A picture of me relaxing by the vacuum cleaner, yesterday.
Here's a secret. Inside this relatively stocky guy, me, is a big fat blobster just screaming to be let out. I think in my heart of hearts I am a fat bloke. I love food, I love reading about food, I love talking about food, I love food, I love eating food, I love foody TV programmes, I love going to new restaurants to simultaneously talk about food whilst eating food. I love food.
All of which means I have a tendency to pile on the pounds unless I am massively strict with myself. This isn't helped by a slow metabolism (ah, the excuses) - my resting pulserate is about 55, which is nice inasmuch as that's the supposed pulserate of an Olympic athlete, it's not so good when it comes to burning off the kilocalories. One choux bun and I look like a Sumo Wrestler with a beergut.
Anyway. All of this came to a head about three months ago when I just looked at a photo of myself and thought: You Fat Bastard. After several minutes of self loathing I got on the scales and finally faced the facts: I was notably over 14 stone - i.e. around 200 pounds (for my American readers).
In any language, that's FAT. 14 stone! 200 bloody pounds!! I was hefty. Portly. Corpulent. Butterball-esque. Triple-chinned. Lardy. Weighty. Big boned. FAT.
So I decided to go on a diet. Of course I'm always on some kind of diet, due to that dramatic tendency to chub out I mentioned earlier. But usually my diets consist of not eating anything for two days, walking several hundred miles, drinking a lot of booze (because I think I've earned it) and then returning to normal. Probably not the healthiest or most efficacious of slimming techniques.
This time on the fatty-go-round, therefore, I decided to be a bit more scientific and determined. And persistent.
So I thought about some of the diets that I could try. Like Atkins. Or the F Plan. Or the weightwatchers regime. Or Belsen-type starvation. But none of them really appealed, so I devised my own diet. The Official Toffeewomble Diet.
Here's what I did. I didn't eat lunch. And that's about it. I skipped lunch. OK I did a bit more exercise, but not a great deal more. And maybe I was a little more careful with massive puddings. But really, the only big difference was - I skipped lunch. Every day. I had the same breakfast - a pain au raisin, a cinnamon danish, or a smoke salmon croissant (I'm a bit weird). I had the same dinner - Thai curry, salad nicoise, Tescos fish thingy, whatever. I drank as much as normal - a bottle of red wine almost every night.
And you know what - it's worked! It's fucking worked! This morning I got on the scales and I was under thirteen stone. I was twelve stone twelve to be precise - 180 pounds. I've lost a stone and a half - 20 pounds - in about ten weeks.
Hooray! So that's all you have to do, fatsos. Skip lunch. Just say no. Lunch is for wimps, remember? It's not even that hard. At first you do notice the hunger, and the gurgling stomach, and the intense hyopglycaemic depression around 4pm - but in those situations I allowed myself some fruit. Moreoever, after a few weeks I stopped noticing the hunger so much, and my blood sugar dips got less severe. I guess my stomach shrank or went into suicidal hibernation or something.
So that's that. I'm officially not overweight anymore. No longer Mister Blobby. Sayonara Fat Man. I'm bidding goodbye to Blubber City. I'm out of the Lardzone.
To celebrate my success this morning I had a big fat All Day Breakfast Sandwich and a full fat cappuccino.