Christmas is coming and, ordinarily, this rather greedy writer would be getting fat.
It has always been something of a tradition that I start drinking my bodyweight in Baileys from mid-November. Who cares that, due to the size of the measures I pour, my favourite tipple is more calorific than a Big Mac? It’s Christmas! And, by now I’d expect to be at least four packs down on the mince pie front.
It’s also around this time that I’ve usually munched my way through the selection packs I buy for my nieces and nephews. Then I replace them, and then I eat them again. Every year I swear I’ll find some self-control and every year my willpower collapses like one of those annoying ‘longways’ cards your Aunty Barbara always sends you.
During one particularly low moment I ate all the sweets in the Percy Pig advent calendar I had bought for my then five-year-old niece who was eagerly looking forward to receiving it in the post. When I went to replace it, they’d all sold out, so I lied and said I had sent it and the naughty postman must have lost it.
I simply love food and the festive season has always taken that love to the next level.
But Christmas 2024 is proving very different. My litre bottle of Baileys is still in my cupboard unopened. The very thought of drinking something so thick, creamy and rich is, frankly, a little stomach-churning.
No, I haven’t been struck down with norovirus, it’s far more serious than that: I’m on the skinny jabs. Forget the Grinch, for me 2024 will go down as the year that Mounjaro stole my Christmas appetite.
Not only have I not had a Baileys but I haven’t had a single alcoholic drink since mid-October. It’s been so long since I’ve had a bite of chocolate that I’m not sure I can remember what it tastes like, while the idea of a warm mince pie is about as enticing as the thought of eating dog food. The selection packs? They’re in the larder untouched and safe from a midnight ransacking.
Truth be told, I’m getting a bit anxious about the Christmas lunch I’m hosting for my family. I’ve put in a massive online food order totalling £300 and on any other year I’d be piling my plate high and going in for seconds.
The evening would normally be spent groaning in a food coma on the sofa with my jeans undone. The only time I’d move over the next few hours would be to reach lethargically for the Quality Street and Celebrations.
But those gluttonous days are all behind me. Instead of eating, drinking and being merry, like so many of my friends, I’m stabbing my ever-shrinking stomach with the drugs that have resulted in me having the appetite of a gnat.
In this way, Mounjaro has worked like a dream. Since I started taking it in October I’ve dropped a stone and the size 14 jeans I haven’t been able to zip up in four years are now a comfortable fit. I’m eating two light, healthy meals a day and have not missed the fattening foods I used to indulge in… until now.
Kiddies in sweetshops had nothing on me when it came to walking around the aisles of supermarkets, wide-eyed in wonder as I gawped at all the Christmas party canapes. Dinky little roast beefs and Yorkshire puddings! Teeny bite-size pizzas! Mini mac and cheese! And that was before I got to the dessert section and went into raptures over little chocolate molten puddings and a Colin the Caterpillar cake wearing a Santa hat.
M&S was my Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and I was the golden ticket winner.
This year, however, not a single Christmas canape has passed my lips. On a recent trip to Pret, I scrutinised the Christmas Lunch sandwich, turned my nose up and bought a pot of mango instead.
It isn’t just that I have a small appetite – Christmas food doesn’t light my fire any more. Anyone who knows me will understand how serious this is. It’s like Beyonce deciding she no longer wishes to sing. I feel like I’ve lost part of my identity.
It was Kate Moss who once said ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ – I used to think they were words spoken by a woman who’d clearly never crammed three Waitrose mini chicken katsu Kyivs into her mouth.
Now I’m coming around to her way of thinking.
The drugs in weight-loss injections such as Ozempic, Mounjaro and Wegovy work by making the user feel fuller for longer. But they also cancel out what is commonly referred to as ‘food noise’ – in other words those obsessive and intrusive thoughts about food.
Consequently, I now put the same boring order in with Ocado every week – mostly straightforward meat, fish, veg and fruit. I don’t visit supermarkets just to ‘browse’ like I used to.
I must admit, I’m a little bit broken-hearted because it really does feel like the end of a very long, satisfying and sexy affair.
And it’s not just affecting the food I eat at home. Restaurants and bars hold no real joy for me either. Previously, I’d be looking at menus online before heading out, choosing my food and then going on to the restaurant’s Instagram page to drool at photos of the dishes.
I used to roll my eyes when people would stress over whether or not to order a starter or dessert, look repulsed by the bread basket and then push some steamed veg around their plate before leaving half of it. Now I’m one of them.
At the most recent Christmas do with friends, I ordered steak and vegetables and gave my triple cooked chips (included in the price) to someone else.
I ordered a Champagne cocktail to be sociable but, an hour later, I hadn’t taken a sip and was still sticking with water. My word, how I used to loathe those people who’d nurse one drink when everyone else was well into their second or third.
I have a New Year’s dinner with friends coming up and the only reason I haven’t cancelled is because half the party I’ll be meeting are on Ozempic and will be just as picky. Good news for me, bad news for the poor restaurant hoping we’ll be putting in big food and drinks orders.
Although I love being thinner and am hopefully on target to be fitting into a size 12 by my birthday in March, I’ve got to admit Mounjaro is a bit of a Christmas mood killer.
I briefly considered coming off it for a week but I know that’s a silly idea. It’s taken me six weeks to lose a stone and I could easily regain half of that in a week and would regret it.
So, I’m keeping up the injections, the small portions and the healthy food, and am using the unopened tin of Celebrations as a doorstop.
Yes, it is a very unmerry Mounjaro Christmas, but what’s getting me through is knowing how smug I’ll feel when I get on the scales next week and will have lost a few pounds rather than gaining my usual seven.
Time will tell if that will be worth bailing on the Baileys and missing out on the mince pies for.
