To be precise, I have lost four inches off my waist. At first this puzzled me, but I looked for them on my arse, my face, my neck and my man-boobs (or “moobs”) and these inches could not be located. They’re gone! Now granted, things could have been better. I mean I had a Subway today for the first time since I entered the programme (because making it sound like rehab clearly makes it more appealing), and despite losing six inches off my sandwich by downgrading from my usual foot-long, only four came off my waist. There is no God. Or at least if there is, he wants to keep me plump so the other religious deities don’t start hitting on me. I bet that is how all this started, the Mighty One saw Ganesh giving me the eye and in a fit of jealousy has been throwing kebabs into my mouth ever since.
Apologies are in order. Being only the start of week two of this cyber-shindig, I’m still learning the rules myself, never mind having to pass them on to the loyal readership (that’s you). Basically the weekend is going to be my time off from updating you all on my every move. But I promise I won’t let you down. Fat will continue to be fought, calories will continue to be counted and sit-ups will continue to be…sat? Take this weekend for an example. This weekend I headed to a football (soccer to those of you who play football with your hands) match. I thought this would be a really good thing for me; I love watching the sport and would love to get into a shape that would allow me to be a better player and shake off the Emile Heskey comparisons that sadly/thankfully don’t extend to my playing ability. Perhaps I would be inspired by watching the professionals. What I hadn’t considered was my pre-match refreshment. I was absolutely parched as we came up to the ground, and while I was sensible enough not to plump for beer or a glass of food-processed pizza I was troubled to find that I’d passed all the shops. This left only one option. The unthinkable. To go to my favourite burger van and come away without ANYTHING to eat.
Well what did you think the unthinkable was? That I had to offer a human sacrifice for a can of diet Lilt? That I had to reveal myself as Luke Skywalker’s father just to receive the tropical refreshment? The trouble with this particular burger van is it is very visible. What I mean by that is that you, the patron, and those serving you are actually separated by a desert of sizzling hotplate. We aren’t just talking a bit of a slab here, we are talking vast grandiosity. The Sahara. I nearly had to email my order to the woman behind the counter, that is how far away she was. And this whole gargantuan surface is littered, is decorated, is absolutely engulfed in burgers. Burgers and onions and hot dogs. And the smell! If there was a Fat Boy heaven up there, somewhere between doggy heaven and thin people heaven, it would smell like that hot plate did. The overwhelming smell of meat. Meat and the salt of the thousand tears I shed upon it. This was it, my biggest test since I decided to take on the Bulge. This was D-Day and this burger van was the beaches of Normandy. I’ll leave it at one huge moment of historical significance for today, or else I’ll have nothing to compare a fat guy trying to get thin with tomorrow.
I was so close to watching a display of athletic achievement sure to drive me forwards and cause me to redouble my efforts, only to be slapped in the face with the freshly-fried beef-patty of temptation. I felt like a drug addict being accidentally dropped off at a crack den instead of the Betty Ford Clinic.
But did I relent? No! In my head I relented a thousand times over, ordering double, triple, quadruple burgers. Breaking the world record for the amount of onions held between two regulation slices of bread. Drowning into a melted-cheesy grave. But in reality, “that’ll be £1.50 mate” and a chubby little hand handed over the requested amount without so much as a “and six portions of chips please” or a “how bloody much you thieving urchin?” in reply. I had leapt over the hurdle. Or ran around it at least, I don’t really have the figure to be hurdling.
I’m reaching a critical stage now, and it is one I’m very happy to be at. I’m at the stage, after a week, of being too invested in this. If I stopped now, if I ordered a Dominos pizza, cracked open a beer and never saw my running shorts again I’d actually be really annoyed. I haven’t gone crazy here, even writing that sentence was enough to make me drool all over the keyboard. I’d be lying if I said that a life of sloth isn’t still an appealing prospect. But as Cheryl Cole proves every time she tries to hold an adult conversation, being appealing isn’t the same as being worthwhile. At the end of the day I’m doing this because I want to live a rewarding life, and what could be more rewarding than coming on here every night and moaning to you reprobates? See you tomorrow!