Surveys and imaginative guesswork have revealed that 20 million Britons have become so slothful and indolent they risk fusing with chairs, sofas and filthsome Wotsit-stained mattresses on a molecular level.
‘We think it’s something to do with the sweat,’ said someone in a lab coat who we’ll presume is a scientist until told otherwise. ‘The chemical composition found in the greasy, sebaceous expulsions of someone who justifies every slice of work birthday cake with, ‘I’ll take the stairs’ and then never actually does, breaks down the bonds between flesh and not-flesh, and creates something not before seen outside the twisted Cronenberg-ian nightmares of the film the Fly.’
Lucy Stevenson was one of the first victims to fall foul of the modern day plague of lard arse-ery. ‘One day I got up from my desk, heard a ripping noise and there were my buttocks, still attached to the seat. There were no warning signs. I thought I was being active – turns out I was just cycling really rapidly between my social media feeds. It really prompted a change in my lifestyle; I invested in a cheek-lifter. Now if I’m in an all day sesh of World of Tanks, I can enjoy the digital carnage safe in the knowledge that technology has enabled me to take even less responsibility for my own physical well-being.’
Should the’ Great Fusing’ occur, experts predict these hideous freaks caught in the nether-realm betwixt man and thing would be forced to live in communal sheds on the outskirts of industrial estates, shunned by normal society. Citizens have been advised to buy heavier spoons, taping car keys to the family cat for an aerobic workout and programming home entertainment systems to play recordings of the Queen’s Speech at random intervals, necessitating a patriotic British standing to attention.