Well I’ve just stepped off the scales, and had flashbacks to the panic and fear of an expensive night at the casino.

There are 3 possible explanations for the results:
1- There is an extraordinarily strong gravitational field operating in the bathroom
2- The scales are knackered
3- I’m a bloater trapped in a slightly bigger than averaged sized body

Ruling out mechanical problems, and a unique collapse of the laws of physics, I may have to accept that I’m overweight.

As there is a risk of all sorts of bad things happening to me due to my lardy nature (excess sweating and being ambushed by the Japanese Whaling fleet being amongst the most daunting), I must consider ways to solve this hazardous problem.

I am currently playing an amusing game of litigation-chicken with Fitness First gyms, and my spine still feels like I’ve given Kerry Katona a piggy-back on the way back from the kebab shop, we can rule out exercise.

I can’t sing that well, so no hope of appearing on Britain’s Got Talent and getting a makeover funded by Simon Cowell or the News of the World.

I’m skint, so the only liposuction option involves a kitchen knife and a Dyson… and that didn’t work so well when they did it in South Park.

Which leaves only one terrifying option- a Diet.

I like my food. Clearly this is the case, or I wouldn’t have played bubba-fatass roulette with such apocolyptic results. I enjoy proper breakfasts (half a pig in assorted shapes, and anything else that can be shallow-fried), trips to the drive-through burger bars, crisps, curries, cheese, and pies. And that’s before my tea! You can therefore imagine the enthusiasm I have for anything that amends my meal choices.

To assist and encourage me though, I have TechnoScouse. Not only is TS on my case, but she has a book, entitled Skinny Bitch. The one and only time she goes for the archaic use of print on paper, and it’s costing me calories. I feel this book is only going to be half successful though- I’m going to be its bitch before I become skinny.

I am actually under the subjugation of the follow-up title Skinny Bastard. As my readers have an IQ higher than my cholesterol level, you will have guessed that this is aimed more at men than the effeminate first title. If, alternatively, you are as lucky as me to have read the contents of both books, you will know they are pretty much identical, but with gender reversal of the pithy little snipes made by the patronising harpies who have now extracted 2 amounts of cash from my plasma TV fund. (Bitter? Me?)

Now as expected, deep-fried Mars bars do not seem to be favoured by the Skinny Bitches. Perhaps that’s why they are probably embittered old skanks who listen to Joss Stone albums, drinking wheatgrass smoothies, and smelling of incence. However, what amazed me was that low calorie soft drinks are on the same level with diesel when it comes to being included in your diet.  It would seem that nutrasweet or other artificial sweetners may be low in calories, but are about as beneficial to your health as polonium. Indeed their approval by the American FDA is the subject of almost hysterical conspiracy theories of corrupt practices by some lawyers (which i find hard to believe).

Meat too is pretty much outlawed, with numerous references made to the appalling conditions in which animals are slaughtered. Not only that, but it would seem that (contrary to the evidence of evolution and the fact that humans are living longer than ever and are generally ace), that the consumption of flesh is directly responsible for everything from bad breath to cancer to global warming and the continued anti-western stance of Iran and North Korea. I am paraphrasing there a little, but still reading this book is like going out for a meal with Morrissey and Paul McCartney, and rather talking about music they take turns to kick you in the groin because of your choice of starter!

Hitler was a vegetarian. Didn’t drink or smoke either. Not my paragon of health and fitness, and hardly lived to a ripe old age did he?

Now I hate intolerant people, but do you know the kind who hack me off the most? Lactose intolerant people. Sorry, crap joke but it segues nicely because good old cow-juice is strictly off limits for skinny bitches. Despite the fact that I’m the next stage up the evolutionary chain, and drink  my coffee black, there are such delights as butter, cheese, and… well, more cheese, that make eating (and therefore living) that little bit more worthwhile.

This has resulted in a humilating and morally repugnant addition to our weekly shopping list. I now have to buy cartons of chocolate soya “milk.” Not that I would ever care what anyone in the queue at Tesco thought about me, but it’s like a shorthand way to say “Yes, I live with my fiance, and yes I lose this argument every sodding week.” And for what? 3 cartons of the stuff that gets flushed out during colonic irrigation. Yum-yum!

What’s more, is that if I’m prohibted from the ideal breakfast outlined at the start of this little ramble, then the lack of milk means that cereals are out of the picture too. This leaves toast (no butter or anything else of interest is  approved to go on it though), no coffee (as it is apparently the same pH as the blood of an Alien, and about as good for your insides), and fruit.

The idea of fruit is great, but the reality is very different. Due to powers beyond my comprehension, any fruit I buy will be subject to mysterious laws of nature. The more appetising it is, and the greater my desire to eat it, the shorter the amount of time before it becomes blue and fluffy or attracts a colony of fruit flies (I still have the blood of some little buzzing jasper smeared on the wall of my office from the last time in bought a punnet of plums). Conversely, if a piece of fruit doesn’t interest me in the slightest, or isn’t something I like, it’ll last for approximately 5000 years without so much as a layer of dust troubling it.

So let’s summarise. Bread with nothing of interest to go on it, no fried food, no milkshakes, no breakfast worth having so by the time lunch arrives i could eat a passing dog if meat wasn’t off limits. This lifestyle doesn’t make you live any longer, but it will make each day drag out so it feels like you’ve lived forever!

Anyway, 4 days as a gym member and I’ve still only been once. The progress has been good, although I am somewhat disappointed that chocolate hobnobs seem to have been less beneficial than i was expecting. I can’t understand it myself, ignoring the chocolate, they contain oats for goodness sake… that makes them healthfoods, surely! Still, the packet has been eaten, so the only solution is to eat TS’ homemade soup (which consists of tinned tomatoes and assorted veg), and snack on seeds. I feel like some kind of overweight blue-tit.

Making the most of my pre-employment status for the last week, I have been trapped watching music channels and feeling the growing rage at Girls Aloud. As I type, I am being subjected to the dire soundtrack song they perform for the new St Trinian’s soundtrack. In other words, it’s a tortuous mound of crap indistinguishable from most of their other prefabricated tut except for the fact they are dressed up in school uniforms and the video looks like it was made on Top of the Pops in 1987. This can only be a desperate attempt to appeal to the sort of men who enjoy school uniforms, and a generation that wasn’t tortured by Grange Hill on Children’s BBC.

I know that everyone takes the view that popular music isn’t as good as it was when they were growing up, but the selection I’ve seen today just makes you think that some producer is literally crapping out artists and songs, and combining the 2 in some kind of blender. Think I’m joking? Take Timberland for example… the video for Too Late, performed by One Republic (who for some reason get demoted to “featuring artists” despite the fact they are playing the bloody song). The video features Timberland sat at the mixing desk, conducting an invisible orchestra and producing random noises that sound like a porpoise with chronic flatulence has hijacked the microphone. Meanwhile, the band/musicians/pretty white boys are in the studio and showing so much emotion, I’m half convinced their facial expressions are the result of a Filipino hooker being employed under the camera shot. Suffice to say, the song itself (which at the end of the day is the product consumers/fans are buying) is just a jumbled bucket of bilge that isn’t a patch on ballads from the likes of Ultravox. Hell, even Hanson’s MMMM-Bop is an improvement, and I actually preferred the feeling of razor blades on my fingertips to listening to that when it came out!

One of the biggest acts at the moment (according to people who know about these things instead of just slagging them off like I am) is 50 Cent. He’s gone from one-trick pony (guy who survived being shot 9 times) to being a consistent recording artist at the top of the rap tree. I have just one question: why? I know people who’ve had strokes who sound clearer than him! If your jaw is wired shut, you can still produce some clearer sound than that monotone twonk! I do love his video persona though. In every one, he is usually having to cope with the strains of assorted strippers vying for his lock-jawed attentions. Unfortunately, when faced with some gyrating jubblies he tends to sit there like a slightly backward child transfixed by a kaleidoscope. Or, like Sean Kingston faced with an all-you-can-eat cake buffet.

Luckily I can always take solace in the eclectic range on my ipod. It’s amazing just how refreshing some early 90s Madchester dance music, followed by high class Indie music (Inspiral Carpets or Stone Roses anyone?) can be after the platter of X-Factor clones. in fact, I think it’s time to retreat into my own audio Fortress of Solitude, and see what I’ve downloaded this week (from legitimate file-sharing services of course, not mininova or other torrent websites… that would be naughty!). I just wish I could have some decent snacks to eat, instead of Kevin the Gerbil’s leftovers.

I am of course talking about Can Fat Teens Hunt, and the naked boobs I refeered to belonged to the chronically tubby lads taking part in the “weight loss” programme. That’s not to say that there weren’t teen girls on there as well, but given that they were so fat that they actually seemed to have a spare set of breasts hanging down their backs. Very fetching, ladies!

The idea for the show is that teenagers from the UK are too fat because of their crappy diets of pizza, burgers, chips, and congealed fat. Obviously what they need is to be transported to live with a tribe in the Malaysian jungle, to experience the hunter/gatherer lifestyle. They then experience killing their own food before eating it, and actually getting off their monstrously large arses once in a while.

The real enjoyment though comes not from seeing them develop as people and learning new skills (because they don’t manage either). Instead, the highlight is watching these buckets of blubber sweating from the exertion of lifting their flabby arms to pick up rice. In the course of one episode, we saw the highlights of one lad suffering heat exhaustion, while a girl was being treated in hospital for gall stones brought on by dehydration. The dippy orca doesn’t deserve sympathy. One of the reasons she had to be admitted to hospital was she hadn’t had a dump for 9 days!

That’s right, it seems that these teenage tubsters have accepted this offer of a trip around the world to lose weight, but expected proper flushing toilets. When faced with the prospect of having to park their lunch in a hole in the ground, they think it’s worth trying to hold it in for a few weeks. I can understand their reluctance, as I think indoor plumbing is one of the highlights of western civilisation. For that reason, I avoid situations where I may need to have to crap in a ditch. Camping is therefore not my idea of fun, and I would not live with a tribe in the middle of the Asian jungle. Perhaps that just illustrates the real problem with Britain’s youth: they are fucking stupid and will do anything to be on TV without actually thinking it through!

During last night’s show, the lads had the privilege of joining the tribal hunters on a search for frogs. Apparently they are a very good source of protein for relatively low calorific cost (not that these greasers would ever eat anything as unusual). However, despite being told which frogs are nutritious gems, and which ones have highly poisonous skin that will kill you if you touch them, the pasty pastie-lovers always seem to be about to pick up a big handful of death!
Personally I think the show would be better if they went for the full-on Lord of the Flies/Battle Royale experience and just dumped the fat bastards on an island. That way we could really enjoy their suffering, and they would have no choice but to adjust to the harsh necessities of survival… or die! Every now and then, drop a small case of sausage rolls in the middle of a snake-infested jungle, and arm them with weapons ranging from rubber mallets to crossbows. Last sphere standing gets free liposuction or a fatal amount of bacon!

Jamie Oliver, by way of introduction, is a chef. If only that was where it ended, we wouldn’t care and I wouldn’t have a desire to decapitate some tosspott from Essex.

He came to fame after working in the River Cafe, a place I have never been to and expect I will never be able to afford to go to. At this stage, he wasn’t interfering with the television schedules, so my vendetta was non-existent.

However, then came The Naked Chef. This was like most cooking programmes… chef makes food, prepares it, puts it in the oven, then takes out a cooked version that looks great. Unfortunately, they hired a cameraman from NYPD Blue. It was like the poor bastard was was recovering from a drink problem, and had the shakes. How the hell are you meant to see what is going in the pan if it’s jerking all over the screen.

The next problem came with the fact he’d blitz all over London (nipping to his handy local vietnamese shop… we all have those nearby!), on a bloody scooter. Scooter drivers piss me off at the best of times, as they look stupid. Even ones who try to recreate ’60s Mod styles look like twerps, as they tend to be spotty students with scarves. I digress. Oliver’s a spoon.

The BIGGEST irritation though, has got to be the language he used. Gordon Ramsey can get away with calling someone a F*cking moron on TV, and I don’t care. However, just the sound of some little cheeky chappy from Essex describing a chip butty as “pukka” makes me want to throw a mug of coffee through the screen. Nothing is placed in the pan, instead you just “bang” it in.

I am not asking for everyone to speak with refined tones, and crystal clear annunciation. However, if you are a professional cockney (despite being from essex… don’t worry non-brits, it’s a technicality), who happens to be able to cook, stick to writing books and let me watch Dragon’s Den, you git.

Then again, having read his books, he STILL can’t use decent grammar.

It’s not enough, however, for him to fill the screens with his cooking, and produce varying volumes of best-selling books…no, he has to become a bloody champion for an important issue: school lunches for kids.

Without naming any names… not least because I’m not the sort of chap who associates with anyone still in school (m’lud)… kids in the UK are fat. If you throw something at them when you drive past, very few of them are bright or nimble enough to avoid the projectile. And they are so blubbery they make easy targets. try it next time you have some eggs that go off. It’s the original form of recycling.

One of the reasons for the rotund shape of our youth is said to be the shite they eat at school. Instead of fruit, veg, and fresh protein, it’s all processed stuff that hasn’t seen light of day for weeks. From what I remember of my school lunches, I would have chips and some form of pudding (with custard, of course) and do NO exercise at all. I’m not kidding… I was medically banned from doing any strenuous exercise. Bizarley, it was during this time that I moved from being a tubby git, and became… well, normal.

However, in this world where everyone has to blame schools, Government, or anyone else about the fact little Billy can’t fit in the back of a Nissan Micra, Food Crusader Jamie Oliver took it upon himself to change the foods. However, all the complaints had been made in a MUCH better way in Supersize Me. This just made Oliver look like he was jumping on the publicity bandwagon of how we are failing the kiddies.

Anyway… feel free to leave any comments on people YOU think are tossers, and enjoy the sensation of forcing people to think what you think!

Bye for now