11 days, two pounds. Get that right up you.

I looked up from the incredibly fascinating document I had been reviewing. Standing before me was Sick-Line, a rather rotund and unhealthy looking chap that sat on the same floor as me.

His chest was heaving as if he had just clawed his way up a greasy pipe into someone's toilet.


Get what right up me?

I asked amicably.

Two pounds down. The challenge is on!

He wobbled at me with furious cheer.

I noticed in one of his ham-like fists he had a plastic bottle full of something that looked like old animal sperm. He raised the bottle up and shook it at me as if it were his penis and I was one of his mother's tatty velvet slippers.

I felt a moment of trepidation. Shit. Was he wanting to shag me?


That would be a bit awkward.

Erm, what challenge is that then?

I asked, hoping that it wasn't a purple and floppy one.

Sick-Line cast an eye about and saw an empty chair which he dragged over with one of his meaty paws dropping his large frame into it with a relieved sounding huff.

New year. New me.

He grunted.

With a thumb that could pleasure a Rhino, he popped the lid on his bottle and supped heartily at the watery porridge looking stuff within.


You on a diet then?

I asked.

Ha! Diet. HA! As if. Dieting is a mugs game.

He said this contemptuously swiping a hand to the side as if cuffing an errant child.

So... Didn't you say you had lost two pounds or some such shite a minute ago?

I said this carefully, just in case he leapt upon me and attempted to masturbate me with his large and sweaty boobs.


That's right. Two pounds down. This is just the beginning. Wont be long before I am kicking sand in your face on the beach.

He said loftily.

I shook my head in confusion and made a face like a dog eating turmeric.

I wondered in what bizarre universe he ever thought that we would be on a beach together and that he would be kicking sand in my face.

So no diet then? You hitting the gym instead?

He spun his chair a full circle and as it slowly rotated back to face me, he laughed, raising that weird bottle up again.


He made a long farting noise from his mouth like an exhaust pipe venting through an old and tired vagina.

No need for the gym. I've got HUEL.


He shook the bottle, it's briny contents swilling about like that water that they kill chickens in.

And what the fuck is HEUL?

Said I, baffled at this mystery new word. I mean, what was it? It sounded like the noise that someone makes when they are being sick.

Wait. Was that it? Was he drinking someone's sick? To lose weight? Yuk. Surely that was a bit extreme? He could probably just have done a shit and lost two pounds that way.

Sick-Line smirked and took another hearty swig from his sick bottle.

It's a complete food replacement. It's the future. I love it. Two pounds, eleven days. Take that... BAM!


He mimed bashing an invisible opponent with one of his beefy arms.

I winced.

A food replacement. Like all food? You can't mean you aren't eating any real food? That's mental?

This is REAL food, mate. No need for all that garbage you lot are putting in your bodies.

He sneered at me and the folk around me before heaving his massive bulk up from the chair.

I gazed up at his wobbling mountainous frame hoping that it wasn't going to erupt and spew gallons of spermy HUEL lava over us all.

Erm, I don't think it is healthy to not eat food food?

Sick-Line threw his head back and laughed contemptuously.

Google it mate. This is how we do it, baby.

He waddled off singing to himself, the song morphing into Sexy and I know it.

I shook my head, food replacement my arse. I give him till the end of the month and he will be back on the bacon.

January is a weird weird month.

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