet in the throat.

Something else that I noted was that someone has unfriended me from Facebook. This has happened before, of course - even I have enemies, oh yes - but I can't for the life of me work out what I did that made this person want to do such a thing. Was it something I said? Possibly, albeit inadvertently. I made a jocular comment on my wall to those who did not attend my birthday party, and it may have been taken to heart. Bigmouth strikes again. It isn't as though I will never see this person, as I do encounter them regularly, or at least expect to do so. Maybe I won't anymore? Or maybe I'm just being paranoid and it was an error on their part, or one of the snowballing number of glitches added by Zuckerberg's development, so they have an excuse to continually tinker with the site. I've stopped fretting about it now, but I'm still curious..

That seems to be it for now, but if something else should happen, I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Best wishes,

the Phantom of the Opera.

Worth Waiting For

I've been a bit down recently, mainly due to my difficulties in getting the weight off, as well as a couple of minor things at the back of my mind. Nothing to worry about and all in hand now, but not too pleasant at the time.

I've been watching a lot of DVDs and recordings, and over the weekend watched Ice Cold in Alex, and it was that that gave me the undoubted lift I needed. It's based on a true story from the North African theatre of WWII, when an ambulance fleeing the German advance becomes trapped behind the lines, and a captain, his sergeant, two nurses and a lost Afrikaner try to reach Alexandria across hundreds of miles of desert before it falls to the Afrikakorps, struggling against the lack of supplies, each other, and the merciless Sahara.

It's a great story and genuinely inspiring for treating its characters with respect. The Captain, played by John Mills, has been suffering from severe battle fatigue and is descending into alcoholism, but a mistake on route costs the life of one of their party. He vows that he won't touch another drop until they get to Alex. He knows a little bar there where they serve the best lager in the Middle East. The glasses are so cold that dew forms on them, and the beer is the most perfect you'll ever taste. When they get there, not if but when, he'll buy the first round.

The final obstacle the team encounter is simply a steep hill, too steep to drive up. Despairing, the team seem sunk, until the mechanically-minded sergeant suggests backing the ambulance against the hill, putting it into reverse, taking out the plugs and turning the starting handle. This will turn the wheels very slowly, allowing it climb even that steep gradient.

The men take turns and are almost at the top when this happens (go from about three minutes in):

No blame, no recriminations. Knowing you've failed is punishment enough. Just learn from your mistakes and start again.

They make it.

The ambulance makes it to Alex - just - and arrives at the bar. What follows is the most famous glass of beer in cinema history. Probably.

Don't give up. Remember that it's possible, and that you can do it.

Don't be too hard on yourself if you fall. Just pick yourself up and start again, that little bit wiser.

Most importantly, remember that when you've done it, when you've achieved something of which to be really proud, you can think about that feeling of triumph, and know that it was worth waiting for.

Diary

Work, gym, writing, sleep. Life’s just been one long carnival ride for the last week, with all my social fixtures crammed into the next few weeks. The only spot of interest has been tearing through three seasons of Mad Men in as many weeks. I’ve been on the verge of putting Brylcreem in my hair before going to the office and then sipping whisky at my desk.  I wonder if anyone would notice.

I’m also being tougher on myself regarding my weight loss. It’s 75kg by 18 March – when I break up for my birthday week – or I don’t get a new phone. Tough but fair, unlike my meals. Heavy water isn’t just for nuclear reactors; it’s a serving suggestion.

It’s also led me to use the sauna at my gym for the first time. How long are you supposed to stay in there anyway? And why is it so dark? Are they actively trying to create a sleazy atmosphere? According to a friend, it appears to be working.

Diary

The last week has been surprisingly uneventful. Most of my evenings have been taken up with going to the gym, rewriting a script and watching TV - Five USA is finally repeating season 2 of Breaking Bad, hooray - along with a trip to the parents' homestead at the weekend. I rented Sherlock Holmes for us to watch on Saturday night. Dad was a little nonplussed by Robert Downey Jr., but they both seemed to enjoy it. The week before, however...

Being stopped by the police is one of those rare occurrences that may have happened to someone you know. It happened to me as I was cycling through the City on Thursday night. Yes, cycling. Apparently, laddo decided that my lights weren't bright enough, but he'd let me off the £30 fine if I didn't go out with them after I'd reached my destination. A later discussion birthed the knowledge that he was talking through his helmet, that brightness would be entirely subjective, and that he'd probably tried arresting Mervyn King for not having a tax disc, hence being put on traffic duty in a cabin on Fenchurch Street in rush hour.

The fun part was when I was on my way home, and my brakes felt a little spongy. Once I got in, I got out my tools to tighten them up when - TWANG - the cable snapped. I found a little old man who fixed it in a couple of hours on Saturday, but also imagined what might have happened had they gone while I was descending the steep hill past London Bridge station, which has a pedestrian crossing at the bottom. Carnage.

Having got the bike fixed on Saturday, I embarked on a round London trip, heading from my corner of SE16 across Lambeth and Kensington to Notting Hill, then down Oxford Street and along the embankment for home. I had resolved to make a healthy dinner of my own Prawn Green Curry when I got home, but decided, upon entering the supermarket after 8pm, that I simply couldn't be arsed. I had Chicken Kiev, and am still paying for it.

The reason for the Notting Hill trip was to cash in some old book I had stacking up, mostly of book groups past, and see what the second-hand bookshop there would give me. The answer was, "not much", but my eye was drawn by two things. Firstly, a cut-out of a Cyberman in the window. Secondly, a display case containing some rare Doctor Who novels missing from my collection, with the promise of more in the back.

It's quite hard to describe the feeling of looking through seemingly endless shelves of desirable sci-fi novels. You could call it a mixture of child-like awe and wonderment, with some excitement mixed in. Although I had almost all of them anyway, the urge to grab an armful and take them to the till was hard to resist. Instead, I sauntered up to the cashier bloke and politely asked for the copies of Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion behind him. Those of you in the know, or willing to check on eBay, will realise the improbability of being able to buy both in the same transaction. Suffice to say the price was substantial, but far from unaffordable. I didn't really need those extra teeth anyway.

Friday night was the night of excitement, as far as I was concerned, since this meant the long-awaited release of The Ward. I settled down into my seat at the Empire Leicester Square, having bought a £13 ticket and stocked up on snacks from the tube station, even though I supposed to be losing weight. It was especially nice of the lady at the box office to seat me almost directly in front on someone else, even though the cinema was nearly deserted. As for the film itself, I need only copy my comments from Facebook:

"The film, incidentally, is pretty good. A return to form after the dire Masters of Horror episodes, and with a screenplay that is a lot more sophisticated than it appears. It's still some distance from the glory days of Halloween and The Fog, but it stands comfortably along his later second-string efforts such as In the Mouth of Madness and Prince of Darkness. Recommended."

I also dozed off part of the way through, possibly a symptom of treating sleep as a luxury to be rationed, and often not putting out the light until 3am. An awful habit, I know. There was another trip to the pictures on Saturday while my bike was being fixed. This time: Black Swan. Again, cross-posting:

"It states the obvious at great length ("Did you know that ballerinas have a tough time and are worried about getting old?" Yes, I did, thanks) and mercilessly rips off The Red Shoes and Polanski's Repulsion, adding nothing original. That it has received more BAFTA nominations that The Social Network and Four Lions put together is an embarrassment."

I seem to be in a minority of the sane for calling it "bloody awful". People will be saying Dario Argento is a decent director next.

There's also been a new article for a friend's Doctor Who-based fanzine, which I shall plug when I get confident that people reading this haven't seen me do so elsewhere. I don't want to spoil it, but it mentions dragons, the Foreign Legion and heroin. Combined with a ludicrous workload in the office, where my potential productivity has been catastrophically overestimated, that is largely it.

Except for one thing. My weight.

I've been trying to lose weight for around a year, having rejoined a gym, gone for a run most days, hired a personal trainer and changed my eating habits. But it's very hard. My willpower is pathetic, virtually nil. Last night, the night before I start a new food diary, I had the following for dinner:

Two cheese and onion rolls (like sausage rolls).
Sausage and egg sandwich.
Four rolls with extra light cheese spread.
Two pieces of breaded cod.
A tin of sweetcorn.
Mullerrice.
Two large bottles of beer.

I really shouldn't have been surprised when I tipped the scales at 84.2 kilos this morning, a full kilo off Monday and some margin from my target of 75. Superhuman effort in resistance and a hard 20 minute run has managed to cut it back to 83.2 kilos as of after dinner this evening, but if I'm going to get this weight thing licked, I'm going to need help.

Which is where you come in. All I ask is for a bit of encouragement. A kind word when the number goes down. A mean one - but not too mean, I bruise easily - when it goes up. No cash, no sponsorship, just a few keystrokes when you can spare the time.

Thanks in advance, so you'll feel guilty if you next see me wearing a smock like Dom DeLuise.

My plan is to get the weight off by my 30th birthday - late next month - and reward myself with a HTC Desire, my first posh phone. If you see me still using my ancient slip-top one, remember to ask me what the scales said that morning.

"No coach parties, please."

Anyway, that's enough misery. Let's finish with a song.

Diary

Dear me, back to the grindstone.

I was caught taking Female Portuguese Housemate's clothes out of the washing machine on Monday. What did she worry I would do? Try them on?

The return to the office was as fun-packed as might be expected, especially with the news that the person who was supposed to be covering for me over Christmas was too busy to do anything of the kind. I have literally spent the last two days doing nothing else, while the accounts department hassles me to finish up the special spreadsheet for the end of the year. Not only is this a bit rich coming from people who've kept me waiting with worse excuses in the past, but it seems that even the real pen-pushers are trying to push me around. Apparently they got a bollocking for it, though. Serves them right, big meanies.

The other delightful aspect of leaving the cozy comfort of the Christmas holidays for the harsh psychological beating of January is getting back into a keep fit habit. In my case, I start this by having scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast. Only following orders.

My personal trainer - yes, I have a personal trainer - advised this for the combination of protein and carbs. It seems to be protein all round, since I managed to lose a fair bit of weight before Christmas while having steak and chops for dinner. I am also now capable of press-ups.

I know you want to eat me.

The routine I have to get back into is not too tough. After washing down the eggs with orange juice, I can have a yoghurt mid-morning, soup for lunch - with my own choice of flavours. Today, Chicken! - and some fruit mid-afternoon. A sensible dinner, lots of water and the occasional filter coffee without sweetener, and I'm well on the way to being a miserable sack of undefined flesh. Which is where the daily hour of exercise comes in. Running during lunch or after work, cycling around the place and press-ups and stomach crunches before getting in the shower all add up to making my grey bulbous body even more odd-looking. But apparently I'll live longer than you, so I get dibs on your stuff.

The other routine to back into is working on my scripts and attempting to interest people in them. I've started re-reading and redrafting I.T.D., the first of the magnum opi, but hit a slight snag last night when I dozed off after page 8. That I managed to bore myself is criticism that I shall ignore.

Now for a bit more, then tea, then off to see 127 Hours. I may report back.