Ozempic Nation: Jab Me Skinny and Call It Progress
It melts fat, cures diabetes, saves the NHS and possibly unblocks your sink — but if one more headline claims Ozempic is a miracle, I’m injecting it into my toaster and hiding in Greggs.
By now I’ve written about Ozempic so many times I’m considering just renaming this column “The Daily Dose of Ozempic” and getting it over with. Honestly, is there anything this drug can’t do? It melts fat, cures diabetes, saves the NHS, reverses the effects of Brexit and probably… if you inject it into your toaster, removes red wine stains from your shag pile and unblocks the U-bend in your washing machine.
I’ve already admitted I was wrong about it. I’ve eaten my words, with a side of humble pie and no whipped cream, because naturally I’m on the jab now and we don’t do whipped cream anymore. And yes, I’ve said if it works, jab the babies at birth. Start them off early, skip the rattle, give them a syringe and a selfie mirror.
It started as a diabetes drug. A little side hustle for people with wobbly blood sugar. Then someone realised it also made you stop eating like a stoned Labrador, and the world changed overnight. You can’t move these days for think pieces about Ozempic saving the NHS, transforming retail, and even helping the airline industry because people are now so skinny they don’t require four seats and a structural engineer to get airborne.
I mean, good grief. Airline fuel savings. That’s where we’re at now. One American airline claimed they’ll save $80 million a year just because their passengers are carrying slightly less lard. That’s not a diet… that’s national infrastructure reform.
Retailers are already adapting. Holland & Barrett is now the hottest shop on the high street, which is only slightly less shocking than if Greggs started selling Pelotons. They’re peddling collagen and powdered mushrooms to people who no longer even look at the crisps aisle unless it’s to sneer judgmentally like they’re inspecting a smoking area at a budget Wetherspoons.
Meanwhile, gyms, those sweaty temples of false hope and New Year’s resolutions, are in trouble. Which is only fair. For years, they charged us £45 a month for the privilege of jogging in place, sweating like a hippo in a sauna while watching Loose Women on mute. Now they’re pivoting, offering classes to help you “preserve muscle mass” while Ozempic does all the heavy lifting. That’s not fitness. That’s cheating with medical-grade enthusiasm.
The headlines keep coming. Apparently, Ozempic also helps with addiction. Depression. Possibly Alzheimer’s. Cancer. The list is longer than a gym contract’s small print. Frankly, if someone told me it also repaired cracked iPhone screens, I wouldn’t even flinch.
And yet people are still breathlessly writing about it like it’s some kind of miraculous revelation. Breaking news… Ozempic works! Yes. We know. It’s like announcing that treadmills are boring, or that salad tastes worse than chips. It’s not new. It’s Tuesday.
Now let me talk reality. One poor woman on the jab admitted she no longer gets excited about food. “I used to love planning meals,” she sobbed. “Now I just push things around my plate.” It’s tragic. But also slightly hilarious. Like spending £200 a month to become a joyless calorie-avoiding robot who stares at menus with the enthusiasm of a damp sock.
And here lies the rub. These drugs do work. They save lives. They save money. But they also mess with what makes us us. The love of food. The wine. The little indulgences that make the horror of being alive tolerable. Without them, you’re just a thin, well-behaved organism waiting patiently to die in a kale-scented yoga studio.
So yes. I get it. I was wrong. Ozempic is brilliant if you’re a lazy sod who’d rather lose a kidney than give up Bakewell tarts. But can we please stop acting surprised every time it does something else? Unless it suddenly fixes my leaking dishwasher, keeps the cat off the furniture, or replaces Rachel Reeves with a golden retriever… I’ve got nothing more to say.
Except… if you’re injecting yourself weekly, skipping dessert and smugly shedding pounds, congratulations. You’re healthier, richer and more aerodynamic than ever. But for the rest of us, who still believe in the healing power of a full English and a nap, we’ll be over here. Fat, happy and stubbornly unjabbed.
For now.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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