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 s (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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