400 Steps - Update Three - Go Fuck A Sausage

Diet starts today. I weigh a disgusting 17 stone 4lbs.  If I was ripped like some sort of rugby player, this weight would be acceptable for a 6 foot lad but I’m not. I’m off the booze nearly a fortnight now but it’s time to shift the heavy furniture. I’m not going to go all Men’s Health and all that GQ body image bollocks. Fuck that noise. All these London based 50k trust fund cunts giving it the large because Daddy paid for their membership and diet pills. I’m nearly 50, I’d need steroids and extensive surgery to look like that. Take a day off lads. Eat a Twix. Go fuck a sausage.

You’ve got a choice when you’re young. Rock and roll or gym and salad. Well, you did 30 years ago and clearly I chose the insensible thing. I chose the wrong thing every time and now my body stands before me, like Miss Lydia at the start of Fame, telling me it’s time to start paying.

Anyway, enough of that bullshit. Eat less, eat better, do more exercise. That’ll do. Let’s see where I’m at with this in a week.

Can you lose weight by crying? Things I’ve cried at this weekend. That Rugby League player who’s just been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease – when he came on the pitch for the last time this weekend. Cried at that. Cried at that video of that all star band at a tribute to George Harrison with Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty playing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” and Prince showing the world what it’s about to miss too. George’s boy is in the background playing an acoustic and for a moment or too he’s lost in Prince’s genius, gawping like a fan again, like a kid again and all that sadness and pain is for a moment lost, or appears to be. I guess that’s all pop music can or should be, respite from all the shit, just for a moment. Cried at my daughter telling me she loves me too. Fucking hell. It’s all too much this life at times but I crave more. Much more.

Read COKETOWN. Just fucking buy it and read it. And then buy and read DRUNKEN BAKERS too.

Days of self-improvement left: 374.