Get Me Out of Here!

I’ve always been fat. Fat kid, fat adolescent, fat adult. Admittedly, there have been periods in my life when I’ve been less fat. The ghosts of my slimmer self still possess the image I have of myself in my mind’s eye and shroud the carefully stage managed pose held by my reflection. Only the unexpected glimpse into an ill-angled changing room mirror or shop window, or the unaccustomed viewpoint of a candid photograph can exorcise those terrified spectres and I stare mortified, like a headlight ensnared bunny, at the corpulent truth.


Those same phantoms dress themselves in clothes to suit their svelte selves which, if they can find the right sort of poorly lit, single mirror fitting rooms, they make me buy. These clothes fill my wardrobe - the only use to which they’re employed.

…and then…

…waddling along the road to Damascus (or it could have been Lidl) the other day I had a sudden epiphany. A passer-by offered me a blessing and a clean handkerchief. I accepted both and after I’d cleaned myself off, realised that the bathroom scales had fallen from my eyes. Instead of imagining myself slim, toned and be-muscled, why don’t I become this holy trinity?

But how?

I quickly realised I had to force myself to accept what I really looked like. Also, a target physique should then be sought as the end result. With a certain amount of trepidation I set about the internet to find an image of a suitable, barely clad Adonis on which to pin my aspirations, all the time praying that my wife would not happen upon me mid trawl.

Having found said picture (Daniel Craig walking along a beach in a pair of trunks), I took a shot of myself similarly clad and posed but without the tan, good looks etc. The idea was for a before and after shot and so I had to let it all hang out (in a manner of speaking) to come to terms with what I look like at time of writing this. Not a pretty sight as you can see!

Half an hour of industrious Photoshop later, I had the desired effect. Exhibit A, Your Honour, a grotesque of love handles and moobs, blubber and beer belly, and exhibit B, M’Lord, a portrait of sculpted male perfection, envied by men and desired by women the world over – but with my head so the envy and desire bits should only apply from the neck down.

The next step…

The means to this glorious end will require nothing short of hard work, determination, sweat, self-discipline, sweat, determination, hard work and, let me see…
…oh yes, sweat. More than any of these, however, I’ll need help - but from whom?

The Personal Trainer…

I’ve known Bryan Shelbourne for a little while now through a mutual friend, and being a personal trainer with years of professional sport behind him, who better an artist to sculpt the new me? Without further ado, I got in touch to arrange a meeting.

I shouldn’t really have been surprised when instead of falling of his chair in fits of uncontrollable laughter; Bryan nodded sagely and agreed to put together a structured plan to achieve the transformation.

So here we are on Day 1.  I have the first week's training schedule from Bryan.  It's time to dust off dumbbells and buff up.

One small step...

Watch this space to see if the Fat Man can become the Fit Man. Stay tuned to see if I can get from Blob to Bond…