Tag Archives: Justin Bieber

Dare to dream fatty! Dare to dream!

I know what you’re thinking, but I can confirm that your fears are completely unfounded. I am not going to sign for Liverpool to replace Fernando Torres. Just putting that out there. I am writing this at the end of what the Sky Sports hype-sters call “DEADLINE DAY”, where English football clubs do the last of their mid-season transfer deals.

Irreplaceable? There's a 17 stone lump of skill that disagrees.

The thing that amuses me most about this most hyperbolic of sporting days is the reporting, as Sky Sports News shamelessly peddle tiny droplets of information like Justin Bieber naked pictures to a gaggle of tweenage dreamers. While this particular transfer window has been a reasonably exciting and active one, the real interest for me comes from the times when nothing is happening. Nothing at all. The genius behind these lulls in activity, sometimes days at a time over the month-long sales period, is how Sky Sports can quite literally make something out of nothing. There will actually be specifically-designated reporters stationed at locations all over the country whose job it is to reply “Nothing much happening here, back to you” every time the anchorperson tries to coax the slightest glimmer of interesting information from them.

Teh biebs <3<3<3

While previously football fans thirsty for knowledge of potential ins and outs at their club would have to wait until the morning newspapers were dispatched, but now the whole transfer process is fetish-ised. No longer a case of “he’s signed” or “he’s not signed”, now all new stages such as “in talks”, “interested” and “linked” are used to describe just what stage in the emotional tightrope walk of football negotiations we are at. And of course in this 3D, HD, LSD, VD era these psychological minutiae are afforded their own set of natty graphics.

Quieten down! Jason Puncheon has agreed a loan to Blackpool!

I am thinking of perhaps employing my own set of journalists to chart my journey to a socially-acceptable waistline with the barely-contained excitement of the SSN crew. “It has been confirmed by my sources that Joey did spend 13.8 seconds perusing the Kit Kat range at Tesco at around 10:00am but I’m pleased to say he steered well clear. However news is reaching us now that he might have been tempted by the Freddos being sold in the petrol station on the way home. We should have more on that in the next hour. Back to you”

If you have the same jogging route every day, you end up seeing the same collection of sights on a regular basis. Careless motorists, dog walkers, other joggers and of course farmers steering quad bikes with one hand while holding a double-barreled shotgun in the other. I sense your confusion, but to be honest that last sentence is probably the only part of this blog I haven’t embellished.

I seem to have befriended this farmer without ever really trying. Not in a “come round for a drink” way but more a “if I smile at you, will you spare my life?” fashion. Allow me to explain, for those who may not be from Britain. Over here farmers are kind of like drug dealers are in America. They are allowed to shoot anything that infringes on their turf, because it saves the police doing it. You see otherwise the police would have polyester-short wearing blobs of ne’er-do-well waddling through the village under the pretence of exercise to deal with every day. So farmers ride around on their quad bikes with guns, policing their turf and keeping us lard-fests in check. I think they milk animals and stuff as well, but that is just a rumour.

YOU JUST RAN INTO THE WRONG COUNTRY FIELD FAT BOY!

 

I see Tupac Sheepkur on his quad bike pretty much every day, flying down the road with more fingers on the trigger than on the steering wheel. He seems a friendly enough chap actually, like I say he always flashes me a smile and seems mildly amused by the persistence of my running efforts despite the deep shade of purple I have normally turned by the time I meet him. Very friendly actually, for a guy armed to the teeth. I wouldn’t date his daughter though, let’s put it that way. She might have fleas. Oh yeah, and the gun thing.

I was confronted with perhaps my greatest challenge to date yesterday: another jogger. As this athletic-looking middle-ager approached my creaking frame along the winding country road my mind raced with what to do. Are joggers like Eddie Stobart drivers, do we have a ritual? A hug? A fist bump? Maybe we just shout “JOGGERS ASSEMBLE!” at each other? I decided to keep it low key and give him a nod, a little show of solidarity that we together were active people improving ourselves. And he could not have looked more revolted. The look of pure disdain that wracked his face will live with me forever. Then I realised that jogging is an elite sport, and I’m not meant to be here. He was Ted Knight and I was Rodney Dangerfield, and this ladies and gentlemen was Caddyshack.

I have surmised from this that running is not for people who want to get in shape. According to my uppity friend, who turned his nose up so far he looked like Daniella Westbrook pre-op, running is not for the fat. Once we have eaten enough to leave Puppy Fat Station and arrive at Obeseville we are actually no longer allowed to exercise it seems. Think about it, when have you ever seen a jogger who looked like they needed to jog? Fat people don’t jog! They sit at home and get fatter while people who are already in shape make themselves more magnificent on their daily run.

A picture says a thousand words. In this case, "eeeeeeeewwww!" is the only one you really need.

 

Well I will stand for this no more, as perhaps the only real fat person who has ever ran I’m taking a stand. Or at least a very passionate sit down (still very tired from my controversial run).

I have a dream today. A dream that one day, fat people and thin people will run together! I have a dream that fat children will not be mocked for their tight PE kits that make them look like the result of a malfunction at a sausage factory! I have a dream that being a fat runner will be a source of pride! I have a dream today, fat people! Oh I have a dream!

Okay, that might perhaps have been the biggest historical event I have yet compared my fat-fighting antics to. What to go for next? I’m thinking either the Titanic sinking or Apollo 13.


Keep On Running

I think this is going well. My reason for thinking this is that for 45 minutes this evening I actually thought I was easily fit enough and good enough to play football for Manchester United. Granted, my reasoning for this was not exactly established by my moderately taxing fitness programme. While this whole ordeal has seemed like a big deal to me, I doubt players like Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes got where they are by running for 20 minutes a day and cutting out crisps. Rather this fanciful notion was formed by the fact that for the first half of the game against Blackpool, United were to Football what Stevie Wonder would be to Darts. In the second half they annihilated hapless Blackpool and the reality hit that the closest I’ll get to playing for Manchester United is by adopting a Scottish accent and calling myself an overpaid waste on a regular basis.

Even his stubble is more than I could hope to achieve.

Elsewhere it has been rather quiet in the world of weight loss. With the weekly weigh-in being tomorrow, it’s a wonder I’ve managed to take my fingers out from down the back of my throat long enough to write this. I’ll be a supermodel yet, just watch me.

With little happening today, time to bring you one or two much-promised stories from the earlier days of this. Hark at me, three weeks in and I’m talking about this regime as if I’m Bob Dylan recalling going electric.

First up, the pros and cons of running to death metal music. Death metal isn’t for everyone, the drums sound like machine guns firing at a drawer full of knives, the guitars don’t just chug but positively grind and the bass is enough to leave more earwax on your headphones than there is under the tables of a primary school classroom. But if it is for you, then it is really for you. I am a huge fan of the genre, and this country has some bands that do it extremely well. If you like heavy music and ever get a chance to catch bands like Ingested, Annotations of an Autopsy, The Rotted and Morgue Orgy I suggest you give it a go, broaden your mind and support some bands who need it. A good gauge of whether you will like death metal is how offended you were when you just read the name “Morgue Orgy”. Reaching for the bucket? Then probably steer well clear.

The band responsible for my musings on the merits of death metal jogging are Trigger The Bloodshed, my favourite of the Brit-Death bunch. I first discovered them scaring the piss out of a bunch of floppy-haired scene kids who just wanted to dance at a metalcore gig in Birmingham and have loved them ever since. Their new album Degenerate really slams, and was my running soundtrack of choice on day two of this excursion. Now for getting me psyched up this was awesome. As opener A Vision Showing Nothing gave way to De-breed I was loving life, it was the closest I’ve looked to a genuine human being going for a run before or since. I detected a slight bounce in my step and the troubling thud of my heart trying to escape my ribcage was nowhere to be heard.

"Is that bloke in the crowd doing aerobics?"

However I noticed myself tiring extremely quickly. This is because rather than my usual, leisurely/snails/grass growing pace I had in fact took off like Linford Christie running from a drugs test. The double kick-drum assault had caused me to hit speeds never before seen, at least not by people who refuse to acknowledge any food that isn’t suffixed by “…and chips” as a meal. In a way this was very inspiring, tearing off down a country road to Britain’s premier riff-mongers. However I don’t think I’m quite ready for this level of exertion, my body is not yet a temple. Currently it resembles a dilapidated one-bedroom semi. The kitchen’s quite nice though. There I go, mind always on food. Anyway, I would however heartily recommend Trigger The Bloodshed for running to. As long as you are fit enough to watch tennis without getting tired and sweaty, you’ll find the catchy-but-crushing riffs an ideal aid to your daily jog.

"And you got those arms how? Ready Brek? Sure you did Linford!"

I know you are all gripped with excitement for tomorrow. Will his arms have grown? Will his belly have shrunk? Will he die in his sleep by attempting to eat his pillow while dreaming about giant Subway sandwiches? All will be revealed, I’ve got to run though. My body isn’t going to purge itself.


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.


Save Me Davina!

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.