Dahling, indoors are the fabulous new outdoors.

When I was a mere twinkle in my Dad's eye, kids spent all day outside. Dawn to dusk, only coming home for tea and then going out again to see if they could catch owls with fishing rods or something. And fat kids were fat because they ate too much. But they didn't have a lot of food to eat. Rationing was rife, and they could all sit up trees on thin planks of wood with catapults and slingshots without fear of snapping the 2x4.

I'll be honest, as a nipper, I wasn't exactly likely to be on the front cover of Weight Watchers as something to strive for. Bluntly, I was a fat biffa child. I was unhappy, blah blah, I was the cliche. And I like chocolate.

Because I was fat, and children are cruel little gobshites at the best of times, I became a touch reclusive and sat in my room playing computer games, eating biscuits and getting fat. And then getting fatter because I was eating more biscuits and getting taunted more and more.

I used to be fairly active as a podger. Always doing P.E and stuff at school. Even to an extent, playing football after school. However, I was still throwing the pies down my throat faster than I could waddle them off.

And so, Fatty Arbuckle over here began to retreat into his room. Deeper and deeper into solitude when a miracle happened. At Christmas.

FIFA 2001.

A FOOTBALL GAME! I played it religiously. Completing season after season(in amateur mode, natch) and it sparked my interest in going out and socialising again. "Fuck the hatahs" thought I, "no true friend would take the piss out of me for my shape" and other such Trinny and Susannah crap.

So my next door neighbour and I would play tennis. Hour after hour of tennis.

Then I discovered skateboarding. Which was far more rewarding for me. Easier to control, made walking downhill an even bigger doddle, and ultimately, pulling off a trick gave me an enormous buzz. I had to strive. I found a sport I enjoyed, and could easily improve at.

And I was progressing nicely, when I discovered that despite my best efforts, I am not a natural sportsman. Average at lots, good at none.

So that put the kibosh on that one. Which was a shame, because I really enjoyed it. Still do on a rare occasion.

And despite all of the sweating, effort, grunting, blood, tears and pain I went through, I hadn't lost an ounce.

Again, this was due to my love of pies and biscuits.

And then a few years past with 0 effort on my part. I move to opposite ends of the country twice.

I return to Londinium's outposts and begin an illustrious career as a window cleaner. Ya, Lumpy was a glazing hygiene technician. In the height of summer. The flab pisses off me. "This is great" think I, "I'm finally losing lbs hand over fist."

But then I stopped being a Visual Sanitation Engineer and got a job as a beverage refreshment consultant. And still the weight pissed off of me. I begin to worry.

I head to the docs.

Diabetes? Hepatitis?

No. No.

Eating well?

Yes.

Epstein-Barr Virus?

Wassat then, quack?

"Well basically..."
*lengthy medical jargon which I failed to comprehend*
"...and that's what we suspect you may have."

Oh.

Bugger.

It has been more than 6 months since my diagnosis, and STILL I'm heamoraiging weight. Nowt to be done apparently.

I spent years indoors, getting fat because I wouldnt go outdoors. Then I get ill and all my issues go away?

Fuck it.

Unhappy teddy.

Wankers.

I still eat more shit than perhaps I should, but I cannot put on weight. Quack is totally baffled with it.

Useless sod.

Last time I go NHS.