The paperback is out few week, you can buy it here Here is the hardback

Me and Lucy had become Miss Pritt’s favourites. You’re probably wondering how I know that. Well, one night she was having a fancy dress party at her house in Northenden and we were the only ... Read on...]]> Earlier today my old Chemistry teacher (and Duke of Edinburgh leader) sent me a picture from a fancy dress party which I’d written about in my book, it really made me chuckle to see it again and I thought I’d share the excerpt and picture with you.

The paperback is out few week, you can buy it here
Here is the hardback

Me and Lucy had become Miss Pritt’s favourites. You’re probably wondering how I know that. Well, one night she was having a fancy dress party at her house in Northenden and we were the only two kids invited. Why we were invited, I’ll never know. I presume it was our Duke of Edinburgh bonding. But I’m so glad we were.
I’d never been to a fancy dress party before, it wasn’t something we did in our family. I suppose with one uncle dressing as Neil Diamond and another auntie occasionally doing Kate Bush it would have been a bit of a busman’s holiday for our lot. I tell a lie, there had been that one at primary school, when I was about eight and Saffron Buchanan dressed as a Pringles tube. She, or probably her mum, must have been up every night for a week creating this amazing costume. It was bright green and it went from the floor to about six foot in the air. Her face came through the middle like the Pringles man and she had a big thick black ’tache on her face. It looked fantastic, and all the more so because no one else could really be arsed. I went in my uniform as a schoolboy and my mate Rashid put on a pair of ripped jeans and an old oil-soaked jumper and went as a refugee.
For Miss Pritt’s do, though, I decided to make more of an effort. I’d borrowed a Stetson, boots and shirt from my Uncle Dave and went as a cowboy; I looked pretty good. Lucy went as a fairy and looked ace and we spent the night feeling a little awkward in the corner of the garden, drinking Sprite and wondering why the hell we were there. It was fun to people-watch though: Elvis was trying his best to chat up Cruella de Vil and Mr T had just stopped Colonel Sanders falling into the pond.
But there was one character we just couldn’t take our eyes off – a fat guy in a nappy who was becoming increasingly loud and obnoxious by the hour. He’d used fake tan all over his body and had a white bedsheet as a sort of toga. We couldn’t guess what he was at first until Lucy worked out; he’d come as the Tango Man. The advert was massive at the time with kids banned in school from slapping other kids in the face and repeating the accompanying catchphrase: ‘You know when you’ve been Tangoed.’ Apparently someone had done it to Kelly Clayton in Year 10 and popped both her eardrums.
As the night wore on, people were getting drunker and drunker until finally there was an incident involving Indiana Jones trying to feel up Xena Warrior Princess in the downstairs loo. Once the Tango Man, who had some interest himself in Xena, heard about this he was seething.
‘Oi, dickhead, you trying to feel up my misses?’
Me and Lucy looked at each other. This party was about to get started.
Indiana Jones and the Tango Man locked horns, grappling each other to the floor. Two Blues Brothers and a Ghostbuster tried to separate them as the naughty Sandy from Grease called them all bastards. This was turning into one of the best nights of my life.
The Tango Man clocked Indiana on the chin and he went down hard, hitting the floor. The brief shocked silence that followed was swiftly filled when Batman shouted out from the upstairs bathroom window, ‘You know when you’ve been Tangoed.’
Nobody laughed. Well, I say nobody – I pissed myself. Then the Tango Man looked up to the window and said the best sentence anyone has ever said:
‘Tango Man? I’m fucking Gandhi, you daft prick.’
The man who started the huge fight at the fancy dress party had come as Mahatma Gandhi, the world’s most famous pacifist. He was now three sheets to the wind with lager on his breath and blood on his knuckles.
The police arrived and asked us all for a statement. Because me and Lucy didn’t know anyone’s real names, we had to use their characters. I hope somewhere in Wythenshawe police station there’s still a page of a notebook that starts, ‘Well, of course Gandhi started it.’

Here’s the picture, decide for yourself!

So I did the ‘Master Cleanse’ also called the “Lemon Detox’ or the Beyonce Diet (apparently she did it before filming Showgirls ... Read on...]]> Well I did something that a lot of you told me not to, but it’s done now so leave it. I did a detox. I was getting a bit down about only losing a pound a week and then the week after putting it back on, I’ve got a holiday coming up and filming for a sitcom and I just couldn’t bare to see my fat face on those photos or a HD screen in someone’s house.

So I did the ‘Master Cleanse’ also called the “Lemon Detox’ or the Beyonce Diet (apparently she did it before filming Showgirls or sommat, I don’t know do I? I was watching the football and talking about birds n that!). Anyway a mate of mine who is the fittest (as in fitness wise) bloke I know suggested it, and I could see from his physique that it had worked for him. But he was already quite fit to begin with, as was Beyonce (if I remember rightly from all them music videos the wife watches), so would this detox work on me?

Now before we go any further, as I’m telling you all this I must stipulate that at no point am I advising you to do it (I have public liability insurance but I doubt it’d cover this!).

So I’ve finished the detox yesterday after ten days of hell. It’s been an absolute slog I’ll be honest with you, there’s been tears, laughs, tantrums and early nights but by God I got through it. I was only able to do it because my brother did it with me, he moved into the spare room for a week and as he was a couple of pound heavier than me, we managed to spur each other on, how on earth anyone could do this by themselves is beyond me.

So this is how (they say) it works. For ten days you have nothing except water and this strange concoction of warm water, lemon juice, cayen pepper and grade B maple syrup (not the sugar filled stuff you put on pancakes). Anyway this drink, which isn’t unpleasant, is the only thing I’ve had for the last ten days.

The website and accompanying book state that after ten days “some people state they feel energised, with healthy hair and teeth as well as losing weight”. Well, I can’t say I felt particularly energised although I certainly wasn’t knackered, I managed a game of midweek 5-a-side and two games of tennis and and didn’t feel any less energetic (although I’m no McEnroe even on a full tummy). As for the hair and teeth thing well only half of them are mine anyway and my hair, well let’s face it, I’ve always had brilliant hair.

I was obsessed with food though and my tummy did grumble quite a bit those first few days. I don’t know how most people get through a detox but every time I looked at a pizza or some Nutella on a crumpet, I reminded myself that i’d had loads of them in the past and that’s why I was such a fat bastard, I suppose in a weird way the detox was me punishing myself (I knew I should’ve completed that Psychology A level).

The one thing I’ve been in two mids about telling you though is whilst doing all this you take to take some sort of laxative, either in tea form or in a pill. I went with the pill as the tea tastes like it’s been brewed with Billy Oddy’s earwax. These laxative, plus the drink and no solids, well all I can say is it certainly makes playing tennis a more nerve-wracking game. The first two days you can’t be any further than a room away from a toilet and I had to get it into my head that you can never trust a fart! (If you’re squeamish you may want to go to the next paragraph) It certainly feels like it’s clearing something out but it may simply be some sort of organised dysentery I certainly didn’t feel any ill side effects (other than poo essentially pissing out of your arse (sorry). After a few days it starts to ease off as I suppose there’s nowt in there to shift.

I did notice that the opportunity to eat shit food is everywhere, it seemed that every other advert, on every other bus stop was a poster telling me about the new breakfast wrap at McDonalds, or the new burger at KFC. But I managed to stay on track even if all me and my brother talked about was the Pepperoni Double Decadence pizza from Dominoes (my brother even had a Dominoes leaflet in his pocket and would have a look at the picture every so often).

Pictures of food became like porn, we’d google image search for our favourite meals and things that we would eat when we’d finished the detox. I would ask people to describe their meals and even got to a point of smelling a packet of Chocolate buttons at the City match on Saturday. I even began to dream of food, one morning a woke up angry with myself because I’d ruined four days of the detox by eating a full packet of Jammie Dodgers; it took me ten minutes to realise I had dreamt the whole event.

So, onto the results. Well, as you know from previous blogs, on New Year’s Day I was 16 stone 8, the heaviest I’d ever been. I did manage to flirt into the high 15s for a brief while but kept ruining it with a binge fest. I ended up settling, post Christmas on 16 stone 2 and couldn’t seem to get it down (I mean of course I could have over time, but I just couldn’t be arsed). So that was last Friday, over ten days ago. Today I am 14st 12, so it means I’ve lost around 1st 3 in a week and a half. The amazing thing and most important thing is I went from 33% body fat to 28% and my muscle percentage actually went up by 1% (no idea how that happened!). I also lost 3 inches off my tummy, 3 off my waist, 4 inches off my chesticles and an inch from my neck (Never even realised I had a fat neck!).

So that’s that, did it work? Well all I can say is it worked for me, but then I suppose like anyone who essentially starves themselves for ten days, it’s going to isn’t it? The idea of the lemon and the grade b maple syrup is that they give you the very basic nutrients and vitamins you need for a short period of time, but I’m pretty sure your body stores quite a bit of stuff inside you for it to use as well in times like these.

I kind of imagined that previously when I was eating for England, my body was burning what energy it needed and then storing the rest, where as now I wasn’t giving it any fresh energy it was having to use that stored stuff it’d kept for a rainy day.

What it has done though is give me a bit of an eye opener about the amount of food I do eat. About the sorts of food I eat and how often I eat and for what reason. I finished the detox on Monday so Tuesday and today I have been eating a vegetarian diet of mainly fruit. I had Melon for breakfast yesterday and it was the most amazing thing I’d ever put in my mouth (leave it you ‘Carry On’ sorts), for lunch I had a spicy Moroccan Lentil and Tomato soup which was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’d ever eaten, it actually made me happy. That’s what food is supposed to do. Of course it’s there for sustenance but I have never appreciated food like I did when I tucked into that soup, I didn’t want the bowl to end. But I actually got full before I could finish. The first time I’d been been full in over a week; an amazing feeling. And how many of us carry on eating until the plate is empty rather than stopping when we’re no longer hungry?

I’ve still got a long way to go, but I will be thinking much more about what I put in my body as I don’t want to ever go through that again. The good thing about getting under the 15 mark is that if I ever slip upwards again, that’ll be my warning and I can make sure I’m sensible for the next few days.

I’ve not stopped craving the ‘bad stuff’ but it’s made me more weary of it. I personally don’t think there’s any point being alive if you can’t occasionally treat yourself to a load of chocolate or a fat pizza but it’s made me realise that those things had become less for a treat and more of the norm. When I was a kid a McDonalds opened in Cholton and we were never allowed to go. I think we went maybe six times in thirteen years and that was all for other kid’s birthday parties. I remember it being a real treat and I was so excited. Well of course now, there’s four in a short drive from my house as well as all the other unhealthy take aways and eateries. I earn my own money, and can spend it on as many bad meals as I like. I do my own shopping so there’s nobody to stop you going overboard with chocolates and sweets and I’ve a busy lifestyle so can easily make excuses about not going to the gym. How many of us have got a cupboard with crisps and biscuits in because “well it’s for the kids innit”?

I’m hoping now, as I tuck into this vegetable stir fry, I’ll be more sensible and eat a much more balanced diet. I think a detox or any weigh loss can easily result in piling it back on once you start eating again, but if I start well then it shouldn’t I suppose.

As for take aways, well every fortnight on a Friday, lock up your pizza dough and fried chicken, because I’ll be there!

It was drastic and I imagine if you did it for any longer or more often, it could even be dangerous but in the words of Ben Goldacre:

“So does detox work? If it helps us realise that having a healthy lifestyle all the time is an attainable goal, then yes. But if it makes us think healthy living is like purgatory, something to be ventured into very occasionally, and with much trepidation and forward planning, then the answer is clearly no.”

So for me, I’d say yes, it kinda did.

Well what a week it’s been. Have lost five pounds and to be honest was a bit gutted it wasn’t more, but then after thinking about my week I started to realise why, in a kind of “No way, but I drank all that fruit juice, oh yeah, I went to McDonalds that night, shit!”

So last Saturday was the day I finally got the juicer out of the box and bloody hell I’m glad I did; it’s awesome. I’ve been drinking the freshest orange juice imaginable and it’s just made me think “what the hell is ... Read on...]]> Day 28

Well what a week it’s been. Have lost five pounds and to be honest was a bit gutted it wasn’t more, but then after thinking about my week I started to realise why, in a kind of “No way, but I drank all that fruit juice, oh yeah, I went to McDonalds that night, shit!”

So last Saturday was the day I finally got the juicer out of the box and bloody hell I’m glad I did; it’s awesome. I’ve been drinking the freshest orange juice imaginable and it’s just made me think “what the hell is wrong with that stuff from the shops?”. It’s a bit of a ball ache peeling all the fruit, and cleaning it afterwards is a right bastard but it’s kinda therapeutic and my personal trainer Dave suggested using the left over pulp to bake some wholemeal cakes. Don’t do this. It is rank.

We spent the day at home, just the five of us, which was lovely. It’s nice to get a quiet day as we’ve one of those open door policies in our house (as in family and friends, don’t think cos we’re mates on facebook you can just turn up as I’ve a conveniently positioned panic alarm near the door). We played hard all day, and the girls were exhausted and exhausting, by 3pm I was flaked out, dozing on the couch, ‘Finding Nemo’ played to no one on the telly, and three babies and a wife were using my body as a pillow (sometimes it is helpful being fat).

When we woke we decided an energetic walk to the shops would wake us all up and we could pop into the cafe there and have a cup of tea (where it says ‘a cup of tea’ please read ‘a fuck off hot chocolate’!).

Packing stuff to get our brood out of the house is like packing for war. We’re only going round the corner but we could easily stay for three days without needing to buy more wet wipes. they say that a brisk walk is the best walk for fitness but try walking with kids, you walk the actual distance you’re aiming to travel, plus you have to walk back several metres every so often because “Daddy, look, there’s a ladybird on a leaf”.

We got to the cafe and all had hot chocolates, but I had to go the extra yard and have it full of whipped cream and marshmallows too, rendering the calorie burning walk annulled.

That night we ate chicken satay which I made myself from the Weightwatchers cook book I got off Ebay about three years ago and it was pretty tasty. We got the kids to bed, started watching a film in bed and was asleep before the first actor spoke their first line. I bloody love an early night sometimes.

Day 29

I spent the morning peeling more oranges for my juicer and throwing in some already peeled fresh pineapple (Thank you, the man from Del Monte, I also say “yes”). I got the girls to help me juice the fruit and they seem to enjoy drinking it a lot more too, not that I was forcing it down them in the first place but it’s so true that if you include your kids in the making of food they are more inclined to eat it. Saying that, I tried it later on when chopping broccoli and when I tried to get them to eat it they looked at me like I was trying to feed them cat shit.

I had a game of tennis booked for the evening so we decided to take the girls swimming first, then get them changed into their pyjamas at the gym. It worked a bloody treat and knackered them out before bed. I even got the play a few games of tennis while they watched and ate a banana before waving them off and finishing my game with some pals. My blisters from the NTAs (read previous blogs) were killing me so that’s why I got beat yeah?

Day 30

Monday. New week. New start. That’s the rules isn’t it? For what feels like forever, my wife has been nagging me to empty my wardrobe and clear some space as I have clothes I received at Christmas which have no hanging home because a ‘shirt that doesn’t fit me but bloody well will again one day’ is in it’s space. The wardrobe is huge and my clothes are so tightly packed in, I can’t even get enough space between items to see what they are.

So I started; first by pairing my trousers and jackets back together to once again become suits, and then heading for the shirts. As some of you will know I love a flowery patterned shirt, or just a shirt that you don’t see every day. I started wearing these shirts when I was on the club circuit nearly a decade ago after a few too many times finding myself on stage in the exact same shirt-from-Burtons as four blokes in the audience. Suffice to say that very rarely happens now (unless Noel Edmunds is sat watching of course).

The pile started to form pretty quickly and was soon really high on my bedroom floor. I still struggled to throw out some ill fitting shirts that I could have sworn fitted me but must’ve been shrunk in the wash! There were shirts that I’d not seen for years and it’s quite depressing that even the shirt I’m wearing in my profile picture on Facebook won’t even fasten up anymore, the button can’t even see the hole. There are quite a lot of shirts I’d never even worn, some still with their labels attached. On various tv shows they’ll buy you ten shirts for six episodes and then at the end of the series they very occasionally let you take them home, so there are even shirts hanging up that I didn’t choose.

I was left with about eight magnificent shirts and a couple pairs of jeans (could have sworn I was a 34 waist!). I let me brother and Dad have a sift through the remaining clothes to see if they wanted anything (brother took some ‘hilarious’ t shirts, Dad took my City stuff) and then popped the rest of the clothes in my boot to take to the Wellspring centre which is a homeless charity in Stockport. My Dad said I should just take the coats and jeans as not even a bloke with no home would wear one of my shirts. As if there’s gonna be some homeless bloke sat outside McDonalds in one of my floral pattern shirts thinking “Oh great, now not only do I not have a home, a family or a job, but now I look like a complete nobhead as well”. Saying that, I am looking forward to the homeless of Stockport walking round town dressed like Alfie Moon.

While I was in the cleaning and sorting mode I cleared the basement of stuff that we never ever use, mainly baby stuff and an old punch bag that has been hit less than Ghandi. I put the punchbag in my office next to the swiss ball and the exercise bike/clothes horse, and promised myself that I would start using them more often.

Day 31

Managed to eat really healthy all day with fresh fruit juice for my breakfast and a tuna salad for lunch. In the afternoon I became so busy, driving all over the place sorting a few things out, that I completely forgot to eat my tea. By the time it reached 6.30 I had to leave to get to a charity gig in Manchester at the Royal Exchange with my mate Justin Moorhouse who is doing a play there.

I had managed to get myself on in the first half so John Bishop had to close (heehee), but only so I could get to my Dad’s and watch the second half of the Everton City match, I think that’s pretty reasonable.

Backstage I was starving as I’d not eaten since midday, and as Sod’s law would have it, the only thing on offer were a packet of Millie’s Cookies. I thought to myself, I’ll just have one, but you can’t only have one Millie’s cookie, so I ate all four of them. I can only presume that Millie is lacing her cookies with crack cocaine.

The gig went well, although the theatre is in the round, so there’s audience on all sides. Quite an odd sensation to be forever turning round to make sure you face everyone as often as possible. At one point towards the end of my set, with my hungry belly growling for more Millie’s crack cookies and my head spinning from the constant twirling, I couldn’t work out which way I’d come on and which way to go as it all looked identical, every door the same as the one either side. I was half expecting to see David Bowie in his Labyrinth costume but luckily it was just Justin and John stood on the exit. Phew.

I got to my mum and dad’s house just as the second half had started and went and made a brew. Whilst making a brew I thought I may as well grab a couple of biscuits too (as if four cookies weren’t enough!). I thought I’d go with something sensible and not too fattening like the Rich Tea or the Hobnob, but then I spotted the chocolate digestives. I ate about five whilst making my brew; then grabbed two to take in to the living room with me. As if to trick the people in there into thinking that I was being sensible and only having a couple of biscuits when in actual fact I’d devoured a third of the packet and wiped my chocolatey lips before sitting down.

Day 32

I had to travel to London for a second audition for something so was up nice and early with the kids for breakfast. I’ve been trying to have fruit juice and porridge most days but have found that the juice is so filling, that’s all I need. The only problem is it’s only filling for a bit and by the time I was on the train and the food guy was handing out sausage buttys I was hungry and weak-willed.

I got the tube to Croydon rather than a taxi. London is the only place in the country where I’d consider their public transport system rather than a taxi. The tube is pretty awesome, although after a couple of hours down there and you’re snot has turned black, I can see how it could be an unattractive option on a hot day.

A very peculiar thing happened on the tube though. A man got on with a guitar and every single person’s heart and face visibly dropped. I thought he must be a musical beggar but he reassured us that he wasn’t. He said he just wanted to play some music on the train and if we wanted a particular song he would only charge 50p. Well I thought it seemed a little expensive being as you can download the original on itunes for 69p but then of course there’s no wifi on the London underground.

He launched into some Bob Marley which was passable and a few numbers by the Doors. He was pretty good and I found my foot tapping along on what is usually quite a boring journey. When I took my eyes off this musician working his bollocks off, every single commuter was staring at their own feet or reading the free paper, not one person was even smiling. I couldn’t quite believe it, here was this guy giving us a bit of decent musical accompaniment and the people of the Northern Line would rather have nothing.

When I asked if he knew any Lionel Ritchie, the bloke next to me actually muttered “for fucks sake” under his breath. I thought ‘right then you miserable bastard’, slag me off, slag this busker, but don’t you dare have a go at the Ritchie. I stood up, as my stop was the next one and asked the busker

“How much is it per song” I asked
“50p per request mate” he replied
I reached into my wallet and handed him a tenner.
“Oh that’s too much” he protested.
“Don’t worry about it” I smiled “That should get me twenty songs shouldn’t it”
“yes guv” he might’ve said (I may have added ‘guv’)
“Well go for it and cheer these misery arses up”.

I gave him the tenner and got off the tube, chuckling to myself as a guitar version of ‘Three Times a Lady’ faded in the background.

After a successful audition and a less interesting journey back to Euston, I found myself with twenty minutes to spare and my stomach was groaning for some grub. Of course Euston has a Nandos and I woke up at the front of the queue about to place my order. I’ve completely convinced myself that getting a double chicken breast wrap is the healthiest option around, and compared to the other things on offer; Burger King, Krispy Kreme and Ed’s Diner, I reckon I’m right.

I got home and headed straight out to Sheffield where I was singing a Les Miserable song with Alfie Boe on his tour. I even got to meet Claude Michel Shonberg, the man who wrote the music for Les Mis and had a little chat with him backstage; very special moment for me.

Day 33

My agent rang me and said the two words that send chills down the spine of any overweight unfit comedian; Sport Relief. They were checking my availability on a challenge and to see if I’d be up to doing it. I can’t tell you the full details but suffice to say it was well hard, and well beyond any reasonable expectation of a full time sports person’s ability, never mind a chubby part timer like me. Anyway, I still said ‘yes’. You can’t turn down Comic Relief, they’re like the mafia of the entertainment world but instead of threats of violence they’re full of polite reassurance and confidence boosting compliments. The conversations usually go something like this

“Jason, could you crawl round the World on your knees and elbows for Sport Relief please?”
“I don’t think I could do that I’m afraid”
“Oh ok, we all think you’d be great at it”
“No, really I’d be terrible, I’d probably die trying”
“Oh ok….(long pause) Lenny and Richard both said you’ve got just the right personality and popularity to pull this off”
“Lenny and Richard?”
“Yes Lenny Henry and Richard Curtis”
“Oh, wow, well erm, that’s really nice of them to think that but I really…”
“Well they’re both huge fans of your work”
“Oh wow, I can’t believe they even know who i am”
“Oh yes, so Richard will ring you later and chat through all the details of the elbow/knee world crawl, okay?”
“Oh ok, bye”

Before you know it, you’re knee deep in shit with arms worn down to the nub as you pull your way through a market place in Kabul with your chin, a camera man whizzing round you and your ears ringing with a Davina McCall voiceover.

For the past few years I’ve had a few ideas of what I’d like to do for Sport Relief after I played in a charity football match at Old Trafford once. That was great fun, I got tackled by Jaap Stam and sometimes when I’m really still at night, lying in the dark I can still hear him chasing after me like a Lion gaining on a tired overweight Wildebeest. I’d definitely do the football again, or maybe some sort of 24 hour tennis challenge; that could be fun, but what they were proposing for me to do this year was well out of my comfort zone.

Still my agent said it wasn’t for definite as they were waiting to hear back from a few other people first (more famous I imagine) and they’d let me know later on in the day.

I was nervous but excited, I thought, ‘this is exactly what I need to get my fitness back on track, a real life risking challenge that if I wasn’t a stone lighter for, I’d perish. I rang Dave the trainer who said it’d be no problem leaning me up, but I’d have to train every day and sometimes twice a day for the next month to be even nearly fit enough to do the challenge. I sat in the kitchen just staring at the wall, scared but exhilarated that I was about to challenge myself beyond anything I’d ever imagined before.

Moments later as I was tucking into a Rolo yoghurt the phone went again, it was my agent. She said the nine greatest words I’ve ever heard

“Don’t worry about it, they’ve gone with Freddie Flintoff.”

I finished my yoghurt with a proud flourish; I’d not turned it down, I’d taken it full on, I was going to do it, I was going to train like a demon but thankfully they’d got an actual sportsman to do it instead and for that I could only be thankful.

“They want you to teach some sports stars to be comedians instead”

Now that I can do, and in the comfort of a nice warm studio; luxury.

Day 34

I was up at the crack of a sparrow’s fart with the kids so had a great breakfast of fruit and porridge and then went back to bed for an hour or three. I hate that midmorning sleep because it really eats into your day and you have the maddest dreams, but as I was supposed to be singing with Alfie Boe again that night with my wife, I thought I better get the rest for the drive up to Preston.

I played tennis again in the afternoon (yes, twice in a week, get me) and got completely hammered by a guy twice my age.

That evening my wife took far too long getting ready as usual so we didn’t manage to grab anything to eat and of course you know the only thing available on a rushed journey don’t you? Yes. McDonalds. If someone came up with a drive through where you could get a bit of grilled fish or a chicken and veg skewer, they’d make a killing. Well, no they wouldn’t would they? We wouldn’t bother our fat arses.

My Mum was babysitting and systematically sent us pictures of the girls getting ready for bed which is very cute but also roughly the same tactics a kidnapper uses. The gig was great fun (you can see the video of me singing on youtube) and my wife was sensational as usual. We got home late, had a brew with my mum and I annoyingly delved back into the biscuit barrel. Well annoyed with myself. Mainly because when I have that sugar rush before I go to bed, I wake up feeling worse in the morning. Also I had read an article that confirmed my belief that sugar is as addictive as class A drugs; some scientists have discovered that sugar stimulates the same neural pathways in the brain as heroin! I bloody knew it. So next time you tuck into a Banoffee slice, you’re no better than a street junkie.

Day 35

Saturday was a busy day with the kids, mainly playing obviously but I’m really getting upset with myself that I’m struggling to bend down properly or I can’t pick them up and swing them around as often as I’d like because I’m so unfit. The worst words a kid learns is “Why” and “Again”.

During my lunch of chicken salad and a glass of water, Alfie Boe rang me and asked if I wanted to come up to Gateshead to join him for his last tour date before he jets back off to America for a few months. I’ve grown quite close to him over the last year so thought it’d be a top night to spend an evening with the man himself and all his crew after they’d let me join in such a delightful couple of shows.

The weather was bad and I was unsure whether to risk it or not, but I thought as long as I drove safely I’d be alright. I grabbed my suit and shoes, a packed lunch of Ham and tomatoes, and a flask of soup, kissed everyone goodbye and set about on my way up to the North East. The news said ‘not to travel unless strictly necessary” but like every other driver on the road, i presumed that message was for someone else. Who on earth is driving unnecessarily?

“I’m just popping to Aberdeen love” “Why?” “I just wanna see what their Tescos looks like”.

I reversed out of my driveway onto a slippery street, my flask of hot soup was rocking around the passenger footwell and the football was starting on the radio. I tentatively set out on my journey.

As I hit the M60 motorway I wasn’t sure if the road had been gritted or not, so I decided to err on the side of caution and stay in the first lane, but after a couple of miles it seemed that most of the snow was still falling and the ground wasn’t too bad, although utterly freezing. I hit the middle lane and got up to about 50mph, this seemed to be the speed most people were gambling on. After another mile or so I hit the third lane and put the car into cruise control at about 60mph, listening to Man City about to kick off on the radio my brother rang me with his usual pre match analysis.

“Should be an easy one today” he said (on the car’s bluetooth I might add)
“Yeah, reckon so, have you not gone then?”
“Nah’ he replied “Car’s stuck on the driveway and the road has frozen over”
“No way, i’m on the motorway and it’s not that bad” I said
“You must be mad driving in this weather, too dangerous for me”
“Well, I’ve done ‘Star in a reasonably priced car’ so I have no fear anymore”

We said out goodbyes and I carried on listening to the football.

Up ahead I could see that the first and third lane were white with snow so decided the safest option was to slow down and stay in the middle lane, at least till I was on the M62 which the news had said was a little clearer.

I had a look round, saw there were no cars near me and turned the steering wheel left so I could get to the safety of the middle lane; but the car carried on going straight. My stomach lurched and my eyes widened in panic. I gently pressed the breaks but the car didn’t slow down, I had hit a patch of black ice and the car wasn’t doing what it was told.

The black ice must have ended suddenly, as the car, with it’s wheels facing to the left, jerked and shuck, the back end swung out towards the central reservation and I suddenly found myself side on from the traffic, I looked out of the passenger window and through the falling snowflakes saw the bright lights of other vehicles; all of a sudden they looked like they were going terribly fast.

For a moment my life flashed before my eyes, but that was mainly because a copy of my autobiography had been on the passenger seat! The world slowed down and my brain kind of kicked into gear. My foot was rigid on the break as my car was slowing down but I thought ‘if I stop here, something is going to hit me”. The car was still spinning and slipping and all of a sudden, moments from death I heard a calm reassuring voice.

“Use the accelerator to control the car, focus on where you want the car to be and not what you’re trying to avoid”

It was the voice, of the Stig. A few weeks before Christmas I’d done a Top Gear live event and had been the ‘star’ in their reasonably priced car. I’d had a few practise laps with the Stig and a few of his pearls of wisdom had sunk in.

I looked down the motorway and saw two lorries no more than 500 feet away. My car had slowed right down and I was in danger of stopping right in their path, and in this terrible weather and fading daylight, there was no way they could stop in time. I only had one option, I lifted my head and saw the grass verge off the hard shoulder, I’d have to head for there and get out of the danger zone. I put my foot on the accelerator and flew across the remaining motorway, over the hard shoulder and up the verge; my car resting at a 45 degree angle on top of some baby trees. My body relaxed and the back of my head hit the headrest in relief.

A car stopped and the occupants got out and came over to check I was alright. I gave the most British of answers “I’m fine thank you”. I’d just crashed my car in the snow, nearly been hit by a lorry and only the wise words of The Stig had saved me, but rather than voice any of that, I stiffened my upper lip and told them to carry on with their journey.

“Do you need us to ring anyone?” they enquired
“No, don’t worry I’ll call whoever it is you call in these situations” I replied
“Oh ok. Hey, are you Jason Manford?”
“Erm, yeah, that’s me”
“Oh man big fan of your work, not your driving obviously, but your stand up”
“Righto, thank you”

What a weird moment to be reminded of your occupation. What’s really weird is I’m at a stage of my career where some people know me but the majority don’t. When I’m out and about I’d say about 1 in 40 people let on and recognise me and only about 1 in 200 actually say hi or do anything about it. Compare this to someone like Peter Kay or even Jimmy Carr where if it’s not every person it’s every other.

I got out of the car, had a look round at the battered bumper and the cracked front wheel. I looked round my unconventional parking space and froze, not from coldness but from shock; the car had rested itself less than a metre from a huge lamppost, what a different story that would have been, you’d be reading about this in the newspaper in third person.

Another couple got out and said I could wait in their car to make any phone calls I needed to make. My head was done in, trying to work out who to call. I rang the road side assistance first and the lad was reasonably bright, finding my car on the M60 and then asking for details.

“What’s you surname sir?”
“Manford” “Oh like the comedian?”
“Yeah, exactly like him in fact”
“Oh wow, no way”

That’s two for two now. The couple who were letting me warm up in their car were delightful and chatty and I felt comfortable in their company. At first I thought they’d not recognised me until the chap driving asked me with a smile “were you on the way to a gig?”.

The highways agency pulled up behind us and asked me a few questions, before telling the couple that they had to move on. Apparently you’re not allowed to sit in a vehicle on the hard shoulder in case another car loses control and with pinpoint accuracy hits the exact spot you’re parked in, on one of the 2200 miles of motorway we have in the UK. It’s dangerous, by all accounts, so instead you have to stand on the verge (like the one i just crashed into) so you’ve got a fighting chance of getting out of the way of an oncoming vehicle across the icy floor and snow filled mound. I’ll be honest with you I’d like to have the comforting protection of metal around me rather than count on my Puma-like agility to get out of the way of a speeding Eddie Stobart, but hey, that’s just me.

So me and the two highways agency guys waved off my Good Samaritans in their warm, safe car and stood in the exposing -10 coldness of the M60 hard shoulder, I’d never felt safer.

The breakdown people were taking their time so I decided to crack open my flask and devour my red hot spicy tomato and roasted paprika soup (I’ve no idea how you roast paprika!). It was delicious and reasonably healthy, but right now I wasn’t thinking of calories, I was trying to keep warm and trying to not think what my next insurance quote was going to be sans No Claims!

“Was you on the way to a gig?” the highway agency man asked.
“Kind of yeah, don’t think I’ll make it now” I said.
“I don’t think so no”.

We were having a great time. Then the second highway man turned to me.

“While we wait do you mind if I get a picture, my daughter’s a huge fan”
“Erm yeah of course” I shivvered.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever had a photo taken minutes after you dodged death in sub freezing conditions and in front of your pride and joy of a car which is now positioned like a drunk driver has parked Herbie, but it’s very hard to muster up a smile. But smile I did, ‘cos I’m a bloody pro!

I texted Alfie to tell him that I’d crashed my car and that I’d be sending him the bill to get a new one. He replied “I used to be a panel beater so let me have a look at it first mate” which made me chuckle.

My brother came to pick me up and we waved off the Highway men and waited in the car for the breakdown guy (sod the rules, I’d rather take my chance with a clumsy driver than hypothermia). As the breakdown fella arrived, I was telling my brother with incredulousness about how every person I’d spoke to had recognised me, when usually it’s a much less frequent event. The burly breakdown man approached, his face in a frown either due to the cold or to a more generic misery; he took my keys from my hand. Looking up at my face. He smiled.

“I suspect you’ll be putting this in your act right enough?” he chuckled.

I smiled through gritted teeth and even grittier weather. Oh yeah, I thought, course I will.

“Good evening Apollo, how are you? I tell you what I hate, right, you know when you lose control of your £40,000 car and nearly die yeah? You know that feeling of your life flashing before your eyes and the brief thought that you might never see your family and children again? Well what’s all that about ay?”

I rang my wife and told her what had happened, she was on her first night out in ages with her pals and I didn’t want to spoil it so I underplayed the situation and told her to not let it ruin her night. It’s always hard telling people via phone that you’ve been in an accident as they’ve not got the visual to see you’re alright. So you don’t want them to worry, but you do want them to be concerned for your safety as you’re feeling vulnerable. It’s not the time for jokes either “Well the good news is, the airbags work!”. But the you don’t want to be melodramatic either.

She was suitably upset but not too much that she was gonna come home, which was exactly right. She said “Well make sure you get something sweet inside you to make you feel better”. My brother suggested a chocolate dildo, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what my wife was suggesting. In the end we went to TGI Fridays and had a ‘slap up meal’ (as they used to call it in the Dandy). I had chicken wings in Jack Daniels sauce as a starter, then a steak/chicken/shrimp combo for my main, and I didn’t get a pudding which, as you know, is pretty unusual for me. It made me feel better anyway, and sometimes some things are more important than watching what you eat. You’ve gotta live a little. I’d have hated my last meal to have been a Chicken salad and a bit of soup.

So I’ve stopped weighing myself quite as obsessively and I’m eating fairly healthily as long as the bad food isn’t put in front of me on a, well, plate I suppose. That’s where I keep coming back to the theory that giving up sugary and carb heavy foods is as hard, if not harder than giving up crack or smoking. Maybe they should do a bread patch, we can start going to bed at night with a crumpet stuck to our biceps.

Day 21

On Saturday we went to meet my wife’s sister and ... Read on...]]> Day 21 – Day 27

So I’ve stopped weighing myself quite as obsessively and I’m eating fairly healthily as long as the bad food isn’t put in front of me on a, well, plate I suppose. That’s where I keep coming back to the theory that giving up sugary and carb heavy foods is as hard, if not harder than giving up crack or smoking. Maybe they should do a bread patch, we can start going to bed at night with a crumpet stuck to our biceps.

Day 21

On Saturday we went to meet my wife’s sister and her husband in Buxton for the afternoon on the what must have been the windiest day of the year so far. At one point the kids couldn’t walk against the wind as it was so strong, it was a really surreal thing to see these twin girls just stuck on the pavement not able to move forward. Annoyingly my wife had organised it so we met at Pizza Express. Now don’t get me wrong, I like a bit of pizza express but I’m trying to eat healthy and these sort of thoughtless shenanigans are not helping. To be fair the food selection at Pizza Express is pretty good and I opted for a anti-pasti starter (which could of done with more meat and less cheese and foliage for my liking) and a warm chicken salad which was yummy. I always find it odd at Pizza Express that they give you a pizza without slicing it on a plate that is exactly the same size as the pizza so it makes it really difficult to eat; I mean, they’ve seen the pizza cutter, treat yourself man.

For dessert I went with a fat free frozen yoghurt with berries which to be fair was nicer than the ‘fat free’ bit suggests (I always think fat free = taste free). The only problem was I was eating whilst watching my sister tucking into hot dough balls with Nutella so I had to nick a few off her plate (I think the rule is you don’t put any weight on as long as you didn’t order the dish yourself, so I also had a bite of my wife’s banoffee pie!)

Day 22

Sunday was a relatively good day, after a good start of eggs and kippers (I know, fish for breakfast, world’s gone mad) I set out to the football with my Dad and brothers. My youngest brother Niall always gets chips and a burger at half time and as he’d brought a little friend from school with him, I ended up queuing at half time for two lots. Whilst in the queue I found myself staring (and salivating) at the recently improved half time menu at the Etihad stadium; a Hot Dog using sausages from Dingly Dangly Farm (surely a made up place), Aberdeen Angus beef for the burgers and the legendary Chicken Balti Pie (surely the greatest example of East meets West in the world). My brother Colin then asked for a pie and a pint and suddenly I was at the front of the queue ordering (and bloody paying) for everyone’s food. I mean you wouldn’t do that to a recovering alcoholic would you? “Eh Dave, I know you’ve not drank for five months but could you pop in that pub and get us three pints?”.

I ordered two cheeseburgers with chips and a drink for the youngsters and a pie and a pint for my brother; guess how much? Go on, have a guess? You will not believe it. £29.40! People think it’s the Sheikh who is funding all these players, it’s bloody not; a season’s worth of burgers and chips for everyone and we’ll be able to afford Lionel Messi!

I was so tempted to get something myself, the Dairy Milk was staring at me, so were the cans of Coke, but I ordered a bottle of water and was done with it. Me and Niall always do the same little gag when we’re ordering, the person behind the counter will ask “would you like a drink?” And then, even though he’s 12, Niall will say “pint of Carling please” and then I finish it with, “make that two” then we’ll just stand there stoney faced like it’s the most normal thing in the world until they splutter a response telling us we’re not allowed. Anyway, it makes us laugh.

Although I did hear something while I was there that made me chuckle. The woman in front of us in the queue asked if something contained nuts and the the assistant said “Hang on, I’ll just ask the chef”. The chef? I mean, come on, I don’t bleeding think so. I don’t think you need to employ a chef to fry some chips and warm up a cheese and onion pie in the microwave, I mean he’s hardly Jamie Oliver is he.

I dropped my Dad and brother off in Didsbury as they were having a full day drinking session and I went home to play with the kids for a few hours before I went to play tennis at the local gym (expertly missing bath time but making it home for the bedtime story, perfect!).

Day 23

Now Monday was an odd day food wise because I had all three main meals at restaurants which is previously unheard of in my lifetime thus far. In the morning I went for a business meeting at the Lowry hotel with the other partners from my comedy club in Chester, the Laugh Inn, to discuss future plans for the venue. One of the other guy was paying so I had Eggs Benedict (that’s the one with the salmon) which is quite healthy if you don’t eat the sauce and the White muffin underneath (which I did of course). For lunch I took my Mum and Dad out to the Red Lion up the a6 who do gorgeous British meals all through the day. I ordered the corned beef hash starter (which is my favourite meal) and then fish for my main, so I reckon I did quite well really. Well, until I had the orange and chocolate bread and butter pudding for afters, so tasty but nowhere near good for you!

That night me and the wife went to watch my mate Justin in the first night of the play ‘Two’ at the Royal Exchange, it was brill and we had a great night. I stuck to water and didn’t eat any ice cream at the interval (£3 for four mouthfuls is not a tasty bargain!). After the show we drove home and I felt really peckish, I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and it was now after 11pm. I wasn’t going to mention anything but as soon as my wife asked if we should go for something to eat I replied “yes” before she’d even finished the question!

As it was Chinese New Year we figured that heading to China Town was the best option. As we had never been before and didn’t know which was the best place to eat we did that thing that English people do when choosing a foreign restaurant which is to look through the window and see if any of the people eating in there are of the same nationality as the restaurant.

“Right there’s two Chinese people eating in here so it must be good” (not at all taking into account that they could live three doors down from us and have also never been to Manchester’s Chinatown!).

We ate really late; loads of prawn crackers, crispy duck, chicken and cashew nuts and spicy beef. It was lovely and I suppose the only health bonus you can say about eating a Chinese (or an Indian for that matter) is that they’re rubbish at desserts so you never bother (as my Dad always says “2 billion people and not one of the can knock up a decent pudding!).

Day 24

On Tuesday morning we went to ‘Toddler sensory’ which my wife and kids love. I was, as usual, the only Dad there but nevertheless enjoyed having a mess about with the girls and watching them play manically with other children. My wife has always taken the kids to as many of these classes as she could; Rhythm time, baby ballet, baby massage (Why on earth a baby needs a massage I’ll never know, I mean what on earth have they got to be stressed about “can you just get rid of that knot in my shoulder there love, hurt it this morning chewing on a Rusk”).

The only thing that kind of ruined my time a little bit was that when I was sat down on the floor, I was struggling to not slouch and my legs were getting really achy from bouncing my daughter on my knee. I just felt like such a fatty trying to play with my own kids. At one point during a particularly energetic version of ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes (Knees and Toes) I thought I was going to pass out. Everyone else was laughing and singing away, I looked like I’d done a two hour Zumba class!

On Wednesday I had the pleasure of an invite to the National Television Awards at the o2 in London. I had a quick appointment at the physio for my ankle and then shot off to get the train down to London. I was texting around a few people to see who was going and read the following message off Peter Andre “Alright mate, yeah I’ll be at the NTAs, my stylist has just been to dress me so I’m feeling pretty sharp haha xx”. It’s times like these that I realise I’m not showbiz at all. Peter Andre had a stylist to dress him where as I had to get changed in the bogs of a Virgin Train somewhere outside of Milton Keynes.

The traffic in London was shocking. It actually took me longer to get from Euston to the o2 than it did to get from Stockport to London, how on earth they’re going to get through the Olympics this summer is beyond me. It took me a bit longer as the shoes I had on were really tight and from the short walk from the train toilet to the taxi, I had two huge blisters on the back of my ankles. I was walking very gingerly and had to do another text round to see if anyone at the awards had any plasters.

I arrived shortly after 7pm and saw the red carpet up ahead. I have never been on a red carpet and my aim is to keep it that way, but especially as I’d have had to do it bare footed or walking like I’d followed through on a fart. I got to the start of the carpet and asked a member of the crew if there was a back way in, it was longer but it meant I managed to get in without having to speak to anyone.

I got up to the box that ITV had invited me to and grabbed some plasters off one of the girls already in there, then headed to the loo to sort myself out. Whilst viewers at home were watching Ant and Dec’s opening number with Bruce Forsyth, I was sat on a loo in agony; socks off trying to put plasters over my cut up feet. Like I said, showbiz!

When I got into the box there was a lovely looking untouched buffet to my left whilst everyone else was watching the show. Again I’d not eaten since midday and was starving so casually asked the head of ITV ‘is this buffet waiting for something?”.

“No”, he replied and I tucked in to quesadillas, hot dogs, spicy wedges and salmon bagels. Seconds after I’d broken the buffet embargo, it was swamped with famous folk stuffing their well known faces; what can I say, I’m a trend-setter.

The night was fun enough and I gave rounds of applause to all my pals, McIntyre won an award for his roadshow (which technically, as I appeared on an episode means I was a winner too, I mean he’s like the foreman, but it’s the other comics that are building the wall!). Jonathan Ross won a much deserved achievement award and Ant and Dec won an award which should basically be renamed ‘the Ant and Dec award’.

At one point one of the lads from the Inbetweeners (I think it was the briefcase wanker one) got stuck in traffic in the Blackwall Tunnel and so had to ring to say he wasn’t going to be on time to give out the award. A high level exec came flying round the boxes asking if anyone could do it. I would’ve put my hand up but I had taken my shoes off, loosened my belt to fit more food in and had a mouth full of chocolate dipped strawberry, so I kept my head down and Russell Kane had to do it.

The last award was for the soaps I think and as Corrie won I decided to be a patriotic northerner and stand right at the front of box and cheer and woohoo very loudly. I looked down into the crowd and three or four fairly attractive 20 year old girls were shouting “Jason, Jason, Jason”. I tried to ignore then at first but my male ego got the better of me and I waved back, slightly embarrassed. They kept shouting “Jason, come here, come here”. I was in a box above them so couldn’t have gone there even if I wanted too but I walked to the front of the box to say hi; I mean who am I to deny my ever loving public!

“Hi ladies” I said “Hope you’ve had a good night” then I went to walk back up to the buffet.
“Jason, Jason, Jason” they continued.

“Yes” I replied wearily, with a sigh as if to say, ‘when will these women stop cheering my name’.

“Get Peter Andre” they shouted back.

They weren’t after me at all, they were just using me to get to Mr Insania himself! I was merely a gateway celebrity. I of course, went and got Peter for them.

Then my favourite bit of the night happened. A bloke did something that I hope if I was in similar circumstances I’d do the same. It had been a long night of celebrations, it must have took the crowd a decent amount of time to get there and the food prices are of Etihad stadium proportion (yet not from Dingly Dangly farm). This bloke looked up at the box, caught my eye and shouted “Eh Jase, any left over posh food up there mate?”

I ended up lowering a few plates of salmon sandwiches to the hungry masses trying not to get spotted by security; fish and loaves for the common man, some might say I was the Jesus if the NTAs, but I wouldn’t dare be so bold.

Day 26

Thursday went well food wise as I was so busy I managed to fill myself up with breakfast at the hotel. Hotel breakfasts are the only place you will have cereal and then a full English. You would never do that at home. I had steak and eggs and an apple juice and then managed to get right through till teatime as I had a couple of auditions and a meeting or two about stuff.

My mate Steve invited me to his house in West London where he had made a delicious Pork Belly casserole from a Jamie Oliver App, with loads of veg that was yummy. Although I did read recently that the more you cook meat the less protein and nutrients are left in it, so stews etc aren’t actually that good for you. We’re supposed to have our meat as rare as possible as it keeps the most amount of enzymes in the food, which help break down the grub in our stomach. Like with all food research you’ve got to take it with a pinch of salt (although there’s research to suggest that’s bad for you). I like my steak medium-rare but my Dad has his so rare it’s as if the chef hasn’t even put it near a flame, just sort of walked it through the kitchen showing it the oven.

Day 27

I woke up at 9.55 and had to be at a rehearsal for an awards do at 10. Luckily the awards do was only a few floors beneath the bed I was lay in so I made it, although sans breakfast. I did the rehearsal on am empty belly and then went back to bed as I knew it was the last time I was gonna get some kip for a few days once I got back to the kids. So I slept through breakfast and dinner (and yes it is dinner, not lunch; you didn’t have lunch ladies at school did you?). My blistered feet were killing me and I rang down to reception to ask if they had any plasters; they told me there was a medical box in my room behind the tea making facilities (pretty posh hotel to be fair). I opened them up and couldn’t find any small plasters, only these huge odd shaped white ones, but I was in a rush to get to the awards I put them on and did the show.

The awards went well and I was soon on the train back to Manchester as I was singing with Alfie Boe at the Bridgewater Hall and was very nervous. I got changed out of my suit in the toilet again (old habits die hard) and couldn’t even eat the free sandwiches they were giving out. I managed to get a banana and an orange down me, but the butterflies were turning into bats in my tummy so I didn’t want to risk anything else.

Got to the gig and saw my Nana and wife (that’s two different people) and then performed with Alfie and my missus in front of 2000 opera fans. Was such an amazing feeling singing in front a 30 piece orchestra; like really posh karaoke! I tell you something, the round of applause you get at the end of a song, well, you don’t get that at the end of a gag, no matter how good it was.

Post gig I was starving and quite fancied a curry, but Alfie rang and said they were going back to the hotel for some grub and did we fancy it. Of course we did. I dropped my Nana home, who was knackered but made up with her night out; I tell you, she’s my number one fan and I’m hers. Alfie rang again and said the kitchen was closing so we had to order before we got back to the hotel. It was quite a surreal moment, driving back into town with my wife with Alfie Boe on loudspeaker in the car rattling through the menu of the Malmaison. I’m afraid I opted for the cheeseburger and chips (what the fuck is wrong with me argh!?) when I could have gone with fish or something healthy. I think because I’d not eaten all day I thought “well I’ve not had my full intake of calories so maybe I can just have them all in one meal” but we all know, that’s not how it works. I probably shouldn’t have had the Jam Roly Poly either, but it was too tempting (and also delicious).

When we got home I took my shoes off; the blisters had been killing me all night. My wife gave me a bit of sympathy and then looked down at my poor feet.

“What the hell is that?” she exclaimed.

“What?” I replied, looking down.

“Those, on your heels” pointing at my huge white plasters.

“They’re the only plaster I could find at the hotel, crazy isn’t it, I only wanted two little ones but instead had to put these two massive ones on instead”

“they’re not plaster that’s why” she said, starting to piss herself laughing “they’re sanitary towels”.

“oh” i blushed. What an odd feeling to know that I had just performed to 2000 opera lovers with two sanitary towels stuck to my feet. Awkward.

So, to bed. I’ve not lost any weight this week I don’t think, but I’ve not put any on so you know, every cloud and all that. I really need to get motivated again, I feel like I’ve lost my focus for getting into shape, I need something to aim for. I did contemplate the Lemon Juice detox the other day, the idea of shedding a stone in weight in a week sounded awesome but I know if I’m a guy who can’t pass up a midnight Jam Roly Poly at a posh hotel, I’m not gonna be able to get by on no solid food for 7 days either so I’ll have to just do it the ‘proper’ way.

I’ll start again tomorrow. Looking forward to that porridge already!

I’ve been a bit lax on the old blog writing recently. I think I was just embarrassed to write down that I’d failed again. To tell you the truth I thought about knocking it on the head and just deleting the blogs and staying a chubby lad forever. But I went to get my hair cut yesterday and there is nothing that’ll spur you on to lose weight than staring at your own fat mug for 45 minutes in the barbers mirror. While I was there I thought I’d induldge in a spot of pampering so had ... Read on...]]> Day 20

I’ve been a bit lax on the old blog writing recently. I think I was just embarrassed to write down that I’d failed again. To tell you the truth I thought about knocking it on the head and just deleting the blogs and staying a chubby lad forever. But I went to get my hair cut yesterday and there is nothing that’ll spur you on to lose weight than staring at your own fat mug for 45 minutes in the barbers mirror. While I was there I thought I’d induldge in a spot of pampering so had a facial (leave it) and a shave with a cut throat razor (why it’s called that I’ll never know, that is the opposite of what you want it to do). As he was giving my chin a run pre-shave rub down, I looked at myself in the mirror; a pale faced fat lad stared back at me, I didn’t even recognise myself. I wondered if, after sorting my face out with it’s twin chins and eyes with extra baggage, he might try and charge me time and a half for it.

So I came home, had an apple and started writing this blog again.

 Day 14 

Went round to my friend Lucy’s house on Saturday and had home-made chilli her Mum had lovingly cooked, it was delicious, but I left the white rice as it seems to be “white is bad, brown is good” (I’m talking food here, not people, people). It’s always hard to leave food or say you’re on a diet when you’re at someone else’s house, as often you just seem rude. If someone offers you a pudding and you say no they look at you like you’ve said “Would you mind awfully if I had a shit on your rug?”.

Day 15

The next morning I drove her to Heathrow as she’s off to Australia for 6 months and in my head I thought “well since I’m doing such a good deed maybe I’ll reward myself with a McDonalds breakfast”. I’m sure this sort of thought doesn’t just apply to food junkies, but regular junkies too “Well since I helped that nice man rob the local Spar, i may as well treat myself to a wrap of whizz”.

But Lucy talked me out of it, and we ate muesli at her house before we set off. Muesli is for anyone who wants to know what rabbit shit would taste like with some milk.

We drove down from Chorlton to Heathrow and I would’ve been tempted to stop at every service station but the schedule and the good chat kept my mind otherwise engaged. I wonder how much we eat due to boredom?

We arrived on time, and off she flew to Oz with BA (the airline not Mr T) and left me to drive my three hours home, alone.

I suddenly found myself in a really grumpy mood. Maybe because we’d left at 4am, or because all I’d had was a bowl of rabbit shit and I was now starving, or the fact I wasn’t going to see my best friend for half a year. I ended up getting a parking ticket by the airport police because my tyre was sticking out of the space we’d parked in and we were there too long (chatting, ya know, cos I wasn’t going to see my longest serving friend for 6 months). I was in such a foul mood I got out of the car and argued with the copper, even though at the beginning I could tell he didn’t especially want to give me one and I felt I could probably charm him out of it, but I was so hungry and pissed off I was just a bit rude and nobheadish. So this ‘healthy eating’ has already cost me £40.

Now I was alone and without distraction I eventually popped into the Services and tried to buy something healthy. Have you ever attempted this? Firstly, are the services aware of what stuff costs in the rest of the country? £2.30 for a mini-Bacon butty that’s been sat there for two hours is not a bargain my motorway-dwelling friends. Secondly, it is impossible to find anything at a services that even resembles healthy. Oh if it’s got a Marks and Spencers you’re laughing, treat yourself to some falafel or other salubrious tasteless shite (I first discovered Falafel at a middle-class friend of mine’s party, I went to the buffet and was pleased and surprised to see a plate of mini Scotch Eggs – oh, how wrong I was).

In the end I got a bottle of water and a ham sandwich; I took the ham out of the bread and just ate that. Is this anyway to live?

I got back to civilisation and had a text from my wife to say to meet her and the girls at a carvery over in Cheadle. It’s one of these all-you-can-eat carvery places that they do now, that are great for a starving tired man like myself. I got there twenty minutes before the family so just tucked into some scran. I started with the Chicken Ceasar salad which was awesome (but had so much dressing on it, there’s no way it could be deemed as healthy) then I went for the meat and veg. I mean you can’t go wrong with meat and veg can you? And two yorkshire puddings. And loads of gravy. And about 6 roast potatoes. ooh and they’ve got some of those tiny sausages in bacon that you only get at Christmas, I better get some of them, it’d be rude not to. The problem with the ‘all-you-can-eat-buffet’ format is we don’t treat that as a suggestion, we treat it as a challenge. I also do that thing of piling everything up onto one plate even though I’m allowed to go back as often as I want, so I end up walking back to my seat with a plate that could feed a developing nation.

The family arrived and I fed the girls doing that parent thing where you start off with a big plate of food and then gradually playing the ‘ok, well just eat this much then’ game. The desserts looked very tempting but I managed to just have a trifle (it’s got fruit in it) and then went home for an afternoon nap before heading out to play tennis again. We got beat this time but this week I wasn’t the worst player in our duo, my friend Bernie was severely hung over from the night before so that’s the reason we got absolutely battered. That’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.

The week went kind of well but my wife cooked a lovely Lasagne and I had at least half a casserole dish full on Tuesday. I had Crunchy Nut Cornflakes at least twice this week and I have been avoiding my next stint at the gym as if my life depended on it (which it kinda does).

We had a take away curry one night to celebrate a work thing which I’ll tell you about when I can and I had a few late night binges on biscuits and a bit of cake.

It wasn’t a great week for healthy eating but I did do one very good thing. Remember all that chocolate in my cellar that I bought from Costco? Well a lady on here was organising a fund raising Bingo night at a local primary school, so one afternoon this week I popped round and dropped it all off. It was a nerve wracking drive going to meet a stranger to give them my chocolate bars. She seemed lovely in the comments section but then Kathy Bates ‘seemed’ lovely at the start of Misery. I drove there with Maltesers, Dairy Milks, Flakes, Bounty’s and Jaffa Cakes on my passenger seat; I must’ve looked like Willy Wonka on a day out. They sat there just staring ahead, upset that I was getting rid of them, abandoning them, just callously giving them away to a perfect stranger after all the pleasure they had given me. Btu I had to do it, I knew it was for the best.

I pulled up at the lady’s house, grabbed the boxes and walked sombrely to her door, I could hear kids playing inside “See, you’ll be much more appreciated here guys”

I told the chocolate, but they just ignored me.

The woman thanked me as she took them off me with a smile.

“Goodbye” I said.

“goodbye” she replied.

But I wasn’t talking to her, I was talking to nearly a hundred bars of chocolatey goodness.

I got back in the car and looked at the empty seat, a little tear wet my eye as I drove home in silence. At the first set of traffic lights, I leant into the back and grabbed the box of Jaffa Cakes from the foot-well and put them on the passenger seat. I just couldn’t bare to part with them all; couldn’t face losing them all in one go. And Jaffa Cakes have got orange in them anyway so you could do a lot worse when it comes to a treat. The difficulty of course comes with trying to eat just one or two and not the whole packet.

But today is Friday and it’s Day 20. I’ve not weighted myself but I feel okay, I don’t think I’m back to what I was on New Year’s Day. I had a protein shake for breakfast and some scrambled eggs, I got a beef sandwich on the train down to London but didn’t eat the bread and I’m drinking plenty of water. If I get back in time I’ll head to the gym but I probably won’t.

So invariably, I’ve done it again. After being completely on the wagon (or is it off the wagon? Seinfeld) for a few days, I took Wednesday day off. Then Thursday. Then Friday. And by then, well, it’s practically the weekend so I thought, sod it, I may as well wait till Monday now.

I’m so fucking agacé with myself (excuse my French). On Thursday I had to go to London to record a radio show with Claudia Winkleman and comics Ava Vidal and Jason Byrne. I’d been enjoying my time off with the kids so much I’d ... Read on...]]> Day 12

So invariably, I’ve done it again. After being completely on the wagon (or is it off the wagon? Seinfeld) for a few days, I took Wednesday day off. Then Thursday. Then Friday. And by then, well, it’s practically the weekend so I thought, sod it, I may as well wait till Monday now.

I’m so fucking agacé with myself (excuse my French). On Thursday I had to go to London to record a radio show with Claudia Winkleman and comics Ava Vidal and Jason Byrne. I’d been enjoying my time off with the kids so much I’d not actually written any jokes for it. So spent the two hour journey to London concentrating on that and doing my best to come up with a couple of gags on Antony Worral Thompson stealing cheese and wine from Tescos or whatever (I thought it’d be fun when you went to his restaurant next and the waiter asked “Can I take your coat please” you’d say “Nice try mate, but I think I’ll keep hold of it”).

I was sat in first class (I know, I know but if you book in advance you can get it for £22!) so the little trolley with the free drinks kept coming passed, but I just kept asking for water (“still sir?” “Yes I’d still like some water”) and filled myself up with that. The butty trolley came but the sandwiches on a Virgin train are shockingly disgusting, so not hard to avoid really (Chickpea and Humous on brown bread? I don’t bloody think so Branson). I got all the way to London and hadn’t eaten anything since my 7am bowl of porridge, and it was now 4pm. I was shaking a bit and felt a bit ill so thought I’d better get something at the station before I went to the radio theatre. I walked passed Burger King (anyone who’s read my book will know why), passed Millies Cookies (love that place but has anyone ever had just the one?), passed Dunkin Donuts and straight into Nandos. I figured that a chicken wrap was as healthy as anything.

But this was the start of my downfall.

A mere 4 and a half hours later, after a fun show with Claudia et al, I was back in that same Nandos ordering my second double Chicken Breast wrap of the day. I was a little embarrassed as the same member of staff looked at me confused; but I didn’t meet his gaze, I just ordered my sandwich and left, tucking into it on the quiet carriage of the 8.20 to Manchester.

I’m still a bit ashamed that I had two of them but I’m not one of those people who that sort of thing bothers. My wife can’t even have the same sort of meal twice in a week, even last Thursday when I was making some Chilli she said “But we had Chilli on Monday”. So what! That was a different day.

My Mum picked me up from the station at half ten and we immediately found ourselves in the drive thru of Stockport McDonalds. Luckily it was closed for maintenance as although I was pretending I just going to get a cup of tea, in my head I’d already ordered a Big Mac meal. It’s crazy to me that me and Mum use McDonalds so much in our family, when I was a kid the only time we went there was for other kids’ birthday parties (also, what is that middle window for on the drive thru, it’s never in use?) We drove home disappointed but pleased that we’d avoided a near catastrophe of a late night McBinge.

Once we got home the kettle was on and you know what that means don’t you? A trip to my cellar for a Costco bought packet of Maltesers and a Dairy Milk. I really need to get rid of those boxes of chocolates, but think of the waste man. I thought about just giving them to random kids in the street but then I remembered that sort of thing’s frowned upon.

Day 13

Friday morning started well (this is when I’m at my most health conscious), I had lots of fruit for breakfast and a protein shake (not that nice but ok if you down it in one); I went for a big walk to the shops to get stuff for tea that evening, Lamb Caserole. I’m well getting into this cooking malarkey, but finding it tough getting the kids to eat lots of different and new things, I think I need to just introduce one or two new meals a week as they’re getting a bit overwhelmed with their Dad’s new cooking regime. There is nothing more heartbreaking than spending a couple of hours shopping and then cooking a meal, only for them to push the plate away and ask for a Darylea Dunker!

Although I have found another parental phenomena. I can count at least four times in the last week that after I’ve finished my dinner I’ve cleared the kids’ plates as well. That’s one adult portion and three mini portions. Tell me I’m not the only parent doing this? I’ve become a human waste disposal unit. I suppose it’s from growing up with nowt but nobody wasted a thing on the table at our house. If we didn’t east our dinner at night, we got it for our breakfast. It only actually happened about 5 times but the threat was there, hanging over us. You’d be thinking “I chuffing hate Cauliflower, but I really hate it cold and at 7am so I better get it ate”. I’m obviously not as strict as my parents were with me.

I had all good intentions of making that Lamb Casserole but as I sat in the kitchen looking at the recipe, surrounded by toys and noise, I thought ‘sod it, let’s go out for tea’. I text my Mum and she got her tribe in order and we headed to TGI Friday’s (you’ll note that this is my second visit in a week). I went with the Chicken Fajitas again as I thought they were semi-healthy, but by god, if you want to sit in the corner of a restaurant unnoticed then maybe don’t have a waiter walking towards you with a plate full of smoke; sizzling and broiling all over the place. Also not a great idea to have a boiling hot plate on a table with six tiny adventurous hands (no children were harmed in the eating of this dinner).

No dessert and a nice early night was had by all, but I ate too much again. My tummy felt like the wolf in that fairy tale where he ends up with a belly full of stones; I couldn’t even stand up straight. Which was a bit of a nightmare as I might’ve needed my new kickboxing skills at any moment; when we got home the front door was wide open as someone (Mum) had forgotten to close it before we left. Luckily nobody had robbed us although I was hoping someone had been in and taken all the Costco chocolate bars in the cellar.

To celebrate not being robbed we had some Costco chocolate bars from the cellar.

Gutted.

Let’s hope they at least robbed the scales.

After another shocking night’s sleep I was again tempted to not go to the gym but I knew I wouldn’t get another chance that week as it was the girl’s full day at nursery. We were the first there that morning, even beating some of the staff to the door. Does that make you a bad parent? I don’t think so. Being last there in the evening, when the staff are stood in their coats and their husbands are outside waiting for them, that makes you a bad parent (note: I’ve also been that ... Read on...]]> Day 9, 10 & 11

After another shocking night’s sleep I was again tempted to not go to the gym but I knew I wouldn’t get another chance that week as it was the girl’s full day at nursery. We were the first there that morning, even beating some of the staff to the door. Does that make you a bad parent? I don’t think so. Being last there in the evening, when the staff are stood in their coats and their husbands are outside waiting for them, that makes you a bad parent (note: I’ve also been that parent).

After another yummy bowl of porridge for breakfast (And yes I do genuinely like it and do not agree with one previous comment that it ‘feels like vomiting in reverse’), I went to the gym and did another session with Dave. My body was still hurting from yesterday so we took it easier, but Dave’s idea of easy and my idea of easy are very different. I still got in the car at the end and had to just wait till my arms could reach the steering wheel.

Another friend of mine who is a physio had recommended I go for a sports massage after a gym session and had booked me in with a colleague of his. I’d been for plenty of massages in the past (leave it, too easy) and thought it might be a good way of relaxing after a tough session at the gym.

I’ve never been more wrong.

If you’ve not been for a sports massage, just imagine someone beating you up for an hour and then asking for £30, like a really polite mugging or a night out with Max Mosely.

I lay face down with my face in a hole in a bed, an odd invention but it works (although they could do with a telly or something on the floor so you could watch ‘Cash in the Attic’ or something). As she started trying to find my kidneys with her bare hands I let out a guttural scream that didn’t just hurt my throat but the throat of every generation of Manford that had ever been.

“Is that too hard?” she asked nicely.

“No it’s fine” I lied with a stupid sense of masculinity that had left me the moment she’d asked if I wanted a ‘Lavender balm or Ginseng’. I let her batter me for the next forty minutes, trying to keep up with a polite conversation about family and work.

“I love comedy” she said “That Michael McIntyre is really funny, do you know him?”

“Yes” I grunted, still face down “I really love the stuff he does about the man draaaaargh!”

I found out she had had an argument that morning with the bin men and was pretty sure she was taking it out on me. So bin men of South Manchester, cheers for that you rubbish nobheads.

I did actually feel better afterwards and even though I’ll probably never have one again, I thoroughly recommend it.

I ate well the rest of the day and even made a gorgeous Chilli Con Carne from the Slimming World website for when the girls finished nursery and my wife got back from work. For some reason, and I don’t know if any of you have this, I seem to have a different mind set in the morning than I do at night. In the day I find it quite easy to stick to eating healthy and even snack on nuts and dried fruit. But the second the sun goes down I just turn ravenous and will eat anything I find. That night as we watched Marley and Me on DVD (who the fuck bought me that for Christmas you nasty bastard?) I polished off a half tub of Ben and Jerry’s. It was alright, not as nice as it is at the cinema but I finished all the same. I even used a little spoon as if I was gonna eat less than if I used a big spoon. I don’t know where this logic comes from.

Day 10

The next morning we had a good walk to the park even though it was freezing. We played and ran about with a football and then went on the swings and slide. We probably should have took the kids but me and my brother had a lovely morning. No, I did take the kids, it was cold and we all got home with red noses and had a hot chocolate in front of the fire as we watched Mary Poppins a-fucking-gain.

Then it was off to the greengrocers to do a little shop before heading to the supermarket for the rest of the week’s grub. I know it’s easier to do it online but I have a weird thing about having to buy the salad and veg myself, I just like to pick it out.

On the way there my tummy was rumbling (this is becoming a theme) and I thought I’d just pop into the little cafe but as we all know, every supermarket cafe is a bit shit and I knew I’d end up eating a crap panini toasted by a 16-year-old who can’t be trusted on the deli. You should never shop on an empty stomach, you always end up buying stuff that you crave rather than stuff you need, if I go and do the food shop hungry then it just turns into an episode of Supermarket Sweep when I get to the cake aisle.

This was the thought that justified my reasoning as I sat myself down, on my own, at the TGI Fridays across the road from the shops. I ordered a bottle of still water and some chicken fajitas avoiding the Jack Daniels dressing that is to die for (no literally, it will kill you). Another first happened for me when the jolly waitress came back after I’d finished

“Would you like a dessert sir?”

“No thanks” I said even though I did want one and had even spotted which one I wanted in the menu earlier (the Chocolate Fudge Fixation looked awesome).

I paid up and went shopping with a full belly of a reasonably healthy lunch, quite proud of myself really.

Did the healthiest (and quite frankly, most boring) shop of my life, to the extent that the woman at the check out even commented on it. I even managed to buy a juicer (for me) and a cupcake maker (for the girls, and for me).

For tea I finished the Stir Fry I had made a few days earlier and froze for a healthy microwave meal (thank you to whoever gave me that tip in the comments) and tried again not to eat after 7pm. It was working as well, especially when I snuck into the kitchen while my wife was on the phone to her sister. I went to the Nutella cupboard (that’s the cupboard with the Nutella in it, it’s not a cupboard full of Nutella) and grabbed the chocolatey goodness, but in doing so knocked a jar of honey that came flying out and landed on my foot, shattering everywhere. The only benefit of smashing a jar of honey is that the glass stays pretty much in one piece as the honey refuses to let it go.

Spent the night cleaning up honey before heading to bed at 10; stomach Nutella-less.

Day 11

Weighed myself in the morning after I spent fifteen minutes searching my wife’s usual hiding places and found the scales. I was 15 stone 12 which made me happy but using a tip from someone on here I decided to shift the measurement from stones to kg so the weight loss would be more dramatic. It worked. It means from New Year’s Eve till now I’ve lost 10kgs. Well pleased with that. That’s 10 bags of sugar (if they weigh 1kg each obviously Vorderman!).

I was so pleased I decided to take the rest of the day off from concentrating on what to eat and just enjoy myself. I realised that I’ve not really enjoyed my food for over two years since I first felt unhappy with my weight and size. I spent quite a while just joking about it and putting fat gags in my set; or doing the fat joke first so that nobody else could. This is the first defence of the fat mate, we’ve all got one, and if you haven’t then it’s probably you.

It’s hard being a man and saying that you’re unhappy with your body. It doesn’t feel very, well, manly. Can you imagine two blokes in a pub having a chat

“alright Dave, how are you?”
“Not too good actually Pete, I looked in the mirror this morning, saw my belly wobbling whilst I brushed my teeth and then sat on my bed and had a cry for half an hour wondering if I’d ever be happy again”
“I see, did you watch the football mate?”

We don’t talk about those things. I saw a picture of Olly Murs in the paper the other day on holiday having a picture taken with a fan on the beach and messing about in the sea. He looked a bit pasty and had the very hint of a pot belly; no surprise as it’s a couple of weeks after Christmas, oh, and the fact he’s on fucking holiday! The journalist (who I can only assume is some sort of newshound Adonis) was saying that Olly ‘didn’t seem to care that he was showing the hint of a belly’. Well why would he? He’s on chuffing holiday man! I was sat there thinking “I’d kill for that body at the moment”, I’m aiming for that pasty belly from the other side, that ‘hint of a belly’ is what I dream about having underneath my own set of ‘moobs’!

I know women have had to deal with this for years, the media obsession with the perfect form (using photoshop) but for us fellas we’re pretty new to the party. All of a sudden we’re seeing perfect men with one chin and no spare tyres in magazines and adverts and thinking ‘hang on, are we supposed to look that for women to find us attractive?”. Well the answer is obviously, ‘no’. Of course some women are going to find Beckham in a pair of tighty whiteys sexy, others prefer Johnny Vegas with a bit of kebab down his top. I would offer this solitude; most women prefer a man somewhere in the middle, which most of us are. Of course it’s what’s on the inside that counts and all that bollocks, but what if what’s on the inside is a load of clogged up arteries and a fat enveloped heart?

I think the secret is not to think of what goes on in other people’s minds. Don’t do it for them, do it for you. You might be 20 stone plus and happy, well then, good for you my chubby friend. But I bet deep down (and it’d have to be really deep) when you’re sat by yourself, thinking, you would love to shift a couple of stone, just so you weren’t out of breath walking to the chippy.

But anyway, I’m not writing these blogs to get other people to start eating healthy and get fit (although that would be a happy by-product) I’m writing these blogs because I feel like I’m on a journey to a different place. Obviously right now I’m still trying to find my keys and wallet in the hallway but once I set foot outside on this journey, I’ll be on my way and there’ll be no stopping me.

Oh, hang on, gotta go, ice cream van’s here.

Is there anything more soul destroying and frustrating than this.

Picture the scene if you will.

I’m lying in bed, fast asleep, it’s 2am and I’ve been snoozing away for over three hours. After a strenuous day of gym activity (can’t believe I’m even saying that) my tortured body was asleep before my brain and now I’m so asleep I don’t think anything would wake me up.

But it does.

From another room the familiar and disturbing noise of a child crying. My child. It enters my dream for a brief while before my brain kicks into ... Read on...]]> Day 9

Is there anything more soul destroying and frustrating than this.

Picture the scene if you will.

I’m lying in bed, fast asleep, it’s 2am and I’ve been snoozing away for over three hours. After a strenuous day of gym activity (can’t believe I’m even saying that) my tortured body was asleep before my brain and now I’m so asleep I don’t think anything would wake me up.

But it does.

From another room the familiar and disturbing noise of a child crying. My child. It enters my dream for a brief while before my brain kicks into gear and I wake in a fluster. My wife is fast asleep next to me after an equally difficult day and I realise the worst of night time realisations; ‘it’s my turn’ (that’s actually the third worst night time realisation after ‘is that a clown stood at the end of my bed with an axe’ and ‘That was weird, I dreamt I was having a wee, oh, hang on, it wasn’t a dream’).

I stumble out of bed and knock over a glass of water onto my laptop, I hurriedly dry it with a towel and place it on the radiator; a pointless exercise as the radiators automatically turn off at midnight and are not due on till dawn, I should’ve realised this as it’s bloody freezing. In my boxer shorts and a Chuck Norris t-shirt that’s seen better days (“Chuck forecasts cloudy, with a 90% chance of PAIN”), I make my way in the cold darkness to the door. My toe strikes the corner of the bed and the internal scream briefly out performs the one coming from the two year old in the next room. But I persevere. Dad’s duty and all that.

Once on the landing with the benefit of the yellow light spilling in from the street I look down at my now broken toe (I think it is anyway). My eyes are sore and my legs and back are killing me from the aforementioned gym and tennis sessions. I go into my daughter’s room, catching my thigh on the door knob and momentarily causing a dead leg. I limp on, determined to stop my daughter’s heart rendering cry because a) that is what any good parent should do and b) if she wakes her sisters, we’re all in the shit!
I get to the side of her bed, struggle onto my knees, my toe and thigh throbbing in the moonlight (there’s no moonlight, as we have black out curtains but I like the phrase ‘throbbing in the moonlight’ as it sounds like an 80’s rock album). I pick my eldest daughter up and hold her close in my arms, shushing and stroking her hair, telling her everything is going to be alright. I sit on the rocking chair next to her bed and rest her on my shoulder, hoping to nurse her back to sleep.

At that moment, as her tears subside and in doing a fatherly obligation that’s as old as time itself, the world has a way of seeming just right, perfectly flawed, a feeling of togetherness and loneliness as if there’s only you two who exist, enveloped in the blackness, holding each other in place like two tiny pieces of a 7 billion piece jigsaw that have finally found each other.

I kiss her forehead and tell her that Daddy is here and that it was just a bad dream. Putting out of my mind the pains in my suffering body, the water seeping into my computer and the fact my stomach is grumbling with a noise and volume not too dissimilar to Whale song; I lay my daughter softly back onto her pillow.

It’s at this point she looked up and uttered three words. Three words I can only presume that were intended to wound and deflate an otherwise inflated man. As her breath became shallow and the cry that originally woke me from my slumber was about to start up again with the realisation that the comforting hug was over and the coldness of her bed was all she had, she spoke the three words that nobody, no father, at anytime of the day or night (but especially the night) wants to hear.

“I want Mummy”.

So obviously I went and consoled myself with a cup of tea and a packet of peanut M&M’s from the stash in the cellar. As I passed the wall length mirror in the hallway, my fat belly poking out of my t shirt, I looked Chuck Norris in the eye, ‘90% chance of pain’.

You’re not wrong Chuck, you were not wrong.

Sunday was relentless. I had planned to go to the gym for another personal training session with my brothers but at 10am both of them rang to cancel. Colin because he had had a heavy session the night before and Stephen because his little boy had been up a couple of times throughout the night (Oh yeah, must be dead hard with ONE kid!!). I had the perfect excuse not to go, it was all lined up for me, but as I drove towards Glossop and the gym as the only man in January wearing shorts ... Read on...]]> Day 8

Sunday was relentless. I had planned to go to the gym for another personal training session with my brothers but at 10am both of them rang to cancel. Colin because he had had a heavy session the night before and Stephen because his little boy had been up a couple of times throughout the night (Oh yeah, must be dead hard with ONE kid!!). I had the perfect excuse not to go, it was all lined up for me, but as I drove towards Glossop and the gym as the only man in January wearing shorts I was, well, proud of myself.

I’d been up early with the kids and quite frankly they were doing my head in a bit. Of course being a parent is a 24/7 job but the idea is that after 8pm you get 12 hours off so you can sleep and have a cuddle and watch something that’s not Peppa fucking Pig. This had not happened and so the gym was the perfect excuse to get out of the house for an hour.

Fuelled on porridge with raisins and apple I was put through a series of of stretches and aerobics. Dave, the trainer, was showing me several manouvres I could do at home (yeah right) using just my bodyweight “So do 50 Hindu squats every morning, your own bodyweight is the resistance” he said as he showed me how it was done. I started. Did 8. Then stopped.

“How am I going to get to 50?” I cried.
“Just build up slowly, you’ve done 8 today, you’ll do 9 tomorrow”
Great, so by the 19th of February I’ll get this one excercise done. So I tried again, this time getting to 30. I figured that because Dave is 4 stone lighter than me and if ‘bodyweight is our resistance’ then technically, my 30 is his 50, we’ve probably done the same amount of work (this is a fact, do not check the maths).

We then did some kickboxing. I say kickboxing, but I wasn’t good at either.
“Ok, punch the pad with all the force you’ve got” Dave demanded as he lifted the pad, his hand inside.
I punched it with all the ferocity of a particularly angry butterfly.
“Come on you can punch harder than that”
“Erm, yeah, I just didn’t want to hurt you” I said to a 5th Dan Black Belt former championship winning martial artist.
After a while I got into it imagining various peoples faces as I punched and kicked (Mainly Peppa Pig, but occasionally Special Agent Oso and Piers Morgan). I got to a point where I thought if I ever got attacked in the street I reckon I wouldn’t be quite the wuss I imagined, as long as the mugger shouted “left hand punch, right leg kick” like a violent game of Twister.

I got home to an empty house; the family had decided to go to Derby to visit my wife’s Grandparents for the day. It was about midday and the City United Fa Cup match was kicking off in an hour so I got some lunch ready. But then I had a thought, a thought that I or any of my family and friends had ever had before in our lives, I thought ‘why don’t I mae a packed lunch for myself’. I had hated those packed lunch pricks at school, showing off as they got to go in for lunch before us, chomping on lovely butties and tasty yoghurts as I got my free meal; usually consisting of a meat pie with a four inch crust with a side of boil-the-shit-out-of-it vegetables and slab of brown rock that they tried to soften with mint flavoured custard. (actually I remember if we helped the dinner ladies tidy up they used to give us a second dessert, well on cornflake tart and custard day you couldn’t move for helpers, but on rice pudding and prunes day we were all outside playing footy ‘tidy up yourselves you lazy gets’)

I sat down in my seat at the footy and shortly after the unjust sending off of Vincent Kompany (this is also a fact, don’t argue) I leant under my seat and opened my carrier bag, took out my lunch box, snapped off the lid and tucked into some Ham, Salami, chilli cheese, tomatoes, carrot sticks and celery. When I looked up, my Dad and brothers weren’t watching the game, they were all watching me.

“What?” I said as I dipped my carrot stick into a pot of humous (which I’d brought in a seperate pot).
“You’ve changed” my dad muttered shaking his head.
“It’s so I don’t buy a pie at half time Dad”
“Well just hide the lunch box under your seat, don’t let anyone see”

I felt like I was one of the famous ‘Prawn sandwich brigade’ Roy Keane talked about, but can you be a fully fleged card carrying member, if you made those prawn sandwiches yourself?

After the game I dropped my Dad and brothers off at a pub in Didsbury and I made my way home where I had decided I was going to cook that chicken Stir Fry I bought stuff for yesterday. I got all the ingredients out and in a quiet, empty house began the easist meal of them all.

It didn’t take long, and even though I was by myself and it was supposed to serve 6 people (I presume midgets) I ate about half.

I was planning on spending a couple of hours chilling out in front of the telly when my friend Bernie rang and asked me if I wanted to play tennis at the local gym. I was still a bit achy from the morning session but figured I may as well accept and get back into it. I used to play quite often but since ripping the tendon in my ankle last January, it’s not been on my to-do list!

I stood on court in my tennis trainers and kit and it didn’t even seem familiar. It’d been over a year since I last played and I couldn’t even remember to hold the bat…er, I mean racquet. The other three people were already on court hitting balls at each other as I got to the bench at the side and started doing my stretches. They were looknig at me like I was mental but I’ve hurt myself too many times by not warming up properly (I once got a groin strain ten-pin bowling, so I even do stretches at Megabowl).

The game didn’t start well; my brain was just not connecting with my hand and my doubles partner Bernie couldn’t even look me in the eye as we lost 6-1. But after a bottle of water and half a bag of whole nuts I was ready for more. I’d bought the nuts at the cafe in the gym as it was the only healthy option I could find. Plenty of muffins, chocolates and pretend protein shakes that actually have more carbs in than protein. There was a selection of bananas that had seen better days too but surely there should be a ban on selling a Twix at a gym, seems counter-productive to me.

In the end we won the game after two sets ended in tie-breaks, I was well chuffed. Especially as I’d got hit in the throat with a speeding tennis ball half way through and had to have a sit down for five minutes. I mean it all looked very funny to the others but my voice is my fortune, I’d have no job, it’d be like hurting a surgeon’s hands (don’t worry I didn’t say any of this outloud).

So three hours of tennis, an hour personal training and a packed lunch at a football match. A pretty sporty, healthy day. I feel like I’ve turned a corner a bit, I mean yeah, I still keep looking in the biscuit tin and have opened the Nutella Jar a dozen times just to have a smell, but something has switched on in my brain. The thought is a simple one “why would I have this packet of Jaffa cakes and ruin all that hard work I did at the gym”. I’ve started to think in terms of fuel usage, as in, you only need so much fuel in you to get through your day, if there’s too much then it’ll get stored as fat but if there’s just the right amount then your body will use it then maybe and hopefully start on the silos of fat that have been there for the last five years.

It sounds so easy when I put it like that.