On becoming a Diet Nazi

On becoming a Diet Nazi

A few weeks ago, urged to clean the bathroom at the end of a long, pointy stick, I made a fatal discovery. The bathroom scales.

Hidden, they were, and for good reason. And the reason is this: my natural curiosity and the resulting scream of "Oh my chuffin' Christ! 13 stone six!"

Only three words could describe me that fateful 1st of June Friday: You fat bastard. And also: "No coach parties, plz. You fat bastard."

And the scales could not lie. I was indeed a fat bastard, the result of a) a lifetime spent parked in front of a computer screen writing mirth, woe and general jollity 23 hours per day, b) pie and c) cake. Cake and pie, mixed with half-pound slabs of Dairy Milk chocolate.

Back in the day, I tipped the scales at a sylph-like and frankly shexxxy 10st 6lb, and I vowed - out loud, sadly, so the whole house could hear me - that I would, by the time summer is out, achieve that weight once again.

Things started well will a case of the galloping squirts that had the weight literally falling out of my bottom, and from then on I haven't looked back. Mostly to avoid the dreadful spattering on the bathroom wall.

Out: Pie
In: Ryvita

Out: Half-pound slabs of chocolate
In: Ryvita

Out: Cake and a pint (or three)
In: Ryvita

Out: Illicit McDonald's blow-outs
In: Ryvita

Out: 24-hour internet wallowing
In: Three mile run to the Ryvita shop

I think you can see a pattern emerging here. Cardboard-flavoured meals are playing a big part of my life at the moment, and the exhaust gasses are solely to blame for the recent bad weather you've all been experiencing. Sorry.

So far, I've only been attacked by the same jogger-hating dog on three separate occasions, and my trousers have only fallen down in the middle of Kensington High Street - revealing thighs and buttocks criss-crossed with claw-marks - the once, in the kind of comedic spackery you've come to expect from me.

Total weight loss = 18 Earth pounds, mostly out of my bottom - either eaten by a Boxer dog called Billy, or the direct route courtesy of an all-Ryvita and fruit diet.

Alas, it has turned me into a Diet Nazi, and I find myself tutting at people in the staff canteen with armfuls of crisps and chocolate bars, and holding up placards outside chip shops urging the sinners huddled inside to repent before it is too late.

You would, if you are anywhere near normal, be best avoiding me for the next couple of months until this thing's out of my system.

But, God, it's working. Such is my new-found strength, stamina and general shexxxy manliness, I will soon be able to catch up with that bastard dog, skin it and eat it raw. I'm bloody starving.