Tag Archives: Charlie Sheen

This blog hates you and here’s why

Why do I even bother? Nobody wants me to succeed at this so why try? It all comes down to our society, and the fact we are all bitter cunts.

True success is never really rewarded in the way it deserves to be. Like in design technology at school, when you’d build a 14ft tall sculpture of Lion-O from Thundercats out of four bits of duplo, a plank of wood and a pritt stick but get a lower grade than the kid who made a plastic calendar. Granted the task was probably to make a plastic calendar, but where are the extra points for invention?

Not fucking Lion-O

Charlie Sheen is vilified for getting blasted on drugs and booze every night, partying in possibly the coolest city in the world and having not one but two girlfriends. One is his maid and one is a porn star. You know the old saying “most men want a whore in the bedroom a chef in the kitchen and a cleaner in the house”? Charlie Sheen fucking has that! And he spends the parts of his day when he isn’t drinking something, shagging something or smoking something rubbing his amazingness in millions of people’s faces on talk shows. Compared to that, a wife who looks more like a melted waxwork of the Queen Mother every day, kids who learnt to talk from watching “Rasta Mouse” and a job that is only just subsidising your crawl to the grave sounds a lot like a plastic calendar.

Better than you

To be honest a lot of things about everyday life seem like a plastic calendar to us now. Go in a calendar shop for example. But this is the year 2011, surely the older amongst you will remember the bold propositions for life in the year 2000. We’ll all be living on the moon! Which is ridiculous for a start because the moon is smaller than Earth so if our whole population moved there we’d be cracking each other’s skulls open and eating the goo inside the minute we ran out of cheese. We’ll all be flying around on skateboards! Now most people who are both over 16 and who don’t suffer from drug dependency don’t skateboard anyway. If you’re scared of falling off and hitting your head on the pavement on a normal skateboard why would you suddenly get one when science makes it possible to ride them into the surface of the sun?

 In reality our future is set in stone. I’ve seen it. Stop listening if you don’t want it spoiled. Basically in 2050 it’s exactly the same except we have to download our meals off itunes, Colonel Gadaffi is married to Cheryl Cole, the most-watched reality show is China’s Got Nuclear Weapons and after decades of hard work scientists finally found a reason for James Corden to exist. Luckily they’ve seen his shows so don’t tell anyone and he’s exterminated in the “Great Celebrity Cull” of 2051.

Somebody put this cunt out of my misery please

What does any of this have to do with weightloss? Nothing motherfucker, but you enjoyed it anyway right?


Further Trials of The Fat Boy

You can breathe out now, I’m alive. I didn’t get eaten by bears, I didn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die and, thankfully, I didn’t sign for Liverpool as King Kenny’s last roll of the dice at saving the dying embers of Britain’s most annoyingly self-congratulatory football club. And guess what else? Go on, guess! No I’m not hosting the next Golden Globes after they ditch Ricky Gervais and I’m 94% sure Holly Willoughby’s baby isn’t mine. I lost weight! Okay, so that wasn’t exactly big news. It was actually rather minute news, seeing as this is a weight loss blog after all. In fact on news terms it was about as unexpected as “Charlie Sheen Likes Booze” or “Haiti Had A Windy Spell Last Year” But still, it’s a start.

Warning: Do not serve this man.

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.

How YOU doing? 😉

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.

Luke...I am your father. Now fetch daddy a Lilt, there's a good lad.

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.

Cab drivers beware: This is not a crack den

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!

Cheryl Cole + Bikini=7 billion blog views