The F World

Fat. Fat, fat, fat! I can say that word cos I am it. Ignore the picture on here. It's long out of date and from a simpler and kinder time. Plus, I'm wearing black in it aswell. Kind of like how African-Caribbean people can say the “N” word and Homosexuals can use the “P” word. I am fat. Not “chunky” or “husky” as I have tried to delude myself in the past. I am a fat man, and I’m taking the word back baby! That’s right, you “Thinners” out there can’t use the “F” word but bonafide porkers like me can. It’s political correctness gone mad! MAD I SAY!!! As a society, I think it’s fair to say we are generally getting pudgier here in the west. We’re living in a fat world (Or “F” World if you’re frustratingly skinny as a garden rake). I think too many of us heavily endowed aren’t doing enough to try and limit our girth and I think it’s time we do something about it.

I am naturally fat. I know that’s a cop out answer but it is at least partially true. My genetics are legitimately awful. If it wasn’t for doctors, nurses and a titanic piece of luck, I wouldn’t be writing this right now. All things considered, I was shittingly lucky to born in the 1980’s. If I’d been born in Tudor Times I wouldn’t have lasted a week.  This isn’t a bit of joyful self-hatred either.  When I was born I had a serious virus that I only survived due to modern medicine. I think I’ve been on borrowed time ever since and I’m also pretty certain that the virus left me with permanent damage.  I’ve always been a bit sickly and I naturally tend to be quite inflexible and un-athletic. I’m a genetic failure in all honesty. Whenever I eat so much as a slice of bread it clings to my frame like a busy bumble bee sticking to whatever it is the fuck they stick to. My dad is on the large size too and my uncle isn’t what you could call svelte. I guess the male Fitzgerald’s are just naturally chunky monkeys.

However, I am mature enough to know that I can’t hide behind the “I’m naturally a big fat bastard” defence any longer. Some people can eat 7 buckets of chicken and not gain an ounce. Nature has dealt me a fairly crappy hand but sitting around whinging like a big fat whinger isn’t going to help me or others similarly afflicted. Like most large folk do at the turn of the year, I’ve been making a conscious effort to do more exercise. I’m going for a run after I’ve written this for example. My knees and back are already plotting to make the experience a deeply unpleasant one. Joy.

Also, I’ve returned to the dreaded “D” word (What is it with me and using one letter to describe words today? I’m a right “C” word aren’t I?). The “D” word in question is “Diet”. Ah, “Diet”. No word causes more fear and angst to a lifetime chunker like me than that word. Copious amounts of salad, fruit, vegetables and other assorted joyful food treats *shudder*. I’ve also come to the harrowing conclusion that I pretty much have to have this diet forever. My body is such a shambles that it’s the only way to ensure it doesn’t balloon like a zeppelin.  Forever, forever, forever-ever! To be fair, people should aim to eat healthily regardless of their size. And honestly, whoever thinks there won’t be days when I crack and eat something I shouldn’t is as deluded as Jeremy Vine thinking that “Egg Heads” is a good use of his or anyone else’s time. It will be impossible for me to ALWAYS take the healthy option because

1 – I’m only human

2 – Healthy food places tend to be in harder to reach times and places than unhealthy ones

And

3 – Me a big fatty fatty who like eat fatty food!!!

But I’m certainly a lot more conscious about what I eat than I have been in the past. I think after a while I’ll “train” my body to not crave certain things and it will be easier to stick to a healthy diet. At the moment though, my body wants one thing and that’s junk. I spent my walk home a few days ago fantasying about KFC Drumsticks. I am not making this up. I actually started drooling as I clopped along, my thighs rubbing against each other like two of those huge spinney things covered in Donner Meat. I’m actually drooling a little bit now thinking about it again. All along the route I take home there are countless posters for Big Mac’s, Chicken Wraps and Confectionary. I passed a petrol station with a poster outside it for Crème Eggs and it took every urge I had not to walk in and buy some. I don’t even like Crème Eggs but feed me nothing but radishes and I’d eat a trough of the bastards without thinking twice.

Every waking moment I see something that reminds me of the food I can’t have. Even if nothing visually sets it off, my mind will still conjure up memories of the foods I can’t have. My taste buds will then jump in and I’ll get a taste memory of them on my tongue. How thoughtful of my body eh? My body and mind don’t seem to realise that having a diet and sticking to it would be something that would benefit all three of us. They are both enjoying my plight and torturing themselves in the process. It’s an on-going cycle of self-hate and self-punishment that only a loser like me could put myself through. I’m not just a loser, I’m also a genetic loser. Born into the world as a failure. A physical freak who shuffles through live until deaths sweet release finally decides to put me out of my misery. Oh god, mentioning deaths sweet release has now got me thinking about Mars Bars (Because Mars Bars are sweet, not because they cause death. I want to make sure I’m very clear on that in case Mars solicitors happen to be reading). My mind is a swimming pool of food and it’s taking all I can to paddle in the shallow end. Someone throw me a life jacket!