Admit it, you’re impressed. It’s okay to be impressed. You read yesterday’s column and thought “this idiot won’t last the night without a KFC family bucket and a medical drip filled with milkshake” But thankfully, and partly because the Colonel hasn’t deemed my sleepy rural village worthy of an extension to his poultry juggernaut, I have survived. I say survived like I’m someone who went down with that plane full of Uruguayan rugby players in Alive!, or someone who at least fended off the hormonal front-row crush at a Justin Bieber gig (mentioning Biebs will surely get me some extra page views as well, score!). My ordeal however is at best meagre, at worst ridiculous. Yes, for the first time in a good year or two I ate like a normal person.
He'll be fat one day too.
Now I’m no candidate for a Channel 5 documentary along with all those bed-ridden, liquid-muscled gargantuans with legs that look like Godzilla’s testicles. Until I procure some scales you’ll all just have to picture me as looking like Jack Black if he’d ate Christmas dinner every two days since the actual festive day had passed. Not a floppy, sofa-engorging testicle-legger, but not quite on the right side of the puppy fat/fat fat scale when compared to the loveable School of Rock star. I think this may be the first time Jack Black has ever been a role model for a diet and workout plan. If you’re reading this Jack, feel free to endorse my plight preferably by offering to star in the screenplay I’m writing. Atta’ boy!
He better hope Godzilla doesn't come looking for those.
I’ve never quite understood how the bollock-limbed neck-beards on those shows actually got so big that the only way to contact them is by removing the roof of their house. How did they miss the signs? The lower halves of our bodies are actually a unique measuring stick gauging how in-shape we are. This works best for men, for instance if you strip below the waist (please don’t do it now, neither of us want you to have to wash the keyboard) and look down you should notice three things immediately. I don’t want this thing to get any cruder than it has to, but essentially if you have to move your stomach in order to steer when you go for a slash then something is wrong. Your officer and his gentlemen should be visible from a standing position. Call this sign one. If you can’t see the wedding tackle then you have been warned.
If that isn’t enough to scare you straight, and many teste-thighed blobs will dismiss a loss of contact with their commanding officer with twaddle like “it’s cold in here!” and “I can find it when I need it!”, then this next warning might. Now your legs take less coordination to operate than your unmentionables, but if you can’t see them then Chubston, we have a problem. Think how long your legs are, they are generally around half your height. If this lengthy surface area is swallowed by stomach then surely it would be time to pick up something that isn’t either a) fried or b) the TV remote.
Luckily for me I haven’t mislaid any parts of my anatomy underneath my admittedly sizeable stomach, and I like to think if I ever did I wouldn’t just hit the Milk Tray until Davina McCall came round with a camera crew and a crane. Perhaps I’ve pre-empted the signs, because here I am running, sitting up, lifting stuff and eating like a real person. I used to put food away in ridiculous quantities (“used to” meaning two days ago), but for the purposes of giving fitness a chance and giving you lot something to read I’m calorie-counting. This means trying to keep somewhere in the ballpark of the 1500-2000 calories a man needs a day. I also aim to hit this intake by being sensible, as tempting as Dad’s offer to eat 75 cream crackers was.
Even now, she's seeking out the big brothers.
So far I’m holding up well, the physical exercise being the most gruelling part. I hit the road again today for my daily run/jog/bouncy limp. Mr Balboa and his wonderful but ultimately misleading theme tune did not get an airing today though. I thought after my struggle yesterday I would attempt to be unconventional and did my road work to the album The Clash by the sneering Brit-punkers of the same name. Joe Strummer’ss band of rag-tag musical misfits, I hoped, failing any physical success would at least give me the strength to curl my lip and spit at speeding motorists. Sadly I’m not of the disposition to pull off the raucous rebellion of The Clash, and instead I nodded at the motorists I did encounter as if their decision not to commit vehicular manslaughter was common courtesy rather than obeying the law. Looking at it from there point of view, it must be alarming. They’re nipping out at 2pm on a Tuesday afternoon, perhaps to get a few bits from Tesco or to tell someone how good their grandchildren are at stuff that nobody cares about. Then, what’s that coming over the hill? Is it a monster? No, it’s what appears to be a dark-haired Vanessa Feltz in a Superman hoodie looking like she’s about to be sick. I am in fact a man, but the rest of their fleeting impression would be accurate.
Me earlier.
Now I’ve deposited some more weight off my mind, and hopefully an incremental amount from my waist, I will leave you good people until tomorrow. In day 3’s column I’ll reveal more about why I’m doing this, why I am avoiding re-watching Rocky V and whatever happens tomorrow. Keep reading, or I’ll have to binge-eat to a point where not even Davina can save me.
Balboa vs The Bulge 