Tag Archives: balboa

I’m turning into a dog!



I am turning into a dog. It’s all there. The begging at the dinner table, the daily exercise routine, the urinating on the kitchen floor. Okay that is not exactly true, I generally do it in the living room. But I am almost certainly being turned into a dog by my regime.

Luke I am...busting for a piss, open the door or I'm doing it in the Millenium Falcon again

My first inkling to my new-found canine ways struck me when my Dad ate his lunch the other day. Now this was bread and soup, we aren’t talking filet mignon here. Bread and soup is a very nice feed, but there is a good reason Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger didn’t pour Heinz Tomato over each other in 9 ½ Weeks and it wasn’t just the impracticality of boiling liquid meeting skin. While a serviceable feed, bread and soup is not the stuff dreams are made of. At least not yours. To you bread and soup is the sum of its parts, but to the fat lad on the diet it is so much more. This is when I realised I might be a dog. Watching my Dad eat this suddenly-incredible meal I became convinced that if he had thrown a piece of bread on the floor I would probably have barked at our family dog and eaten the precious morsel for myself. Not normal, I thought to myself.

What do you mean they didn't have Heinz? Campbell's? Oh for f...

Dog personality trait number two: going for “walkies”. Now in my case “walkies” is actually “runnies” but being as that is slang for diarrhoea, I tend to call it “running”. However I have reached the point where, like a dog, my day is structured around that section of regimented exercise. Granted, I tend to save my bowel movements for indoors but I even tend to run along the same route that we take the dog. I’m actually surprised nobody has seen my hyperventilating-blimp frame jogging towards them and stopped to pat me on the head, saying “what a good boy!” Which is a shame really; because if a man walked up to me, ruffled my hair, looked me in the eye and said “who’s a good boy?” I’d run faster than I ever have before, and I’d probably never stop.

Who's a good boy then? Come here you little chubby scamp!

When I returned from my run I was troubled to find myself hammering the final nail into my dog-coffin. I did this by doing what every dog does when they come back from their walk. I paced up and down, burning excess energy then laid on the sofa chewing a cushion. Transformation complete.

I’ve been a bit lax in writing the blog recently, but fear not. To punish my literary laziness I doubled my weightlifting reps and running distance today and my body is about as happy to see me as American congresswomen are to see Drowning Pool fans (too soon?). There is something about crippling oneself with exercise that actually spurs you on though, as if this is some kind of badge of honour. This is because no amount of exercise seems impressive if there is not an attached degree of physical pain. “I jumped over the Grand Canyon and didn’t feel a thing” inherently sounds nowhere near as awesome as “I walked to the kitchen and back twice today and now I’m dizzy, I can’t feel my legs and I’ve broken two ribs” It is not what you do that matters, it is how racked with excruciating pain you are. Nobody is going to read a blog that just features a variation of “It’s going really well actually, thanks for asking!” every day.

The patient's injuries were caused by blinking? Quite common actually doctor...

I’ll tell you who did read the blog though, Whose Line Is It Anyway? star and all-around comedy legend Greg Proops! I know how name-droppy this must sound, but I’m excited and this is my blog so you have to listen (because clicking that red cross in the corner of the browser window will give you a virus, honest) Mr P wished me luck and congratulated me on the content so far. So if this is your first time reading BvsTB then tell your friends that you were awesome enough to get on board with the blog that the stars are reading. Tell ‘em Greg Proops sent you!

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Phone The Police! Phone The Police! Phone The Police!

I gained a stone while going for a run today. I gained weight while doing something that is supposed to burn off calories. Those two sentences could actually represent the worst luck ever.

I actually dispute this fact, and blame the scales. Not in the same way that a Weight Watchers attendee would, breaking down into a howling bout of inconsolable tears, jowls wobbling as they plead with their group leader “it was only one Big Mac! Please don’t put me in the naughty cupboard! Okay it was six Big Macs sandwiched between two pizzas but still! I can change!” I promise, as desperate as this sounds I actually can’t have gained a stone! I have not strayed from my diet, not a calorie has crept in without me noticing. I’m like one of those bouncers who think their nightclub is much better than it is and refuses you entry for wearing something too blue, or for only having three different types of photo I.D. No calorie is allowed into my Viper Room unless he turns up in a suit, has shiny shoes and is friends with at least one Bee Gee.

Look love, if you don't recognise this man then you aren't coming in! Hold up, are they trainers? On your bike!

Now if I’d gained a stone over the course of a week, while I’d be reading the end of a Kurt Cobain biography for tips, I would at least kind of see it. I am a big lad, with many stones unceremoniously drooping from my anatomy. If another one managed to clamp on by mistake, I’d just put it down to the gravitational pull of my planet-sized midriff. But this was after one run! After this setback, I decided to take the only course of action that made sense.

Before I turned the gun on myself, I decided that having bought the scales today, they may just be faulty. Wow, that could have got messy for no real reason couldn’t it? The blood wouldn’t have been on my hands, it would have been on yours Pound Stretcher! In fact, I bet not all fatsos are as clever as me. I bet if there is a God he’s had to reinforce the clouds up there with all the chubsters who’ve offed themselves after being misleadingly informed that bravely shedding their inhibitions as well as their limitations by running the London Marathon has seen them gain three and a half stone.

I'mma win me some marathon!

My trip to buy the deceptive scales was not without incident either. While I was queuing up sadly not for a buffet or some sort of mid-week, roast dinner-eating competition but for a magazine and a pack of sugar free gum, I locked eyes with a security man. One of these fellas who decide it is a bright idea to move cases containing thousands of pounds cash in broad day light in the middle of a crowded street. So I locked eyes with this guy somewhat by accident. Possibly malnourished, I was just kind of staring into space. Though I’m not sure that limiting oneself to three meals a day and drinking water instead of beef dripping is grounds for malnutrition, but I digress. I nodded to him and he nodded back in the international gesture of “alright mate” So a minute or so passes, and this unfamiliar sound emanates from the vehicle; “Attention! A *name of company that I forget* driver is in need of assistance! Phone the police!” And nobody, not one person either in the crowded high street or in any shop along the whole street does a thing. Nobody moves. Being naturally of a nervous disposition I started to worry. Feeling an almost familial bond with my new best friend, I was deeply concerned for his safety. What if it’s an armed robbery? What if he’s hurt? What if he mistook my accidental and probably hungry look for me wanting to eat him? Could I eat a human? How do you cook one? What sauce goes with a human? All these questions crossed my mind as the cold-voiced alarm woman repeated “Phone The Police!”

I peered out of the shop window to see that my childhood friend was in the cabin of his vehicle, frantically trying to undo whatever he just did to cause this scene. He’d hit the alarm by accident. In all my minutes of friendship with him, I’d never known him to be so stupid.

What struck me was how wonderfully British the reaction to this whole thing was. In America, a message to phone the police would be met with screaming, praying, drawing of weapons and probably even the contacting of law enforcement, you know, like the message asked us to do. But in Britain, we don’t take a message like that at face value. “A driver is in need of assistance”, followed by the craning of hundreds of interested necks, all mentally evaluating just how much assistance he really needs. In this case, it was none. But what if something was going on? How much trouble would the driver needed to have been in for the Great British public to rush to his aid? What situation would have needed to be underway? A robbery? A murder? A Nigel De Jong slide tackle? A meteor shower? You can rely on us Brits to rush to your aid in a crisis. Once we’ve done a thorough risk assessment and marked the level of danger you are facing out of 10.

Attention: Xabi Alonso is in need of assistance. Phone the police!

That is it for today, hopefully more dicing with death tomorrow. Anything to take my mind off the dump truck of Chicken Nuggets and viaducts of full-fat cola I see in my dreams.