Posts Tagged ‘Fat’

Thursday, 12th April 2007

The magnificent Stephen Fry once wrote that he decided to go on a diet when he felt that his body had begun to resemble “a bin liner filled with yoghurt”.

I’m not there yet: but there’s certainly a few too many Mullers in the Waitrose bag – so on Tuesday (after the happy excess of Easter was over) I started on a diet. Low carb, high protein, no sugar, no caffeine and no alcohol. It is fairly hard core for the first two weeks – but the promise is of serious weight loss fairly quickly. 

The thing is: if I don’t see some results fairly quickly, then I’ll give up – so I’d rather go through a fairly harsh time for a while and get some benefits, and that should keep me going.

I want to lose two stone by Christmas – and I think I should be able to do it, if I can be arsed: but I don’t want to get to 40 as a fattie. And I daresay that Wife would be fairly pleased as well…

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A New, Slimmer You

Wednesday, 25th May 2007

Two weeks into the diet and it is working like fuck 

I don’t want to suggest that I am now one of those painfully thin young men in skinny jeans (God! How I hate those trousers!) who seem to have broom handles for legs and a chest like a smashed in door to a crack house, but the revolting wobbling around my waist has abated and my face is now looking less like a football with hair and more like a chiselled Donatello.

Even better: people keep saying “You look like you’ve lost weight” – which is the most motivating thing of all. Still a way to go before I’m where I want to be: but I reckon steady progress until Christmas would be a good idea – and by the time we’re going on holiday, I should be in significantly better shape.

Best of ALL: alcohol is allowed back on the menu as of today. Oh FRABJOUS day!

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Thursday, 26th April 2007

If you’re looking for a truly foul assault on your senses of smell and taste, may I recommend that you cease your search and head straight for the nearest Soya Latte?

 One of the more demanding stipulations of this diet has been no caffeine (although Decaff coffee and tea both taste fine to me), but (far worse): no milk. I have tried Soya milk in tea and managed to almost enjoy it, but then I got over-ambitious.

Ambition, as any close reading of Macbeth will prove, is likely to prove disastrous. So it proved with the coffee episode.

I was at work, strategising the fuck out of something with Talented Young Planner and I thought to myself “What’s missing?” (other than a naked Helena Christensen and a brass band) and “Coffee” was the immediate remedy. I knew the stringent rules of the diet meant that I’d be going Decaff, which I had already been doing, but I had tired of black coffee and longed for the foamy cloud of a whispering Latte, so I said words I thought I’d never utter to another human being “Decaff Soya Latte, please.”

 It was GROTESQUE: like burned sunflower oil in a warm puddle, and I recoiled from the first sip. Then a great sadness built up inside me – it was like being chucked by someone you actually quite fancied, losing a lover: which is precisely what HAD happened.

 No doubt I’ll do it again in pursuit of any ever more svelte frame, but now I know what misery is. Fear it, friends.

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Saturday, 25th August 2007

Saw Oldest Friend on Tuesday night: and as ever, it was lovely to see her. She is a TV producer, doing an eight-week project with Tiger Aspect, and has been working flat out: not so hard, unfortunately that she hasn’t had time to eat a lot of cake. A couple of bakeries’ worth, in fact.

She is an exceptionally pretty girl – and I think therein lies half the problem. Had the encroaching fat ruined her looks, I think she’d have done something about it sooner. As it is, I think she suffers from Dawn French Syndrome: a face so pretty that your weight is almost irrelevant.

However, there is a point when if a friend who IS overweight is saying “Do you think I ought to lose some weight?”, your reply shouldn’t be the face-saving “No! You’re gorgeous!”, but “Yes, I do. About four stone.” Which is what I said.

It remains to be seen if she can actually do it. It is a pretty miserable, long-term slog. But I hope that she does: the rewards would be enormous. A large eclair, probably.

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Saturday, 25th August 2007

Another evening with Oldest Friend. This seems to be the pattern with her (as with many of my friends): no contact for ages and then an absolute glut – which is lovely and testament to a good friendship that endures, I think.

This time, she brought her mother with her: still the life and soul of the party – huge energy and could talk for the Olympics – she’s over in London from her home in Ireland, before she goes to Portugal to see friends for a few days.

It’s always great to see her, but she does tend to be the Authoress of Mysterious and Crack-Pot Schemes: specifically the solution to Oldest Friend’s weight issue:

“We’re going to send her to a boot camp in Thailand. Yoga, massages and a STRICT DIET REGIME.”

(I couldn’t help but think that a freelance TV producer, who works about half the year has got no business flying off round the world to the Third World’s answer to Champney’s, but said nothing). 

“And then we’re going to get a whole new wardrobe and have a party at The Hurlingham.”

Or, I thought to myself, she could stop eating whenever she’s awake, stop drinking and do some exercise. Call me simplistic, but maybe that would work just as well as the Ashtangi Boot Camp For People Who Like Pies. And it wouldn’t cost a small fortune.

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Thursday, 27th December 2007

I am well into a Fat Robbie stage of my life.

Like TragicRobbieWilliams, I have got the trick of see-sawing between an acceptable weight and something more suitable to a four-door hatchback down a treat. I am currently at full Ford Mondeo spec – but with New Year looming, obviously I am able to steel my reserves of steel for no booze, gym and a fuckload of salad as of January 1st. 

So until then, break out the Rioja-flavoured Toblerone, Maureen!

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King of the Fats

Saturday, 22nd March 2008

Currently, I am King of the Fats. I am not as depressed by this as I might be as I am (ironically) quite good at dieting and I have a plan: Old Friend at Work and I are going to start diet ‘n’ gym unhappiness after our holidays in April.

But you KNOW you’re the King of the Fats by the behaviour of other people – who tend to fall into one of two camps.

Type A are the Fellow Fats – and they say things like “When you’re a big lad…” and give you a look that says  “…such as we are.” and there’s the casual acceptance and  “tchuhh” demeanour of a Fat Acceptor.

Type B are the Nervous That You’re Fats – and they are well-intentioned but somehow clumsier, acknowledging that you are not yet so obese that they can be breezy about it, but always nervous that they’ll offend you: so they say things (to me) such as “I suppose when you’re your size – I MEAN HEIGHT!!!! – then you…”

It’s also fair to say that you know that you’re King of The Fats when you are hoovering up hot cross buns as you watch three episodes of “Studio 60” and haven’t seen the inside of the gym in six months.

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