Monday, 4 January 2010



Workout Dvds, Slimming mags, get fit shows, Oh and…

… I think I’ve accidently eaten my own arse. Yes, irony barriers have been breached, meltdown into offsetted knowingness, emergency bandwagon tie-in. Celebrity special imminent!

Let’s treat it as equality not coincidence or writing these in advance that I’m discussing diets, post Christmas. Not as any translatorary reference to my weight, no no no, no. The offhanded mere mention of the word ‘diet’ makes my insides recoil in bloody bile blockades. I’ve simply never been on one. But I think I should at least try some sort of restraint just so when I’m older I can wear clothes, not fajita wraps.

Oh pot a toe

My main food group is potatoes and apparently, that’s bad. When has a potato become the enemy, when, I ask again? They’re staple, they’re British, they’re what your mum cooked with everything, they’re what every great food invention derived from. Waffles, chips, roast potatoes, crisps, without Mr potato we would be eating dried prunes on rice cakes sprinkled with wheat sheaves.

But I personally think it’s gone past healthy, I crave chips, I adore chips, I’d probably fuck a chip. I’m the Bernard beastly Mathews of chips, no-one could love chips more than I. I can and would eat chips everyday as a bag of virgin potatoes peel their rough muddy exterior to reveal a pure moist lust over my bubbling vegetable oiled flesh.

But as I’m so reliably informed chips are wanted for crimes against health. My lover is my enemy, my Pinochet, if I didn’t love cigarettes so much I could die of unfulfilled oral-lust.


Thing is, it doesn’t stop at just not eating chips, I know. You’d think after sacrificing so many mouth-waterers for taste-corpses. Dining in La treetops with Mr Squirrel and Mrs Nibbler, you’re fit and fine, nope. You have to exercise as well. Exercise isn’t jogging or cycling anymore. Apparently that doesn’t fix “problem areas.” Problem pissing areas need specifically painful exercise to exercise the demons from within. The plank is not lying down like a plank, as you may have thought. Flutter kicks aren’t cute little sparrow flicks, and the chair leg lift isn’t lifting a chair leg. They should have warnings.

The plank – boiling your muscles into shuddering screama-do-decca-death

Flutter kick – raising legs while slowly dying

Chair leg – hauling your legs past pain to shit shattering fever fucks.



Women are always on diets, they are for women what wanks are for men, brief but essential. Yet lots of women look great, really, women generally don’t need diets, gen-er-al-ly. But somehow there’s a cycle of celebrity gossip mags, diets and self-consciousness which for most men; sounds bonkers. If only we could be in their shoes and maybe their bra and pants and… and I’m such a man.

Women say they’re doing it for themselves, not for men, never men. So maybe most women suffer a degree of body dismorphic disorder. Because obsessing is a bit…‘white jacket for the lady?’

“Die for your right to diet. It sez that in a book sir, at a library, somewhere, maybe, can I go to the toilet and vomit again sir, cos Candice said Miss Beckham twittered she’s size minus seven, please sir, cos you can’t oppress my right, Obama said that sir, or was it N Dubz sir. Sirrrrr?”


What, its Wednesday already. I have to not go swimming today: I can’t it’s cold outside, I have a planet of work to do, the swimming pools probably broken. I, I jogged round the corner to work today, there was an advert for wii fit in my inbox, erm, erm, I ate a plum at lunchtime?

Why do people make excuses for being lazy, we all know, your brain knows, you know you’re a fat lazy whale and sudden sunshine and a swimming pool living room won’t change bugger all.

Street furniture

I think about those people I see on the street, you know the ones, those bulging, barely walking, hefalumps, with Mc Donald’s shopping bags, pushing three balls of grease in an max capacity pushchair. I think, “I look good, I look pretty fucking trim in comparison.” Then, without fail, to squash that moment of self-congratulation, some shiny smooth sharp faced youth glides by. You notice your clothes that are trying to unbutton themselves to adorn superior skin. Hoping he suffers from projectile diorhhea and cock acne doesn’t help, he wins, you bins.

Our bodies are our own. Like those people who spend half their lives growing muscles to become poo tanned Athenian gods. Body image is powerful especially if you’re 600lbs of steroids and moods swings. I thought once, why, why don’t I do just that, spend my time becoming big, I’d be strong and ripply, but the e numbers wore off and I ended up noticing not being the big one has a lot of benefits such as; squeezing in-between chairs in a crowded cafe. The ability to wear other peoples clothes. Getting in an already busy train with ease. Not looking like a fancy dress Hulk everytime I wear a shirt. Giving off the impression I don’t want to fight. That’s five.

Diets are for: kids, dogs, crisps, even elephants I’m informed; elephants are just fat, why does the elephant need to be on diets of fruit and nuts. TV is on a diet of content. I applied for a writing job, the editor wrote back and told me I needed to try these acai berries and write about them, diet pills, so I need to go on a diet to be a writer now. What escapes diets? Fat people, the universe (so far), celebrity culture, Sunday magazines and full stops. That’s five.


Diet pills, they’re fun, don’t they make you speed your tits off? I’m sure they don’t. You need those Doctor’s that would put you on a drip if you gave em a diamond glove to prescribe them. Why don’t you just take speed, or go dancing for eight hours a night every Friday and Saturday, or take speed and go dancing for eight hours a night, oh yeah cos you end up some weird speed freak who has brittle bones and problems leaving your mates self raising flour alone. Seriously it’s self raising flour because it raises bread, not you, well maybe, if I put your face in the oven and iced your eye holes.


Wasn’t it an odd game operation, you had to remove organs, that’s not an operation that’s quite clearly non-anesthetic donation, Funny Bone Frank had fuck all but a red nose left, you torturers, we torturers.

The other operations; gastric bands, tummy tucks, liposuction. This is a hands up admission of proud laziness.

“No, I tried not eating Twix’s but like they say Twix fits, Dr make it not fit, here’s 12,000 pounds.” Two months later.

“ Doc, have you heard of Wispa gold? I have, now there’s 50lbs of Cadburys on my thighs, here’s 40,000 pounds, oh and my bands stretched clean off. You got any peanut butter sandwiches without the peanut?”

The dream.


If you’re average, which on average you will be. You’ll have some excess of fat somewhere, some problem area that can’t be shifted. Yes, can’t be shifted, I mean it could, maybe if you worked your tits off, exercising, dieting and all that tosh. But you’ll have to do that forever, like until you find your body resembled a ball sack magnified. Do you care that much? Do you want to look like a giant ball sack when your 80? Do you have a choice? No, unless you live in the lower working class in Glasgow where the mortality rate is as low as 69. “ Oooh Jimmy wi-re soo poor, and wis all dying young as-like, bat ayt leest wi doont luck like thim Bastad boll-bag English.”

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