Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace, a former Big Brother star, had such an adverse reaction to a suspected fake weight-loss jab she bought online, that it caused her to temporarily lose sight in one eye.
Horgan-Wallace also experienced extreme vomiting and excruciating pain, to the extent that, as she told Good Morning Britain on Thursday: “I thought I was going to die – it was petrifying.”
In recent years, the demand for weight loss drugs such as Mounjaro and Ozempic has become such that there are global shortages and warnings about impending price increases. Ozempic has made its manufacturer, Novo Nordisk, Europe’s most valuable company, and has gone from Hollywood’s “dirty little secret” to a status symbol among those no longer forced to suffer the indignity of sweating off unwanted pounds. Was there anything quite as inevitable, then, as bad actors cashing in on a market that will be worth $105bn come 2031?
Last year, a global alert was issued for counterfeit versions of “skinny jabs”, but it’s far from the first time dangerous versions have been found. In October 2023, the UK government warned of the same, when some people were hospitalised as a result of black-market fakes. Add those to the “thousands” of dodgy pens found in the US, across Brazil and Lebanon, Serbia and Belgium, the rising overweight and obesity levels that now affect two-thirds of UK adults, and the fact we’re all now primed to expect instant gratification, and the outlook becomes even more alarming.
Ozempic is safe, “Fauxzempic” is not, goes the logic. But it is wrong to imagine the potential harms end there.
Last year, the NHS’s medical director spoke out about the number of “otherwise healthy” users ending up in A&E due to complications from taking the drug without a medical need. I have spoken with doctors, nutritionists, psychotherapists, fitness trainers, you name it – many of whom have expressed serious concerns, too. I have heard about diminishing muscle mass, of people plunged into a deep depression after the joy and comfort induced by food was snuffed out by appetite-zapping drugs.
One celebrity nutritionist told me that clients were begging her for help to come off semaglutide, as their rapid weight loss had triggered “Ozempic face”, accelerated ageing being a possible side effect of taking diabetes medication. A doctor who had used the jab herself to shave off a few pounds was banjaxed by the exhaustion and hair loss it wrought.
Semaglutide is supposed to be prescribed to those with a BMI over 35, or over 30 for those who have at least one weight-related comorbidity. Will those who don’t need it wise up to the potential consequences? Unlikely. Not only is thin perennially in, but the number of us further from it, who can now pay for the chance to achieve the once-protected status, will only increase its cachet.
As such, stricter regulation on skinny jabs – whether that’s what’s in them, or whose hands they’re ending up in – is non-negotiable. Just as people have died from counterfeit diet medication, fake jabs could – and likely, will – yield the same, desperately sad consequences.
If vanity continues to drive widespread use without proper oversight, the avoidable yet inevitable dangers we are already seeing will only grow. Whatever uber-svelte future semaglutide might conjure in people’s minds, we cannot let it obscure the simple reality: there is no quick fix for weight loss, and there never will be.
