I get depressed at the other side of Christmas, when there’s only talk of cutting back, health binges, diets and exercise. Everywhere you’re in danger of being trampled to death by hordes in high-vis jackets jogging, walking or goose-stepping. It’s a miserable time.
To add to the misery, some local enthusiasts are starting Operation Transformation around here. A new sports activity organisation involving the four parishes is hell-bent on getting us all more active, from pensioners to toddlers. There’s all kinds of sweat-inducing exertions from badminton to running, to touch rugby, there’s even talk of cricket with Percy Pipplemoth Davis. Superquinn and Sergeant McKready, along with Tom Cantwell’s missus and that skinny hoor of a Percy, are in charge of this new set-up. The Gestapo have nothing on them.
I’ll tell you one thing, us slobs are an endangered species. The man who likes his few pints, a burger, chips and a battered sausage is becoming an outcast, there’s even talk of banning Stickie Stakelum’s chip van from the four parishes.
If that’s the case, I’m happy to be an outcast. People can run, skip and jump all they like as long as they leave me out of it. As far as I’m concerned there is no more ridiculous sight than a man of my corporate dimensions pounding the roads in singlet, sweatband and luminous runners.
But, no matter what I may say, there is no escape from the fitness brigade. Before we even get a chance to ring in the new year, this sports activity crowd is organising a parish version of Operation Transformation.
As a local councillor I’ve been roped in and will be known as a Transformation Leader. I was warned by Superquinn to sign up and show a good example to the community. They also roped in poor Moll Gleeson. I don’t often have sympathy for Moll, but subjecting a woman of her vintage and body mass to a public weigh-in isn’t right or proper. But there’s no talking to them and in a situation like this the local public representative has no option but to row in.
Since the last bit of pudding passed my lips on Christmas Day, I’ve been haunted by the prospect of the weigh-in. I’m as big as a house and the figures on the weighing scales, which were on a gentle but steady upward trajectory before the season of the turkey, are now going straight up.
The first weigh-in is due on 7 January and I decided that before I make a show of myself I’d get a head start on losing a few pounds.
I decided not to tell anyone about it, so I got a new light for my bike and planned to get up early in the mornings to do a bit of cycling. Since I started driving the tractor I’ve given up cycling to the job at the depot and that has added to the pounds.
Alas and alack my efforts at clandestine exercise turned to disaster. The morning of my first cycle I set the alarm for 5am. I slipped out of the bed, pulled on a few layers of clothes and tip-toed down the stairs.
While fumbling around the back kitchen looking for the flashlight I fell over Leo’s feeding bowl and it went clattering around the place. Leo got a fit of barking, but I managed to calm him down.
I eventually got myself and the bike on to the Borrisnangoul road and took off. I wasn’t gone half a mile when I heard a siren behind me and before I knew it a squad car with the blue lights flashing screeched to a halt beside me.
Two guards I had never seen before jumped out, ordered me off the bike and pinned me to the side of the squad car.
“Where did you get that bike?”
“It’s my own bike, I took it out of my own garage.”
“You stole it from Mrs Hickey, it belongs to her son, Maurice.”
“But I am Maurice Hickey.”
“You’re not, he’s asleep in his bed.”
“He’s not, you’re looking at him, he’s pinned up against a squad car on the Borrisnangoul road.”
“His mother said he’s asleep in his bed.”
“Did his Mother check?”
They let me ring the Mother who confirmed that I was her son and that it was me that was in the garage and it was me that was cycling my own bike. The guards apologised and left me where they found me.
Fairly shaken by the experience I cycled home to the Mother. She was a bit sheepish after putting the law on me.
“I suppose you’ll have a bit of breakfast,” says she.
“I will,” says I, “ I’ll have the full Irish, as greasy as you can make it. Forget about Operation Transformation, this is Operation Restoration. CL