Andrew Miller: Oral Ozempic could be hard to resist, even for lycra army

I have a new device to shift those stubborn kilos - once and for all - with no effort required!

It’s depressing how much attention that old sales pitch gets.

Some analysts are predicting that when oral semaglutide - Ozempic - becomes widely available, around 50 per cent of the adult population might end up taking it.

Why can’t people simply eat less? Have you met people, or been a person?

My untrue and hopefully profitable theory is that the non-dominant hand - for me, the left - is the one that reaches for the chocolate, without the permission of our sensible dominant cerebral hemisphere on the opposite side.

Thus, despite our good intentions, we end up on the couch clutching a tub of ice cream, watching underweight men ride bikes up mountains, while overweight spectators violently shake homemade banners at them.

With my patent-pending non-dominant arm restraint - basically a shoulder surgery sling - you can walk past the kitchen without discovering a Toblerone in your subconscious grip. Wear it to the shops, and you will buy a cart full of vegetables, and no treats - conditions apply.

‘Tis the season of the Tour de France, which often coincides with a rise in the number of sweaty blokes stuffed into lycra, clip-clopping through previously tolerable cafes.

A few years back, I nearly got into fisticuffs after reflexively objecting when a flushed Mark-Cavendish-wannabe was clearing his sinuses into the potted Ficus by the chalkboard of daily specials. Only later did I think of much better comebacks that I should have used.

For years, I enjoyed a tradition of spending a few weeks transported to Europe each night, via SBS in the spare room.

Australia is disproportionately obsessed with the progress of these exotic far-away riders - occasionally including an Aussie like the great Robbie McEwen - who are performing a joyless European Contiki tour with sore bums.

Over 21 days this year they will race an average of 184km a day, with two days off to rest. That’s 3498km in total - like riding from Melbourne to Perth if there were mountains on the Nullarbor.

After watching for a few nights in a feverish sleep deficit, I would hallucinate a Da Vinci Code moment, as the chess-like strategy of the racing swirled in golden mathematical equations through my beautiful mind.

I then shared insights with grateful family and friends - how the yellow jersey wearer would be protected amidst the peloton, while the polka dot jersey would probably change hands in the Pyrenees.

“This the tete de la course - tete means head, you know - they are only six minutes ahead of the peloton, so the break-away is about to get reeled in by the domestique freight train - but they’ve done their job,” I explained wisely, using the Scouse accent I adopted from Phil Liggett, whose retirement from commentating meant those nights would never be as magical again.

I have ridden to work most days in 2024 so far, because - in tribute to Lance Armstrong - I bought an electric bike. Humans follow the path of least resistance.

We are not good at sharing, so I avoid routes used by stressed school parents and hyper-caffeinated tradies. The electric assist means I can ride further, to stay on bike lanes and paths.

Contrary to my mocking critics’ claims, the battery does not do all the work, so I expend far more calories than I would “just scratching” my nose in a car. My heart rate sits in the 90-120 zone for about 40 minutes a day, a good target for my advancing age.

Thanks to some daily exercise, plus the pills I now pop to keep the blood pressure and cholesterol down, I will live at least until a Prado comes barrelling across the bike lane.

Now all I have to do is keep my sinister left hand out of the fridge - until the Ozempic pills arrive at Chemist Warehouse.