The Fat Bloke Diaries

[DW2DH&DS]

you are my super hero!!!!!

 

[2goofycampers]

Still following along, keep up the fine fight and writing about it.

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Sixteen - London Calling

This episode is a first. Never before has the bulk of an FBD been written from outside of God’s Own County. I’m talking of course about South Yorkshire. Not only did I temporarily stray beyond the borders of my beloved homeland, but I went to The Dark Side. These words are being written from every true Yorkshireman’s idea of Hell itself… London.

It’s my beloved’s fault. She wanted a Christmas surprise. So I booked train tickets, hotel, a show, and a ride on that big wheel thingy that’s just a little bit rounder than the one we had at our local fair a few weeks ago. Everything was perfect, especially the look on her face when I told her on Christmas morning. Priceless, as the adverts say. The one thing that I didn’t book though was the weather, and that was far from perfect. Blimey, it was cold and windy. It was raining pretty hard too. Sideways. And did I mention cold.

It’s ‘a well known fact’ (at least up here) that Londoners get the best of everything in this country. The best jobs, the best sights, the best entertainment; now add another one to the list. You don’t see many fat people down there, and now I know why. Central Londoners have the best free exercise system in Britain.

They should all have perfect calves from trudging up and down the thousands of steps in the Tube stations. And perfect skin due to their frequent sauna treatments in the densely packed carriages. The amount of liquid I lost on that daily journey would equate to a huge weight reduction over the year, I’m sure. Then of course, just to mix it up, there’s the regular but totally random long walks caused by unexpected cancellation of the Tube service. These surprise journeys must be taken at standard London hustle speed too, further increasing the number of calories burned.

And bless them, the local pubs even help out, by selling toe-curlingly terrible beer at vastly inflated prices. Sensible Southerners are saved from the temptation of all those empty alcohol calories.

Finally there are the endless apparently safe parks for running in. Try going for a jog in the parks near me and you’d have to run the gauntlet of tooled-up juvenile hoodies and their under-controlled devil-dogs. That’s before attempting the ‘hopscotch of doom’, trying to move at speed while not stepping on the discarded syringes (and devil-doggy-doo). No, it’s much safer to run through the built up areas round here. Interestingly I found that those in the capital chose to do this too, not just restricting their jogging to the parks but also elbowing through the crowds of goggle-eyed tourists in the main sightseeing areas. It takes real dedication for a keep-fit type to wear a dayglo lime-green top and spray-on leggings while high-stepping past the camera-toting hordes outside Buckingham Palace.

‘Southern softies’, this northern chap salutes you.

I was in London for five days. I know that it was precisely five days because Snowy the cartoon Wii Fit board told me so on my return (as in ‘Do you know that it’s been five days since you last took a fitness test?’). So not only does he keep me fit, he also keeps track of my calendar. I wonder if I can get him to tell me when I should start looking for anniversary presents.

While I was down there, busily having fun and eating big blow-out meals, I thought that I’d have withdrawal symptoms, that I’d feel lardy and desperate to squeeze any kind of physical exercise into my day. How things have changed in the last few months. It’s not so long ago that I’d be pointing and laughing at runners on dark, wet nights. Now, I’m the recipient of the chuckling pointy-finger as I pound the streets.

But do you know what? I didn’t miss it at all. Forty years of fat-blokey-dom re-established itself the moment I let my guard down. I ate all day and drank much more than I normally would have at home - cocktails were the one thing that we could find cheaply, as the pounding in my head proved the following day.

It became pitifully obvious that I’m still a Fat Bloke at heart. Despite the recent changes, the obesity within me is still bubbling just below the surface, just waiting to seep out at the first sign of weakness. Only increased muscle mass is holding it in.

Maybe I should try a girdle.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Seventeen – Run, Run Away

It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s late. I’m tired. I have something else that really needs doing. I’ll go tomorrow. What other perfectly good reasons can I think of to stop me going for a walk or run tonight?

I’m much too old to be lying to myself. In truth these are all just excuses, nothing more. If I really want to exercise then I will. If not, then I should at least have the honesty to say, ‘I didn’t care enough about losing weight or getting fitter to go out’.

My least favourite excuse is ‘I don’t have time’. Time is like money. I have a finite amount of it to spend, and it’s up to me how I allocate it. I may not have any time available for exercising, but that’s only because I’ve chosen to do something else instead. If I don’t have time, it’s usually because I didn’t make time. Sure, sometimes real emergencies crop up but, thankfully, very rarely.

Of course, I don’t always take my own advice. There are other things that I would much rather do, like listening to The Archers on the radio every weeknight. I wouldn’t want to miss that for such a trivial thing as going for a run. But now thanks to the BBC’s on-line service I don’t have to. Curse you, i-Player!

So the other night I scheduled my time correctly and went running, I’d only been out a couple of minutes though when I realised that something was wrong, something was different. Some things – many things in fact – were blurred. Stupid me, I’d left my glasses in the house. I’ve been wearing them for thirty years now and I’ve never forgotten them before, at least not while I’ve been sober. Now it could have been that my defective peepers had suddenly made a miraculous recovery and I no longer need my specs but I doubt it to be honest. If I were a betting man my money would go on me just wanting to get out and simply being forgetful. The onset of old age, some might say, though they’d probably receive a slapping. I think it’s the Association Game again. I had my ‘Legend in the Making’ t-shirt on, which I only ever wear while on my bike; and I don’t wear the face furniture when I’m pedalling. I was now officially in ‘activity mode’, so I guess I subconsciously made the connection; this shirt = doing it blind-style. I just forgot that I needed vision while running.

Luckily I had my ‘seeing-eye partner’ with me. Not that I’m comparing my Beloved… Oh lordy, I’ve done it now. Put the spade down Shaun. Remember that slapping I mentioned earlier? I think I know where it’s heading.

It was either continue semi-blind with her guiding me or run alone and into things (lampposts, cows, roads) while listening to Ed Alleyne-Johnson, whose music is fabulous and vastly underappreciated. Having her lead me was less painful, so that’s what I chose, but at least Ed will appreciate the Google hits. After that last paragraph, I might not appreciate the kind of hits that I’m going to get quite so much.

And then there was the totally unrelated Curious Incident of the Annoying Little Terrier in the Night Time. I could write a book about what happened, but I’ll give you the short version.

I’d heard about the unhappy combination of dogs and joggers (oh my stars and garters, have I become one of those now? I’ll find myself listening to disco, wearing a headband and cultivating an afro next), but this was my first experience of the toothy terror.

Generally I like dogs, I really do, but I’m not too fond of snappy little ankle-biters. Fices, to use one of those archaic words of which I’m so fond. And it was a fice that faced us as we crested a bridge the other night.

It was out with its owner, a man with zero control and even less care for the well-being of other people or his animal. He watched without emotion as it ran past my life-and-running partner (sensible creature!) and zeroed in on my feet. It hurtled around me in ever decreasing circles as I moved into high-stepper mode. I tried to get out of its way but the outcome was, I’m afraid, inevitable.

Yap! Yap! Yap! Crunch! Yelp! Yelp!

I don’t think it was injured but, truth be told, I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. I legged it, plodding off into the night in my hoodie. The dog’s owner never said a word. Perhaps my appearance intimidated him, but I doubt it. No matter how much I try I can’t make myself look like a knife wielding yoof of criminal intent. I’m still a waddling, sweating fat bloke.

Anyway, enough procrastination, it’s time to get my running shoes on.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[DW2DH&DS]

I finally busted out my Wii Fit today!!!! wow!!! I am 37 years old with the wii age of 45. it was really fun. For aerobics, i did hula hoops, jog in place, and step. For balance, I did put the balls in the whole and soccer balls. Soccer balls suck!!!!!!!! i kept getting hit int he head with the shoes. for some reason i moved out of the way of the ball and into the shoe. 30 minutes later!!! sweating. holy crap, i am out of shape.

 

[sharper_fin]

Go for it Beth. You may be out of shape, but by getting on that white plank you're doing something about it. Good for you (and don't head the boots).

 

[DW2DH&DS]

(and don't head the boots).

I can't help it!!! they keep hitting me. i look like a total spaz. i should video it an upload it to YouTube!!!!

new diet plan...

breakfast: 1 grain, 1 protein, 1 fruit,
snack: 1 vegetable and/or 1 milk
lunch: 1 grain, 1 protein, 1 fruit, 1 vegetable
snack: 1 milk and/or 1 vegetable
dinner: 1 grain, 1-2 protein, 1 vegetable, 1 fruit

so...
3-4 proteins
2 milks (protein as well)
5-7 fruits & veggies
2 grains

lets see how this works!!!

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Eighteen – Slip Slidin’ Away

Why do people ski? I understand that for many it’s a fitness thing, and some people would prefer cold weather activity breaks to hot holidays lazing on a beach. These reasons make perfect sense, but they don’t account for the huge number of people that take to the slopes each year.

“You've got to try it to understand the attraction” say habitual plank-gliders, but this seems a pretty feeble recommendation really. Jack the Ripper might have justified his own appalling actions with the very same words. I know that skiers will hate me for saying this more than they despise a novice snowboarder who’s just scraped away their virgin powder, but skiing is surely just another sport?

Would these same people take a special holiday just to play chess or practice throwing their outstretched legs around a pommel horse? Just like skiing, these minority interests are fascinating when performed well, but I can’t for the life of me understand what would possess an average person to give up a week or more of their precious vacation time to actively participate in them, especially when (in the case of winter sports) there’s a fairly high possibility that the inexperienced participant might have their holiday prematurely cut short via an exciting but wholly unplanned ride in an air ambulance.

I’m told that it’s all about the adrenaline rush. Fair enough; but if this were the main reason then wouldn’t there be just as many thrill-seekers flocking to swim with sharks, or take up freefall sky diving? In non-skiing season wouldn’t there be troupes of frustrated slope-sliders juggling chainsaws badly just to get the same natural high? No, I think those chalet girls are slipping a little extra ingredient into the Gluhwein.

I could never ski, I’d be all over the place. Skiing is dangerous, but not quite as dangerous as running on frozen pavements. I don’t fancy ripping my already-gimpy knees apart doing that either. My balance is terrible, as Snowy (my aptly-named Wii Fit board) keeps telling me. I just don’t do staying upright that well. I've hit the deck more than once just walking to my office this week (on the days that I didn’t decide to take advantage of that much-abused 21st century office practice, working from home). Heaven knows how bad I’d be if I were running.

So my exercise has moved back inside for a little while, and my trusty static bike is getting more than its unfair share of Shaun-abuse once more. I’ve been neglecting the metal monster in favour of running over the last few weeks, and it showed. Right from the start it seemed as though the hours (well, minutes) pounding the streets were paying off. The pedals spun with less effort, the numbers on the distance thingy flew by and I wasn’t even breathing heavily.

Filled with a new-found but totally unwarranted sense of smugness I notched the hard-o-meter up a little to get more resistance, and still I wasn’t having any trouble. Just to see if I could handle it, I cranked it up to full difficulty. The dreaded Level Eight. I’d tried this once before and couldn’t even turn the pedals. Now… now I could turn the pedals, just. It was difficult, as is only fitting for the highest setting, but it was manageable for a short while. Only a short while though, I’m still a fat bloke. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

So I put the resistance knob back down to my normal level and concentrated on churning out the miles. Or at least I tried to. After a mere thirty minutes I ran out of steam. I’d been able to pedal for well over an hour before I moved my exercise outside, but now I was totally spent after half that time. And strangely enough half an hour is the length of run / walk that I’ve been doing lately instead of biking. Coincidence? I suspect not.

And as I’ve alienated a new group of readers, I might as well go back to the other week’s London-themed article. Just in case anyone got the impression that I was being anti-Southerner in that piece, here’s a chucklesome but depressingly true tale from my homeland to hopefully redress the balance. Maybe some of my fellow Yorkshire folk aren’t as sophisticated as they could be.

I went for a meal in my local pub the other day. A young family sat down at a table near me and began reading the menu. The father was obviously interested in a beef casserole, but was confused by one of the ingredients listed.

“Shallets?” he grunted, rhyming the word with ‘mallets’, “What the bloody hell’s shallets”?

“Ee, yer daft bugger”, replied his equally erudite partner. “Them’s them long thin green things like little marrers. They ’ave ’em in posh folks’ salads”.

You couldn’t, as they say, make this stuff up.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Nineteen – It’s Sinful

Once I set a target for myself I usually do my utmost to achieve it. All the ice and snow is still hanging around in my area, making it difficult for me to restart my running, so I set a new mini-goal: to cycle 50km over last weekend.

My knees, static bike and dining room floorboards are all creaking alarmingly now, but I managed it. My legs ache, my feet ache and my haemorrhoids feel like they’ve just been on a hot ‘n’ heavy third date with an over-amorous cheese grater, but I did the 50. Then, because I’m stupid, I did another 10km.

It was a tiring weekend, but I’m certainly burning calories. Unfortunately I’m still consuming far too many.

My resolve is slipping. I thought that I had this over-eating business under control, that the habitual munchies had been defeated. But it appears that I’m not as strong-willed as I thought.

The odd beer (and in my time I’ve drunk some very odd beers) has made it back into my day. Well, not my day, not while I’m at work, obviously – my boss might read this. A few slices of bread and a chunk of cheese are stealthily sneaking into my tummy late at night too. Even as I type this I’m munching on a large slice of pork pie, fresh from the farm. I’m not saying it’s fresh but it’s only just stopped oinking. And it’s delicious.

While I know that it’s not the healthiest food around, I don’t see anything wrong in having a little piece of pie occasionally or a beer if I want one. Or even a great big, lardy, cholesterol filled cream cake. Occasionally, obviously.

There isn’t anything intrinsically wrong with these calorific delights. It’s time to debunk the idea of ‘naughty’ or ‘nice’ foods. No food is evil or full of ‘sins’ any more than a chainsaw is, but both can have nasty – even fatal – consequences if abused. All food is simply sustenance, fuel: but some fuel is of a higher octane than others. If I eat something that I know is extremely calorific, and am just consuming it out of habit, then I’m not being ‘naughty’, I’m being stupid. I’m just postponing or even reversing my own weight-loss. If I’m aware of these facts and still choose to eat that item, then I should at least enjoy it. I won’t lose weight, but as long as I’m prepared to put the additional sweaty hours in to burn off the extra fuel consumed, then the net balance will still be weight loss. Is the tasty morsel worth the workout? It’s decision time. ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime’, that’s what they say… or perhaps that should be ‘If you can’t do the crunches, don’t munch two lunches’.

My problem recently has been that the odd treat is becoming normal again. It’s not surprising really, as I’m trying to overturn forty years of ignoring the calorific value of foods and going solely for the taste. And the tastes I’ve always been particularly partial to are pastry, beer and chocolate.

I don’t have a calorie counter in my head, thankfully, or even in my house. If I did it would take all the joy out of eating. It would turn it from a vocation into a dull science. Thankfully I don’t need to count calories. Even the least health-aware of us cannot claim ignorance in these matters. We all know from an early age that a diet of pizzas and cakes, though undoubtedly scrumptious, will accumulate more fat than eating lettuce and cucumber. This simple fact is all we need to know that any weight loss or gain eventually comes down to habit and personal choice.

My choice. And my responsibility. Simple.

So how come I’m not haemorrhaging pounds of fat now that I’m (mostly) choosing to forego the super-sized menu option? I’m nowhere near to becoming a shadow of my former self. I’m more like a fat bloke that’s squeezed through a thin gap and the lard hasn’t blobbed back into shape yet. The weight is slipping away slowly though, I am a stone and a half lighter than when I started this new life regime. I still have plenty more to lose yet, but I might keep that fact to myself.

There’s still too much of the fat bloke within me to tell people that I’m on a diet, exercising, losing weight. That’s tantamount to inviting people to point and laugh at the lardmeister. Only chubsters need to ‘lose a few pounds’. Perhaps the trick is to not mention the ‘D’ word (which just means that you die before tea) and plump for the latest in-phrase – “trying to eat more healthily”. That’s much more in line with twenty-first century thinking.

Now if I can get something about “being green” and “doing my bit for the environment” in there it would be much more socially acceptable. There’s nothing like a bit of eco-guilt these days to make people back off.



© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twenty • I Love You, Miss Robot

“Push it! Push it!”, “Give me all you’ve got!”, “I’m feeling you!”

I’d be a liar if I said that these phrases had never come from my TV speakers before, but those occasions have usually involved movies of a certain ‘artistic’ bent. I’ve certainly never heard these words from Derek, my Wii Fit virtual trainer.

But Derek now has a rival; Maya, the dusky beauty featured on a new Wii Fit title, My Fitness Coach. She’s far prettier (to these eyes) than the frankly rather effete Derek, but she certainly makes me work harder. And her words of encouragement are much more varied.

Derek had seemed ‘The Man’; the one who, in his perfectly clear received pronunciation, pushed me through my first tentative baby steps of cardio, weight training and yoga. He even challenged me to hold The Plank for longer than him, though I think he was faking it with his struggling groans.

There’s nothing fake about Maya however, unless you count her voice, her appearance and her very existence. Even her name means ‘illusion’ in the Sanskrit language. I'm starting to think that she's not all there.

I’ve not outgrown Derek’s tuition methods, far from it, but a change is as good as a rest, as they say • unless that change involves too much resting. Maya and her package certainly provide plenty of change.

For example there are several choices of music to accompany your work-out routine. Being a gentleman of a certain age, I went for the oldest choice available. Sadly, Renaissance madrigals isn’t one of the selectable styles, so I went for Eighties. Now I know I’m not in the first flush of youth, but how come what they call Eighties music sounds to me like every song that I hear on the breakfast show of my local radio station, Bum-Tish FM. As yet they haven't featured any big-hair power ballads.

Despite this minor gripe, My Fitness Coach looks set to replace My Fatness Couch in many people’s lives. It’s certainly becoming a sweat-inducing addition to my personal fat-busting arsenal. And with Maya and Derek’s help, I’m definitely getting fitter. Better still, I want to get fitter. The daily trip up the eight flights of stairs at work is still difficult, but at least when I get to my desk now I can speak, so my recovery time must be improving. The heart rate monitor on my static bike says this as well. After a cycling session it rates my recovery from One (good) to Six (almost dead). I was a member of the Six club for the longest time, but I’ve now become a solid Five and, on one memorable occasion last week I made it into Four territory. I would’ve whooped for joy if I’d had any spare breath. And not been so very British.

Whereas Derek-of-the-Wii is restrained and calmly encouraging with his one-by-one selection of exercises, Maya is (as shown by this article’s opening quotes) much more forthright with her support as she leads you in a hyperactive, personally tailored work-out class. He’s a kindly uncle, gently guiding you in the right direction. She’s a Californian New Age Ultra, opening a can of whoop-**** where it’s required. And sometimes it appears I need an entire keg. (I was going to mention Watney’s Red Barrel Party Seven at this point, but I fear that I may be the only person old enough to know what one of those is).

The styles of Wii Fit and My Fitness Coach are very different, and will work for different people. Both work for me, depending on the mood I’m in, although I did get a little disillusioned when Maya said, “Great job! You really worked hard today”. I know. I worked so hard that I felt like throwing up. Then she spoiled it by adding, “And you burned 71 calories”. Just 71? That’s almost a double vodka-ful (apologies to any Tony Hancock fans).

I’ve done sit-ups and stomach crunches before, but never the way Maya asks me to. Her crunches involve sticking one leg straight out while holding the crunch position, then bringing the opposite knee up towards my chest and reaching to grab the outside of my ankle. I want to say it’s easier to do than describe, but it isn’t. Maya wanted twenty of these, ‘with a pulse’, whatever that means. Hopefully I’d still have a pulse myself at the end of this.

I made it to the end of the twenty and collapsed flat out on my back, gasping like a freshly landed salmon. I was just getting my breath back when the voice from the TV demanded, “Right, break’s over. Let’s go again.”

She wanted another twenty. I didn’t, not on our first time. Derek was never this domineering.

I’m already beginning to dislike her in ways that I never hated him. She’s loud. She’s pushy. She’s says how much she likes being in her open-air work-out area, which doesn’t exist any more than she does.

But I’ll be back for more with her later in the week. She’s got a great bum.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[PrincessKsMom]

Keep up the great work Shaun! I think you've got Derek and Maya right where you want them!

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twenty-One – Enter Sandman

I don’t snore. Honestly, I don’t. Anyone who says that I do is a big fat fibber. Unless it’s my Beloved, and she’s far too much of a lady to say anything that nasty about me.

My exercise regime has reduced my snoring (so she says, though she might be lying) and is also affecting my sleep patterns. These are Good Things. I used to sleep pretty badly. It wasn’t that I didn’t get the practise, in fact I made a concerted effort to do it at least once a day, but I was just never very good at it. Go to bed, read for an hour or so, nod off, then wake up a couple of times in the night; that was what usually happened. I’d watch the clock for an hour or perhaps read a little more before dropping off again about twenty minutes before the alarm was due. Then in the evening I’d nod off in front of the TV, occasionally spilling my beer.

That was the old Shaun, but the new, improved Shaun v2.0 is a lot more settled in his night-time routine. These days I’m attacked by the Sandman as soon as I hit the pillow. He just whomps me with his bag of beach bits and I pretty much sleep straight through. It’s doing wonders for my rest and recuperation, but ruining my reading. I’m finding that as I do more exercise, not only do I sleep better but longer too. Five hours used to be about my limit, but now I’m finding that I’m wanting a good seven. That’s not a problem in itself; it’s just that as I have to get up early for work, I now have to go to bed earlier to get the hours in. But when the alarm clock drags me from the arms of Morpheus I’m rested and ready to take on the world. Or at least my little bit of South Yorkshire.

My dreams are different these days too. Before I set out on this fitness kick my nightly adventures were usually played out on some football field, or on stage in front of a thousand screaming fans, raising my guitar high above my head for that final chord. Or perhaps in a more intimate situation with just one very attentive fan. These days… well you don’t get the same kind of personal service from the sort of groupies that inhabit dreams about finishing a 50k bike race, but you do get a greater sense of satisfaction, and that’s a good feeling to wake up to. And the best thing about dream-cycling is that there’s none of that unpleasant chafing that you get from the biking in the real world.

After my recent static bike mini-endurance challenge I’ve realised the need for some support in the undercarriage area. Ladies, look away now, we’re going to get a bit up close and personal with my ‘core muscles’.

I wasn’t looking for them, I certainly hadn’t decided that I needed some, but they were just there in Marks & Spencers, calling me like a lycra Siren. So I bought some cycling shorts. These are the full spray-on long-length versions with built-in scaffolding and safety restraints. I’ll spare you the details of how I actually managed to get into them – it took a while and a lot of talcum powder – but boy did I feel secure down there once I had. Totally secure, but in no way pretty.

I looked like a badly shrink-wrapped potato harvest, and apparently it’s a famine year. And they roll over at the top where my big old belly flops down on the waistband. I just know that there’s a painful friction welt just waiting to develop.

A woman I know said a strange thing: “Bless him, he’s got no idea of how to shop for clothes”. She wasn’t actually talking about me or my cycling shorts, but she might as well have been. I don’t think I know how to shop for clothes either. My tactic would be:

1) pick something off a clothes rail (in a shop) that adequately covers my phat-philled physique;
2) take item to counter;
3) give cash or card to person behind counter

I tried this tactic at my local discount sports shop recently and it seemed to work well enough. They were selling off Steve McClaren-era England football shirts. I figure I deserve to be seen in one just as much as his over-paid under-achievers did, so I wear the three lions on my shirt proudly now as I run. And anyway, they were two for a tenner.

I thought that was an passable shopping result, but apparently not. I never even knew that there was a knack to it, so I asked some ladies that I know about ‘how to shop for clothes’. Big mistake. It all came out: body shapes; leg length; colour coordination; colour clashes; skin tones. All these things and more must be taken into consideration apparently. Who knew? They never taught me this in O-level woodwork.

I can feel a book coming on: ‘Fashion Rules For Blokes’. It has the potential to be a best-seller, apart from one minor problem. No proper bloke would ever be seen dead reading it.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twenty-Two – Country House

My Beloved thought that, as birthday treats go, a weekend at a luxury hotel was a pretty good one. Even if I was going to be there too. The hotel in question is a fantastic thirteenth century priory; it looks like a miniature castle. It’s had a few upgrades since the Augustine monks left – small but essential things like electricity and a well stocked bar – but is still a big old imposing building. And we both loved it.

It’s set in grounds so large that it holds two championship golf courses. The staff and the clientele respect and look after the building and gardens. Would it be very snobbish of me to say that you get a better class of overnighter at this place? Yeah, probably. It would be a lie too, because they let me in and I’m from Barnsley. But it’s the little things that make it special, like the pre-printed directions provided for guests wanting to take a walk.

They were a lovely touch, but we think that they were a bit misleading.

We asserted our right to roam with what their direction sheet promised us was ‘a gentle two and a half miles, with a slightly challenging downhill section running through a wood’. What we actually ended up doing was a four mile cross-country ramble – not too taxing in the main, but more than we had allowed time for – which included a scramble down a rock strewn, ankle threatening dry river bed, in a forest so dark and deep that I was expecting to see a life-sized gingerbread house appear out of the haze. I’m sure I heard wolves in the distance. It was fun, testing and exhilarating, definitely, but not in any way ‘gentle’. And four miles is longer than two and a half – even my O-level grade ‘C’ maths can work that out.

I hadn’t got the distance this badly wrong since the time that I went on a six km walk. Being a child of the sixties I fall into that strange middle-ground as far as the imperial / metric divide is concerned. The crossover happened during my school years, so I’m equally at home with either measurement standard, and just as confused by both. For example I’m quite happy measuring small gaps in millimetres, but I quote my height in feet and inches. I’ll pour liquids in litres, but always travel in miles. Always…

As ever in these things, it started out as a great idea. Go for a nice little walk through the country lanes around my home. And it was lovely. It just seemed to be a little longer than I’d thought it would be. It certainly didn’t look this far on the map when I was planning this gentle ten kilometre stroll. It was only when I got home, tired and sweating, and checked again that I realised. It wasn’t ten kilometres: it was ten miles. No wonder I was aching more than I’d anticipated.

But back to last weekend; we eventually made it onto a series of small country lanes that the hotel’s directions promised were hardly ever used. Hardly ever, it would seem, apart from the almost constant stream of high-end four-by-fours with personalised number plates.

We finally got back to the hotel and I did the decent thing as any Fat Bloke would. They have a wonderful bar with picture windows on both sides. The views to the left were over the magnificent eighteenth hole. We both agreed, as our drinks warmed our tummies and raised our voices, that it had been far too long since we’d swung a club in anger. Or played golf. I used to be quite poor at golf. I’ll have to work hard if I’m ever to raise my game to that level again.

Out of the other picture window was something that stirred me in an unusual way.

I don’t swim, haven’t done for many years ever since I first set foot on the route to Fat Bloke-dom. Regular readers will know that I’m as likely to unveil my physique at a swimming pool as I am on the stage of the Windmill Theatre. Maybe it was the endorphins from my ramble. Maybe it was the beautiful décor and the shape of the pool. Maybe it was the alcohol. Whatever it was, I had a sudden urge to swim. To take a plunge, a quick dip. To dive like a majestic whale into the blue, free to move in three dimensions as I pleased.

Luckily another beer sent these urges packing.

So I stayed in with my Beloved and enjoyed all the other delights that the hotel had to offer. We had a fabulous time, but I can’t help looking on it as an opportunity missed, a chance to see how I’d fare in a pool that wasn’t on home turf with all the self-inflicted pressures that that brings.

But at least I did the right thing the following morning. I cut down my number of trips to the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet to ‘quite a few’ instead of ‘a very lot’.

That’s dedication to my weight-loss cause. Every little helps.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[proudmomof4]

It's great to see that you are sticking with this, you are my inspiration (well, at least a little bit of it). I recently bought a Wii Fit and have used it faithfully for 11 days and have gained 3 pounds. My co-workers are saying that I am losing weight like mad but I frankly don't see it and neither does the scale.

I just wanted to say that I am still following along.

 

[sharper_fin]

Ah, don't get stressed, that won't help! If other people can see it, then ignore the scales and keep at it.

Will you lose weight if you use the Wii Fit (or do any other exercise)? Maybe. Maybe not.

Will you lose weight if you DON'T use the Wii Fit (or do any other exercise)? Definitely not.

Life's full of ups & downs. Ride through them and make sure the general trend is upwards!

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twenty-Three – The Incredulousness of the Very-Short Distance Runner

At long last there are no more excuses. There is no ice or snow underfoot. It’s quite light now when I get home from work. The ground isn’t totally waterlogged. My shins no longer ache after I’ve been stepping out for just a few moments.

Finally I can start running regularly.

Of course I still have to make it past the local pub a mere 34 steps from my back door. The landlord has been known to physically drag me as I pass when business is quiet. And he’s also locked the doors at closing time, refusing to let me out until I’ve had at least a couple more beers. These are my excuses and I’m sticking to them.

And I have to actually want to go out running. This is by no means a valid assumption, especially if I’m running alone, or there’s football on the telly or something unusual has happened, like there’s a ‘y’ in the day.

But I’m slowly getting the better of my reluctance. I’m going out more frequently and for longer distances. My running-to-walking ratio is improving too, although I can’t yet see myself running up the hill that comes out of the subway. That’s the underpass beneath the motorway, not a sandwich shop. There’s very little chance that I’d be able to run past one of those, I’m still carrying the mentality of a fat bloke. I’d be the first in line for a marinara meatball foot-long, especially if I could justify it with the excuse of having already done my exercise for the day.

Even at the peak of my physical fitness (which would rank around the lowest trough of most people’s) I never imagined myself wanting to go for a run. Now I do indeed look forwards to it most days and – whisper it – kind of enjoy it. Not the continuous bump, bump, bump of low-level discomfort in my knees and hips with every footfall, obviously. Or the gasping for breath when I try to push the speedier section of my run-walk-run pattern to the end of the next minute. And especially not the looks and ‘encouraging comments’ from my friends and neighbours. Bless ’em all. But I am certainly enjoying the feeling of satisfaction when I finally heave myself all the way around my designated loop and the sense of a goal well achieved.

Best of all I love using the excuse ‘I’m soaking my legs’ for luxuriating in a hot bath for over an hour afterwards. The stereotypical woman apparently takes a glass of white wine into the bath with her, surrounding herself with candles and the soothing sounds of the late, lamented Walrus of Lurrrve, Mr Barry White. Allegedly. Don’t shoot the messenger, ladies.

I’m a stereotypical northern fat bloke, and I’m also allergic to candle smoke, so for me it’s a can of beer and the soothing sounds of football commentary on Radio Five Live. Perfect background noise.

Not only is bathing restful and relaxing, but it also gives me a chance to catch up on my reading. I’m no longer getting through many books at bedtime as the increase in exercise means that I usually fall asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. There’s another benefit, or at least my Beloved thinks so.

A further and far more unexpected side effect of my jogging is the unexpected expulsion of waste gasses en route. It’s OK, you can continue reading. I’m talking about the attic, not the basement. I think that my rear has more important things to do when I’m running (like powering me forwards) than to let anything sneak out that way.

I’ve heard of people getting gas (from either end) during yoga classes, but not while running. Just about every time I set off on the latest leg of my quest for thinness I find that I only get about as far as the dirt track near the church before the bubbliest burps in Barnsley pass my surprised lips. Despite my hastily gasped apologies – especially if we’re actually passing the house of God at the time – I’m usually admonished severely by my Beloved.

Am I normal? This is a question that my doctor is tired of hearing, but I never thought that I’d ask it of this particular occurrence. Does the mixing of the gut gas affect other joggers, or perhaps it’s just those of us with an extra-bouncy mixing bowl? Or perhaps it’s just me.

The BBC never broadcasts that part of the London Marathon.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[KirstenB]

Okay, are you stopping at the bar as part of your warm-up? That's the only reason I've ever burped while jogging!

Seriously, maybe you're working out too soon after a meal? Anyway, good to hear you're keeping up with your new habits, way to go!!

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twenty-Four – You’ll Always Find Me in the Kitchen at Parties
We have a big family party this week. It’s the kind that involves sitting down and putting various food items into your face until you can’t fit any more in. I’ve been to many like this before. If we were wear togas we’d be heading to the vomitorium between courses (if such a thing ever existed).

I hate this kind of thing. I know what I’m like when ever a finger-food table presents itself like a tempting, shimmering mirage before me, floating into view between the badly-dancing uncles. I’m the first in the queue, the guy with the biggest plate, balancing a pile of food so compacted that you can’t tell where the vol-au-vents end and the profiteroles begin. But that’s OK, chocolate sauce is a great leveller. I’m the one that people back away from as I return to my table, just in case I have a sausage roll spillage incident. As if. I’d have my mouth under it before it hit the dance floor.

(Which reminds me: I’m going to America for a holiday soon. The Land of the Free Buffet beckons. Better be prepared to pay excess baggage on the flight home.)

So that was how I used to act at buffet parties. But these days… Well to be honest I’m still the same person with the same comfort-eating addiction that I ever was, but I’m really trying to control my pigging out. Which is why I’m pretty apprehensive about this gathering of the clans. I don’t want to blow all the good work I’ve done to get this far, but I also don’t want to have to be the only one turning food down, successfully sitting out the sausage shovelling only to be faced with the dreaded yet familiar family refrain of ‘come on, join in’.

One thing that I’m certain I won’t be doing is drinking. I know that these days I’m such a lightweight (as far as – and only as far as – alcohol is involved) that I’d show myself up after just a couple of shandies. And family are the ones to never let stories like that drop. Like the time with the white suit and the chilli con carne on the chair seat; that one will stay with me forever.

If I go out for beer (and let’s be honest: that’s always several beers, never ‘a beer’, singular), I’ll definitely put weight on. I’ve been checking this for a while now. I’ve found that my weight increases by about a pound for every pint I drink. That’s an incredible amount. I have no idea how I manage it, but it’s true. I’ve lifted a few beers in my time. They never weigh that much, even if you throw in the glass. And I’ve done that once or twice too.

A few FBDs ago I spoke of how my resolve was slipping, how I was drinking a little more again, and eating a little more to go with the little more drinking.

Well I’d like to say that I’m on top of that. Again, I’d like to, but…

I know what it is, it’s the evil exercise. It’s a theme I’ve explored in these articles before: as I burn off more calories my head tells me that the engine needs more fuel. If I’ve been at it like a steam train (as it were) then the fireman needs to shovel in more coal. Or in my case, pasta. Or deep-pan pepperoni pizza.

I’m aware that depression always makes me eat more. And the (mostly self-inflicted) pressure of this impending family get-together depresses me mightily.

So, in best cheap supermarket magazine tradition do I…

A) …join in because it’s more fun if we all do things together. That’s what family gatherings are all about, right?

B) …eat lightly and healthily, regardless of the family pressures?

C) …simply not go? This would avoid problems on the night itself but in all probability create others that would last longer, possibly for years (you know what families can be like).

D) …other, simply because there’s always D) other.

Or, if it were worded as an A-level question;

Shaun has an important family function to attend. He is trying to lose weight but is concerned about the pressures of family to over-indulge at the event. With reference to this item and other sources discuss the social forces apparent in this scenario, and suggest possible outcomes.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[proudmomof4]

I would say b) eat lightly and healthily...they are family and no matter how much they pressure you to "join in" they have to respect what you are doing (they probably won't admit to it, but they should respect it). You are doing something that takes a lot of willpower and many others will envy you your self control at the buffet table.

 

[sharper_fin]

I did indeed go for option B. I had just a small bowl of pasta, and suffered much family heckling. I love them all greatly. Honest, I do. But sometimes, when everyone's together, it can be a bit much.