Tag Archives: Comedy

The sound you can hear is people complaining about this blog.

Am I Dead?

The short answer is no. Am I a fat, lazy sod? Yes. Yes I am. I’m afraid you, my faithful people, have been robbed of your five fat-based LOLs a day by the fact I am a lazy slob. But is the dream over? Has our hero piled on two stone of blubber in an epic eating binge not seen since some guy with a beard fed 5000 thousand people on just a McDonalds Filet-o-Fish and half a Hovis Best Of Both? Well actually progress is made. I’ve lost a stone on this little sojourn to health and happiness, and making people laugh doesn’t have any calorie content. Oh wait, Peter Kay, Seth Rogen, John Candy, Ricky Gervais. Maybe scratch that last bit.

Jesus, dude. You sure you don't want a couple more Fish burgers? There's like five thousand people out there.

Progress isn’t actually all it’s cracked up to be. For a start, when you’re my size a stone can come off of many places. Sadly with so many chins to my name, thinking my stomach would show a marked improvement from this motivational but somewhat negligible weight loss was ambitious to say the least. However the initially faulty but now apparently okay scales are the scales, so I figured I’d take the confidence where I could get it.

I’ve had some interesting food experiences since I left you, which I will carefully ration so that I have something to tell you each time I breeze into your life. Though at my size, I’m more breeze-block than breezing.

I kind of voluntarily derailed myself when going to Lancashire to visit some family a couple of weekends ago. If there is one thing that northern families love it’s a bit of grub. Usually accompanied by a lot of grub. With a glass of grub.

You see mealtime in a traditional northern household is akin to a sleepover at Gary Glitter’s crib in that in both cases your host will not take no for an answer. I’m going to take you on a mental journey now. Not mental as in Charlie Sheen but mental meaning brain. Close your eyes. Now you can’t read the rest of the paragraph you idiot, open them again and get a hold of yourself. Are we back? Splendid. Now imagine if you will that a trusted family member is cooking lunch, in this case bacon and sausages. How many would you like? A sausage and a rasher perhaps? Two bangers and a slither of the good stuff? Two of each if you’re feeling pretty haughty and naughty? Unsurprisingly your scribe plumped for the latter option and was met not with mild shock from a grandparent concerned for her fan-chub-ulous grandson’s wheelchair-bound future. But with an “are you sure? You won’t be eating until your tea you know!”

Now I’m not sure how most people’s meals work, but mine involve gaps in between. Though I have made myself a rather hefty man with my overeating over the years, this was down to greed more than a misunderstanding of the separation between meals. I mean there have been times where I would have welcomed the addition of more meals into the accepted traditions of mealtime. Imagine my childhood disappointment when I learnt that brunch was a substitute for, rather than another meal bridged between, lunch and dinner. It was like finding out God wasn’t real. The difference being that there isn’t two billion misguided people who still believe in brunch as a separate meal. Food addicts 1 Christianity 0.

He died for our sins.

So as I’ve been trying to point out in a very roundabout way, having two sausages and two pieces of bacon was obviously a ridiculously small amount. I was offered two more of each item. I was offered toast. I was half expecting a doctor to be called in order to check the possibility of my survival on a mere two sausages and two bacon slices. If African politicians had the same idea of starvation as my nan then that would be one of the world’s biggest problems solved. At least until the continent sunk into the sea after its people spent six months on a diet of sausages and bacon. They’d probably take the toast as well, greedy sods.

Well I’ve probably provoked enough complaints for one night. If you enjoyed this please comment. If you didn’t please feel free to comment as well, fury makes the world go round. Either way I’ll be back in the week to titillate/torment you all with more stories from my northern adventure and probably more horrible jibes at the less fortunate.


Damn You Rocky Balboa!

This man ruined my life.

Damn you Rocky Balboa. Damn you to hell. This is no misguided vendetta against the popular Rocky movie series, which for all its ups and downs remains one of my all-time favourites. This is for the film’s famous Bill Conti-penned theme tune, and the ridiculous ideas it has put into my head.

You see the lethal combination of Stallone’s mono-syllabic screen pugilist and the iconic series theme has led me down a painful road, both literally and figuratively. Allow me to elaborate. If you’d have been driving through a particular rural Bedfordshire village at around 2pm today you’d have seen what from a distance looked like an alarmingly red-faced bear. It was in fact myself, in shorts covering just enough of my lower extremities to avoid classification as underwear. I personally would identify my activity at the time as running, depending on your kindness-levels you may choose to term it “brisk walking” (very kind), “shuffling” (less kind), or “staggering” (ooh, sick burn!). You see I have embarked on a New Year’s fitness regime, and this blog is here to tell you about it.

So what is so special about some fat computer nerd losing weight then moaning about it? Because, my fellow computer nerd (and you’ll have to have been to find this, WordPress isn’t exactly Google is it?) I’m a real person. Not a real person like on cynical advertising campaigns or reality shows, the men who only have a four pack instead of a six pack or the girls who have to make do with being a size 2. I’m too real. I don’t want this to turn into a self-hating rant, the sort of thing people only read after you’ve either committed a crime or gone on X Factor (look for me at the 2011 auditions!). In truth I’m average, or at the very least I have a series of attributes, some good and some bad, that add up to average. Below-average fitness. Decent personality.  Disappointing hair. Varied music tastes. Constantly hungry. Extremely ambitious. Oversized waist. Obscure general knowledge (scraping the barrel, but I have won the odd quid on a quiz machine). What I’m getting at is this isn’t a pity party, this is a genuine attempt to put a normal 21st century male’s perspective on weight loss out into the world.

You see some of us can’t do the celebrity diets. I mean for a start, smack is really expensive and certainly not the healthiest way to get stick thin. And workout DVDs are simply bizarre, I mean who legitimately dances in front of their TV screaming “pump it!” while wearing a spandex one-piece that would make Mr Motivator blush? The only people I’ve met who’ve bought workout DVDs only did so because Kelly Brook hasn’t done porn yet, and while I’m sure they sweated I doubt it was in the interest of getting in shape. Pump it indeed.

He's pumped it, have you?

 Now that you’ve all suffered through a literary tangent that took in tiny shorts, celebrity smack addictions and masturbation, I will return to my original point. Why I am so annoyed at Rocky Balboa? The “Italian Stallion” has provided me with some of my favourite cinematic moments. When he did the impossible and went the distance with Apollo in the Oscar-winning debut, vanquished Hulk Hogan and Mr T in III, solved communism in IV and taught us all not to fuck with pensioners in Balboa he did so to the sound of me yelping in vicarious delight. But he has also led me to a future of joint pain, starvation and disillusionment. This is because of the cinematic technique that Rocky popularised, the musical training montage.

The musical training montage is simple. Take someone who is good at something, but doesn’t believe in them self. It could be because the task ahead is simply too hard, because their trainer died after Mr T screamed at them, or their scantily-clad African-American friend got battered by a Russian. Then have them work out. Lift weights, run, chop wood, chase chickens, hug said African-American chum all to the sound of an incredibly inspiring 3 minute song. Then, possibly with the aid of a new-found beard, have them take on the fucking world and win. This makes for great cinema…and a really rubbish workout plan.

You see no matter the task, Rocky Balboa can go from gibbering wreck to clobbering wrecking ball in three minutes, accompanied by nothing but that damn music. So I loaded up the track, titled “Gonna Fly Now”, on my iPod and I hit the road. I staggered up that hill like a seal that had been punched in the spine. Nothing. No sudden sense of purpose, no desire to take on the heavyweight champion of the world (it is still Apollo Creed isn’t it?), no desire to kick the snot out of Hulk Hogan. It can’t all happen at once I thought, so I threw on “Gonna Fly Now” again and pumped some iron. I even tried to put myself in Rocky’s shoes, picturing myself winning a boxing match and screaming ”Yo Adrian!” like a brain-damaged air-raid siren. Nothing. My arms still look like those cuts of chicken the butcher puts right at the front of the counter because they look like deflated balloons and nobody wants to buy them. One last try I thought, without the aid of an African-American guy to hug maybe even Sylvester Stallone would have needed one more montage before bludgeoning B.A Baracus. So I took to my sit-ups like a duck to concrete, and had a horrible realisation. My hunched posture, craving for Dairy Milk and stalling-car wheeze weren’t going to disappear over the course of one song, no matter how punch-a-rhino-in-the-face inspiring it was.

Give us a cuddle mate. Go on.

It is a disappointing revelation, even for a 21 year-old Journalism graduate (you didn’t think I taught myself to talk this much bollocks, did you?) who should really know better. Life isn’t a film. Mine though, is now a blog. The thrilling part about a blog is that nobody, not even the writer, knows how it is going to end. I could get washboard abs and a best-selling book out of this. I could get ligament damage and four page views. One thing is for sure, that this exercise lark is going to take more thought. Maybe if I try Eye Of The Tiger?