Monday, 25 April 2016

Fat Boy Slim / New Years Resolutions in Review...

I can't quite believe that it's May next week. Can you? It seems like only moments ago that Santa ho-ho-ho'd his way down the chimney and emptied his sack all over the floor before sodding off and leaving me slightly more rotund than I had hoped for. You heard it here first: Santa is a fat-enabling whore.

So here we are: the clocks have boogied on forward and Spring has introduced us to all its optimistic splendour: mild warmth, lighter evenings and the promise of a cheaper electricity bill next quarter. It's enough to make you slap your arse twice like a frugal recession-ista, which I am not, according to my credit card bill. I'm just pleased that Winter is firmly out of the way. It was quite the disappointment in terms of the socially crippling snow that I find myself longing for as soon as November rolls around. All I want is to wake up to a good eight inches (of snow, you big pervert), find out that life has been cancelled for a few days and bunker on down with an endless supply of tea, hot buttery toast, Netflix and self-chill. But no. Jack Frost and the weather Gods obviously didn't get the memo. Bastards.

As I write, I am almost afraid to fart in case it speeds up time and I suddenly find myself in October. Stranger things have happened and to be honest I need the time. I have resolutions that I need to achieve. I know that some people think that New Years resolutions are a big pile of horse shit, but I'm not one of them. Without wanting to come across as schmaltzy, I like the newness of the New Year. A clean slate, a fresh beginning. This is particularly good after a month where I've consumed an artery-troubling amount of 'empty' calories in the name of that slut Santa.

This leads to my resolutions. I only really make one. The same one each year, in fact, over and over again. In sum: stop being a fat knacker. There are other supplementary resolutions that feed into this overall aim. Namely, drink less booze and spend less / save more money. My own toxic trio of unachievable aims. They're all mutually dependant on each other: spending less money on alcohol and pizza will make me less fat, allow my liver to regenerate and result in shrunken love handles/bitch tit combo. I start the year motivated and buoyant and yet, by December 31st, I find myself inhaling hot sausage rolls and festive napkins as an entirely appropriate response to the bailiffs banging on the door demanding to speak to Fatty Bum Bum.

This year is going to be different. And yes, I may have said that before (most years in fact), but it's true. If you're interested as to how it's going, then so far, so good. Well, perhaps not 'good' - maybe 'okay' would be a better appraisal. Could do better, etc. Overall, I'm a stone down which is pleasing, but at one point, I was two stones down. What happened? The Easter Bunny happened. The little bastard. I hope it gets myxomatosis. And this is what pisses me off about my ever yo-yo-ing weight. It takes three months to lose two stones and a fortnight to put half of it back on. I only have to look at a Crunchie and my ankles thicken. It makes no sense. Recently I got up, weighed myself and then (too much information alert) sat on the loo and did my business. Quite a lot of business actually. That much business, I was convinced that I had easily parted with another half a stone. I jumped back on the scales and was filled with a self-loathing that Roland from Grange Hill could only dream about as the terrible news relayed itself to me. I actually put on two pounds, which is, as far as I'm concerned, medically impossible. Yet I achieved it. Yay!

Over the years, I've tried various diets with varying degrees of success: Atkins gave me bad breath and mood swings, Slimfast wasn't fast enough, fat clubs made me realise that misery does love company and when it comes to my chub-chub, I'm quite the happy loner. I once agreed to do a grapefruit based diet only to find that I cannot stand grapefruit. I've had fat-blocking tablets from the doctor and then shit myself in Tesco while wearing beige shorts. I've used MyFitnessPal, but then found myself conveniently forgetting to add in the nine chocolate digestive biscuits that I scoffed while tidying the kitchen. Then I deleted the app out of spite. I once spent a tenner on a Paul McKenna book that promised to make me thin. It didn't.

This year, I've been flirting with the 5:2 diet. Eat what you like for five days and then fast for two. The five days are easy-peasy, lemon (drizzle cake) squeezy. The two days of abstinence are a different story. Skipping breakfast isn't difficult but drinking black coffee is. And that's what I spend my days doing - drinking strong black coffee that makes me feel slightly nauseous. By the time I get home from work, I could happily gnaw my left hand off. I find myself clambering into bed at six pm, hating all of humanity and longing for unconsciousness to come along and escort me to six am, when I can get up and eat like a normal person who likes a little beer from time to time. In the meantime, I exercise like a demon, all the time telling myself that my profuse sweating is simply the fat crying. I'm doing my ten thousand steps a day, I go to spin classes religiously and most days start with a kitchen disco while I brew my coffee. You'd think that twerking alone would shrink my recalcitrant flab. But alas, no.

But I will get there. I appreciate that I'm not the fattest porker in the sty, but at the same time, there's plenty of me to go round. More than I'd like. I'm not interested in having a six pack or those lines that go from the hips to the bits. I mean, it'd be nice and everything, but much like religion or voting Tory, it's just not for me. It just grinds my gears that we can put a man on the moon and develop a buttery spread that's good for the heart and lowering cholesterol but we can't devise a beer that makes us lose FOURTEEN STONE IN A DAAAAAAY!

Bugger.

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

Bucket List...

So, this is the year that I hit the big 4-0. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Largely nothing really. I don't quite get the hysteria that the general populace attaches to aging. I mean, there's eff-all we can do about it, so why sweat it? Besides, the last twenty years of cleansing, toning, mosturising seem to have worked: I got asked for ID when attempting to buy booze at the weekend. Although as I said at the time, it was probably my infantile Zippy (of Rainbow infamy) wallet that made the miserable woman on the till ask for it. It was perhaps an act of passive aggression rather than a genuine attempt to stay within the law. But still, I'm 39 and constantly look tired, so a win is a win. I produced my driving licence as though it was a winning lottery ticket and did all I could do to repress bursting into song. Like Aga-Do.

There are things that make me pause for thought as forty-ness seeks to seduce me into her pre-menopausal club. Like the fact that there are social milestones that I'm yet to achieve. I'm not married (not arsed, actually - I think it's perhaps tempting fate), I'm not on the property ladder (ditto - I live in London and can't really spare the kidney that I'll need to sell to gather a deposit) and I don't have children. I probably go out too much and generally act as though I'm still in my twenties. But that's okay. I looked like a minor at the weekend, so there we go. Besides, if Madonna can do it, then so can I.

I was minding my own business the other day when my phone beeped in my pocket. It turns out that I had a Facebook notification, which was all to do with bucket lists. It implored me to play along, otherwise I would incur some terrible twist of fate. Puh. So seeing as though I am in the midst of contemplating my life's accomplishments (or lack thereof) I thought I'd play along here - mainly to avoid any unspeakable consequences. Like my knob dropping off. Or looking my age.

So, sitting comfortably? Oh good.

Have you ever...

Gone on a blind date? Erm yes. It was an unmitigated disaster. He had all the charm and allure of a four day old, sweaty cheese sandwich and he voted Tory. Fortunately I got terrible diarrhoea halfway through. I didn't really, but that's what I told him as I penguin-walked away and disappeared for a drink in a pub around the corner. A slightly embarrassing encounter ensued later when he walked in the same pub and confronted me. I told him that I thought drinking more alcohol might kill the bugs in my stomach. I don't think he was convinced, mind.

Watched someone give birth? You know how they say that giving birth is a miracle? They (whoever they are) don't tell you it's quite a grim miracle. Rewind to school and I call - with horror - the sex education video where we were forced to watch a baby enter the world via it's mother's unshaven, over-stretched and rather torn unmentionables. I mean, you saw the front-bum actually split. It was like a Paul Daniels trick gone terribly wrong. I gasped and then I screamed a bit. The teacher then went on to tell us that when she had her own litter, she required nine stitches. She said this while laughing as 30 children tried desperately not to look at her groin. Not only did the baby make a terrible mess of its mam, but it came out looking like a brilliant-white alien covered in bloody snot. Some fucking miracle. But still, I'm sure it was all lovely once they gave it a bath and put the mother in an ice bath with a gin and tonic and all that.

Watched someone die? I once put my cat down. When it actually died, it flashed its eyes wide open and jerked its limbs about. Despite feeling like a feline-murderer, I like to think it Vogued into cat heaven. Can I get an Amen?

Visited Canada? No. I should though. I think I'd like it.

Visited Hawaii? Again, negative. I'm not a fan of Hawaiian pizza, if that means anything, which it probably doesn't. Sticking fruit and meat together just doesn't seem right. Like the Krankies.

Visited Europe? Yup. All over. Strangely, I've blocked toilets in Spain, Holland, France and the Czech Republic. Over wiping must be a British trait.

Visited Las Vegas? No. I have been to Skeg-Vegas though. I'm sure they're pretty similar.

Flown in a helicopter? Again, no. I'm all about Easy Jet and orange tunics.

Served on a jury? No. I'm far too corrupt for that kind of carry on. I feel sorry for people too easily. I'd be forgiving mass murderers on account of the fact that they had a lazy eye or had tenuous links to Nottingham, the motherland.

Cried yourself to sleep? Once. After watching Forrest Gump, the greatest film of ALL TIME. Jenny should not have died. She should have married Forrest and had more babies. By Caesarean Section.

Sang karaoke? Too many times. It's like I'm on Stars In Their Eyes. Tonight Matthew, I'm Michael Buble! Okay then, Dolly Parton.

Made prank phone calls? Of course! Growing up in Bestwood Village in the 80s and 90s, it was the only thing to do. Dad even let us and JOINED IN! Parent goals, people! Several EVIL teachers received pizzas courtesy of me. And middle-of-the-night taxis. Serves them right.

Had a pet? Two cats, a few goldfish and a stick insect (called Weeny) that I accidentally hoovered up. Although it lived in a jar with nothing to do all day, so perhaps it was a happy release.

Been skinny-dipping? Yup. I had no shame from the age of 21 to erm, 39.

Abseiled down a building? Yes - in a harness that was so tight that I was able to hit notes that Mariah Carey can only dream of.

Been camping in a tent? Yes. And it was absolutely fucking awful. Much like pet-keeping and gynaecology in all its various forms, it's just not for me. I like a nearby toilet and sink and a proper bed. On the night in question, me and the bestie woke up unable to breathe and reluctant to make the mile long trek to the overflowing toilets. We ended up abandoning the tent and most of our belongings and drove home at three in the morning. We know to quit when we're ahead, basically. Actually I probably cried myself to sleep that night. Tears of joy!

Done something that could have killed you? I think my liking for Wenzels and Gregg's hot sausage rolls are a true and real risk to my health.

Done something that you will regret for the rest of your life? No. Take it on the chin, learn from it and move on.

Rode a camel? No. I have inherited a dislike for camels from my mother who I once heard telling her friend that a mutual chumof theirs got VD after being spat at by a camel in Lanzarote. You can't trust them, can you?

Been on TV? I once went on BlockBusters. It didn't end well. I still maintain that my buzzer wasn't working. A fix, in other words. #stillbitter.

Been in a car accident? Loads. I'm a terrible driver. I wrote off a brand new car in Spain when I drove it into a lorry. Then I tried to say sorry to the driver but got my Spanish mixed up and ended up telling him I loved him. 'Yo Te Quiero mucho!' I boomed. He wasn't impressed.

Ever owned your dream car? I'm not the 'dream car' sort but my current ride - a Suzuki Swift - is a right bobby dazzler of a car, if I do say so myself.

Been Married? No. I don't see the point. I'd rather spend the money on a trip to Skeg-Vegas.

Fell in love? Of course. I'm in love right now. With Joey - and hot sausage rolls from Wenzels and Greggs. Which is what Jesus should have fed the five thousand with, not a few lumps of old mackerel.

Fell out of love? Yes. With Roxette in 1988 when they slagged Madonna off in Smash Hits. Who's laughing now, bitches?

Driven over 100mph? Yes - in a Nissan Micra. Check out my bad self. The car later died. I blame myself.

Worked in a pub? Yes. Three at the last count. Sacked from two of them. Marxism in action.

Been scuba diving? Yes! And I loved it. I looked quite sinister in a wetsuit though. I looked like a load of vacuum packed dildos. Inconvenient lumps and bumps everywhere. It was the deep sea diving equivalent of a fat bride on her wedding day. Me and neoprene rubber just aren't well matched. Also, I got told off for taking a shell from the bottom of the sea. Anyone would think I'd killed a litter of puppies to hear this woman go on at me. I think she had issues.

Eaten snails? I've had a few questionable things in my mouth over the years, but snails ain't one of em. No thank you.

A life well lived, I'm sure you'll agree.
There was an error in this gadget