A thinly-veiled cry for attention in an attempt at motivation.

"How can you possibly have forgotten your sports kit for the 19th week in a row?!", exclaimed the short-tempered and (I now suspect) sexually frustrated PE teached Mr. Kilpatrick.
"My loathing for sports is surpassed only by my loathing for society's impression that running about kicking things is a laudable activity and worthy of high praise, and your poorly thought-through punishment of making we walk around the cricket-pitch for an hour is a near-exact recreation of the lunch-break I just had, and thoroughly enjoyed" is exactly what I wanted to say but didn't.
From memory I actually said "sorry sir, I'll remember next week".
True to my word, I did remember next week and then carefully left my sports kit on the train.
This was 1997, and I was a little podgy even then. Despite this, there has been a constant flow of people asking me if I play basketball, or volleyball, or tennis, or something where my enormous height (I'm a shade over 7 foot) would be considered an advantage. The assumption was always that I would automatically be excellent at these things and would relish the chance to be a famous athlete.
This assumption was wrong. Totally aside from the fact that I'm only this height because of a genetic disorder and it's a burden I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy* I am a bookish and academic person by nature, more comfortable talking with friends than competing with them. I don't care much for competition as a) I find it frequently brings out the worst in people and b)I'm one of those people for whom it brings out the worst.

These factors combined to create a man who doesn't care for sports despite (once upon a time) looking like he should and through repeated assurances that I'd "definitely be good at it" I developed a massive and pointless stubborness that led to me actively avoiding any kind of physical activity whatsoever for years and years.

On the other side of the calorie equation I am at least lucky enough to not have to struggle with a sweet tooth. I can happily turn down chocolate, sickly doughnuts and boiled candies all day long. No golden tickets to Wonka's factories for me. No, a sweet tooth is not my burden. Instead, my mouth is filled with rows and rows of savoury, boozy teeth receding backwards in the manner of a shark. Hundreds of the things. Steaks, burgers, kebabs, wine, strange european herbal digestives, pasta, ales, stouts and porters, BBQ - texan or mongolian - any of these things. Give me fat, oils, salt and alcohol and you'll find a very happy man.

Thus far I have felt that the fat I have I wear quite well, I am, after all, an enormously tall man. There's a lot of surface area to spread it out over. Your BMIs don't apply to me even a little bit (I'm constructed altogether too strangely), but your body-fat percentages do and I fear that deep within me lurks a very thin man (along the lines of my father) who has been largely getting away with it for far longer than is OK.

The straw that broke me came on the day the most beautiful woman I've ever seen married me. People celebrated, and it was the greatest day of my life.

I see the photos and I do not like them. I should not be that man. That man should not have married that woman - it speaks of her depth and kindness that she can look past these things, but she deserves better.

The 121kg of fat, bone and muscle that comprises me currently should, I suspect, be around 100kg instead. I know that when I was 19 I weighed 106.7kg, and I wasn't happy with that either (I know because I was so unhappy I made a desktop background of the number to try and make me feel bad - it didn't work and instead I went to university and put on another 21kg. I've since lost some but there is a great deal to go.

My goal, although possibly unreasonable and possibly unobtainable, is to weigh under 106.7kg and well on my way to 100kg by the time I go to Mexico for my honeymoon on the 4th of December. There, I will be expected to wander around with my shirt off and while I am both hairy and covered in surgical scars I am willing to endure the breif torment of dealing with the former and I am not ashamed of the latter. I have 19 weeks.

I write this in the hope that the pressure of being watched and followed by others will motivate me (this has been tried before, but never with such force behind it). My other great vice is peer-group pressure, and for that, I need a peer group. It's a lot harder failing in front of people than on your own.

Hello everyone.


*Never, ever tell anyone above 6'6" that you wish you were as tall as they are. You don't. 6'4" is the best height, I've tried all of them and beyond that point it's all disadvantages)