Last night was singles night at our local pub, and although I had hoped that lots of available women on offer would have helped bring a smile to Tony's face, my fat friend is still very depressed.
Rebecca, 37, seemed like she was in the mood for some fun, and although she's got four children, and was heavily tattooed, I thought Tony would have jumped at the chance to spend an evening with her back in our flat.
But, it wasn't to be, and after telling Rebecca that she wasn't his sort of woman, he spent most of the evening at the bar, where he got very drunk, before trying his luck with a dark-haired beauty from a very rough estate not too far from where we live.
It's sad to see my friend make a fool of himself in front of so many people, and after the girl had told him quite clearly that she wasn't interested in fat men, I thought Tony was going to suffer a nervous breakdown.
Today he hasn't emerged from his bedroom, and whilst I'm concerned about his state of mind, my concerns won't stop me from going to the pub at lunchtime - alone - to watch football on the pub's big-screen television.
Of course, some people may say that I'm a heartless individual, abandoning Tony in his hour of need. But, as far as I'm concerned, and as much as I like my friend, there's no way that the fattest man in south-east London is going to ruin the rest of my weekend.
I think Tony understands that I have no time for self-pity/depression/misery/angst/sadness, and that come noon, I'll be enjoying a drink in our local pub - WITH OR WITHOUT HIM!