Once upon time, not many moons ago I used to be a lean mean rugby smashing machine. I loved it, a life full of training, getting paid to play rugby, getting paid to go to the gym and getting paid to be healthy and getting paid to legally vent my anger on other humans without being charged with GBH. It was probably the best job ever. But if truth be told, I was 19-20 and 250 quid a week was never going to get me onto the property ladder or past the front door at a Michelin star restaurant. For me however it was plenty, plenty for doing damn all really. During my peak I weighed 100kg with 16% body fat which is pretty good going, I think. In truth all that BMI shit means nothing to me, the only thing that matters is that I feel “ yea, I look good today” when I leave the house, and not how iv felt recently, “fuck, I don’t want to go out not looking like this, jesus this t-shirt fitted two weeks ago”…….”Emma, have you shrunk my t-shirts again”, I pray she says yes, but in truth the washing machine had damn all to do with it, the shrinkage was more to do with that other kitchen appliance, the merchant of death, my fridge.
As you may or may not know, with putting on weight, it is something that you gradually notice and it is something you gradually say “I will deal with this” and as you tuck into a nice McDonalds that pang of guilt sits heavily upon your shoulders and you tell yourself…. “Right, after this weekend I’m going to sort this out once and for all” (Why is it always after this weekend? It’s as if it’s a death sentence and we must get as much gluttony in as humanly possible before we are sent to the diet chair). I have been noticing it greatly during the past few months. I have suddenly went from wearing size 36 trousers up to an embarrassing 42. I have jeans that were once way too baggy and needed a garden hose around them to keep them up that no longer fit me, they are just too tight. I’ve always been broad chested due to the rugby so the impact on my shirts has not been that great. I’ve gone from a 16.5 to a 17.5. My once toned, comfortable 42 inch chest is now a 48 inch to compensate for my bustling gut.
In truth, I’m fucking ashamed I have let myself get into this state, I’m a joke. I have the tools accessible to me to get out of this pickle but I have chosen not to, or rather every week I tell myself “after the weekend mate, after the weekend”. I earn enough money to be able to eat healthily, I don’t work long hours, I work on the road but there is always food readily available, I have a very supportive, gorgeous and slim significant other, I coach rugby as a hobby I have a lovely house, In fact I have a perfect life so there is no excuse for me getting this way.
Let’s not dwell on myself loathing. I shall explain where it started to go wrong , my perfect job was not perfect for too long, I remember it plainly, 21st October 2006, I was playing a game in Ireland, I had just come back from injury and was playing in a 2nd team fixture to get my fitness back. I got through the game relatively unscathed until the last 5 minutes when I caught a pass at standstill. I remember how my foot was planted, I was then tackled by two players hitting me from opposite sides simultaneously, I heard a crack, then a rip, I saw the blood, then my own vomit, I writhed around in agony. Next thing I know I’m high on morphine telling my physio how hot she is. That was that, I had shattered my knee cap, shredded my anterior cruciate ligament, tore the Posterior cruciate, ripped the cartilage and put my knee to an unnatural angel. Due to health insurance difficulties (basically the club fucked me sideways) I had to wait 3 years to get everything fixed on the NHS or pay 30 grand to go private. To cut a long story short my career was over, since then I re-tore my ACL on 3 more occasions. I finally had a knee reconstruction on 8th September, a few months ago (Major opp). Whilst I have put on a fair amount of weight since I quit playing rugby Iv put the most weight on during the past 5 months. I simply have not been able to do any exercise. I was unable to walk for 2 months; confined to my sofa I burnt more gas than calories. I also quit smoking and so over the last few months my weight has ballooned. So much so that on a recent visit to home my Dad had to have a chat with me regarding my long term health. Fuck a duck I thought, I am 24 what the hell is going on. Here is the key though, for as long as I can remember I kept telling myself…..”it’s easy to get back into shape, it will only take a few weeks work” well time to harden the fuck up and find out how easy it really is.
Oh and so as you all know, I hate the gym, I hate the majority of the wankers that go to the gym, barring those who are actually trying to lose weight. Those who grunt and groan, there is just no need, you are idiots. Those who go and flex their muscles in the mirror as they walk, you lot are fucking douche bags. Those who spend the time perving….buy a porno, it’s cheaper. Those who spend the time on the mobile telling everyone in the gym about your weekend, save it for ladies who lunch meetings, idiots. I hate dieting. I hate the idea behind it simply because I love food.
So I’m not going to diet and I’m not going to join a gym. I wouldn’t give fitness first my money. My plan is to regulate my intake of food, not dieting but no over indulging like I used to I’m still going to have the odd cup cake or Rivington Grill sticky toffee pudding. I will use the shitty gym in my apartment, (will post pic), or I will use the rugby pitch, my second home. I am not relying on fancy Nike breathable vests or snazzy Adidas retro trainers or shock absorbing shorts to get me motivated in the gym. I’m a simple bloke who hates all that shite, I’m relying on my shitty puma trainers, my cotton t-shirts that barely fit anymore, my rugby shorts that remind me of who I once was and my I-Pod (playlist ideas welcome). Most importantly I’m relying on the support of Emma to keep me focused. She means the world to me and to be honest I hate the fact that she has a fat slob permanently attached to her when we are out. When we are “reading stories” in bed I can only wonder how grossed out she must be, she says she isn’t but I couldn’t blame her if she was. I want to do this for her as much as for me.
Right lets get cracking, time to get rid of the fat fuck and bring back the tank. The chronicles of a fat bastard starts here. Warning this will be a no holds barred account with possibly some disturbing photo’s of me and my stretch marks.
Kristinson
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