FBD21

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.

Back to Index