ONE of the nicest television programmes on at the moment is ITV's 'Fat Friends'. Beautifully written and acted, it's just the sort of programme to relax in front of without having to think too much. Sheer entertainment, and very, very true to life. I know this because although I haven't visited a slimming club, which is what the programme is about, for many years. Not that there's anything wrong with them, quite the reverse, it's an excellent way to lose weight and now almost a British institution. Many years ago it was very new, an import from America, and my then editor had never heard of it until the first Weight Watchers in the town began to advertise its classes. 'There will be bunch of women exercising or something', he said dismissively. 'Go along and do a bit for the woman's page.' This was long before the days of sex discrimination and he could safely assume that anything to do with women, be it fashion, make-up, medical matters below the waist and personal problems could safely be dumped on the woman's page while the rest of the paper could include far more important matters. I was always somewhat reluctant to do a bit for the woman's page, because it was the territory of a rather fussy lady who guarded her corner with all the ferocity of a mother tigress. She liked to write about knitting patterns and Ponds cold cream and once turned in an article entitled 'Twenty one new ways with a cucumber', and couldn't understand why the rest of us got hysterical with laughter. I had already crossed swords with her several times and could see more trouble ahead. But the editor's word was law so off I went. These days I would possibly take issue with the suggestion I might need to lose weight, however true, but not then. When I arrived at the hall there were about two dozen of us, in varying stages of overweight, including a large shy young man who must have summoned up enormous amounts of courage to attend, and to stay once he saw everyone else was a woman. I made a mental note to tell the editor that it hadn't been 'just a bunch of women'. In true journalistic tradition, brought on by years of experience, I sat at the back, intending to make a quick exit if things got bad. I was foiled by a lady who came on stage and invited us all to move to the front and introduce ourselves to our neighbours. 'You'll all be seeing a lot of each other in the next few weeks', she said. 'But let's hope you will all see a bit less of each other too.' We all laughed dutifully at what was obviously a well rehearsed introduction. My neighbour was a large jolly American girl who said she was fed up with dieting on her own and wanted to see others suffer too. We were given a short talk about the history of Weight Watchers, along with details of costs etc. Then the star turn of the evening was introduced, a lady called Lucille. She bounced on stage wearing a cream trouser suit and a pink silk shirt. She was tiny, with shiny black hair and very high heels. Lucille hailed us all heartily and proceeded to tell us all about the wonders of Weight Watchers and what it had done for her. She had, she said, once weighed 18 stone. Pause for us to gasp in disbelief. She was, she said, fat, miserable and depressed. She couldn't bend down to do up her shoes. She couldn't join in any sports or games. She couldn't buy any nice clothes. Her thighs rubbed together when she walked (my neighbour opened her mouth to say something and thought better of it.) 'And do you know why I was so fat?' she asked us. We didn't but we had an idea it was something to do with food. 'I was a nibbler', she said. We all gasped at this dreadful confession. 'Yes', she went on, ' I was a nibbler. I nibbled all day. Before breakfast, in the morning, all afternoon and after dinner. I even used to get up in the middle of the night.' 'To have an nibble', said my neighbour loudly. Lucille ignored the interruption and went on. 'I used to eat all the wrong things. Crisps, chocolate, cakes and sweets. But the worse thing was I had convinced myself that I looked alright, despite the evidence.' On cue, the lights went down and the evidence presented itself on a small screen. There was the pre-Weight Watchers Lucille in a bathing costume. Lucille in shorts. Lucille in some kind of tent and Lucille in a Lurex evening dress which looked as if it had been sprayed on. 'That's what I looked like in those days', she said, swinging her minuscule hips. 'And then one day something dreadful happened'. She paused dramatically. 'Something even more dreadful than that Lurex dress?,' whispered my neighbour. Lucille's face crumbled: 'My little boy came home from school and said he didn't want me to go to this school sports day in case the other boys laughed at him for having such a big fat mother.' We all looked suitably pained by this terrible statement. 'And do you know what I did then?' asked Lucille. 'Whacked him one round the ear?,' said my neighbour in a stage whisper. Lucille glared; 'I sat down and cried. I cried and cried and then I decided I would lose weight. I would go to that sports day next year and run in the parents' race. And then I found out about the club and joined. Now I'm a size eight and my husband is delighted. We even had a second honeymoon.' We were treated to a few more pictures of Lucille in various slimline garments, none of them in Lurex, then she did another dramatic twirl and we all clapped. Just in case we thought Lucille's dramatic weight loss was a fluke we saw pictures of other miracle losers. Before and after pictures of Angela who had lost half her body weight but obviously not gained a fashion sense; Christine who had saved her marriage with weight loss (picture of Christine and distinctly tubby husband who obviously had his own quota of double standards); Penelope who said she had been too fat to sit on a piano stool but was pictured tinkling the ivories; Jean, a pensioner, who now had the energy to take up ballroom dancing. Exhausted by all this success, we all meekly went to sign up to join, got weighed, were issued with diet sheets and told that we would be weighed weekly and our loss, or gain, would be announced to the rest of the members. I realised that I had just stopped being a reporter and had become a member. As we staggered out into the night by neighbour caught me up. 'Fancy a drink?', she said. 'We can always start the regime tomorrow'. So we went to the pub and over drinks examined all the literature. 'There's one thing puzzles me about Lucille', said my new friend. 'For one big fat dame she sure liked to pop up smiling at the sight of a camera. You wouldn't find me letting people take pictures of my shape if I was that size. I'd run a mile.' We both giggled at the thought of the former elephantine Lucille, leaping out from behind doors and bushes at the slightest sign of a camera being produced. Oddly enough we never saw Lucille again. She was obviously a shining star in the club, transported around the country with her slides and her dreadful Lurex former self to show that miracles can happen if you have the right inspiration. Instead, we had a nice lady who had lost five stone and who was patient, kind and understanding at the ups and downs of our group. She didn't look the type to have swanned off on a slimline second honeymoon, and she never trotted out any pictures of her former self with or without Lurex. We all lost weight though, even the shy boy.
