Baldyman

In the midst of an ongoing global pandemic, recent breaking news has included that Boris Johnson is not a big fan of John Lewis (or it would seem fully qualified hairdressers), Premier League football clubs are money driven (bears also shit in the woods) and Colin The Caterpillar has been the victim of identity theft (Penguin’s case against Aldi ‘Seal Bars’ is ongoing).

For most people the 21^st June is pencilled on the calendar as the date for freedom but for me it is a 46 day countdown to the prospect of having to wear something other than elasticated waist tracksuit bottoms. It is usually a specific occurrence (unflattering photo or video /getting out of breath opening a Walkers multipack) that kick starts people into deciding to go on a diet. For me it was a similar scenario but involved two events that happened almost simultaneously.

Firstly while watching two towering  boxers with herculean physiques battle for the Cruiserweight world title on TV, their on screen statistics shamed me into discovering that I weighed more than both of them (individually not combined). My embarrassment was then furtherly heightened in the knowledge that if I ever did decide to don the gloves to take up this noble art I would currently only qualify for the Heavyweight division (at 5’9 with fast developing bingo wings I’m doubting Anthony Joshua would be having many sleepless nights) . Secondly, merely moments later, my son entered the room and totally out of the blue and without even a hint of comedic intent asked me, “How long ago did you first get fat?”

 In a moment of clarity I sat upright on the sofa, pushed the large packet of Doritos, share bag of giant chocolate buttons and litre tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to one side and decided enough was enough. The indulgence had gone on too long and it was time to wake up, draw a line in the sand and make some much needed changes with immediate effect. I then realised that it was Friday so made the rational decision that it was probably better if I started on Monday so not to ruin the weekend too much.

In the old days if you wanted to lose a bit of weight it was quite a simple and straight forward process. Eat a couple of bowls of Special K and do a few morning lunges with the Green Goddess on Breakfast Time and before you knew it you’d dropped a jean size and were being photographed holding out the waist inside a pair of giant trousers.

Modern weight loss however, like with most things these days, has become far more technical and scientific in its research and analysis. And unfortunately in a world where there is Body Mass Index, calories counting and Body Fat Percentages, the facts that emerge don’t always make pleasant reading. These include;

• You need to run for 10 minutes to burn the calories in a packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch (so presumably if you were to eat them whilst running they would cancel each other out?).
• Despite matching the 2500 recommended calorie intake, a large Dominos Mighty Meaty Pizza and 5 pints of beer doesn’t constitute a balanced daily diet (apparently the recommended ‘5 a day’ refers to vegetables rather than varieties of sausage and bacon).
• A normal sized tin of soup is labelled as containing 2 servings (“I know this is going to sound shocking but for lunch today I’m going to throw caution to the wind, rip up the rule book and have a whole can of tomato soup all to myself!”)

Experts (by this I mean people who mostly wear singlets and drink raw eggs for breakfast) say that in order to lose just one pound of fat you must, through diet and exercise, create a deficit of 3500 calories. To put this into context and more understandable terminology, this constitutes;

1. 1 fourteen piece KFC Bargain Bucket.
2. 6.4 Big Macs.
3. 8.5 Greggs Steak Bakes.
4. 41.6 chocolate digestive biscuits.

Old eating habits can be notoriously hard to break and it takes great mental strength and determination to step forward with a whole new mind-set towards food. Adapting to this new lifestyle was far from an easy task but after just one week of not eating bread, swapping oil for Fry Light and weighing out portions of dry pasta I’d already lost;

• My temper an average of 17 times a day.
• Count of the number of times my stomach has rumbled louder than a clap of thunder.
• My title as the all Essex bourbon biscuit speed eating champion.
• The will to live.

My house is currently in the final stages of being sold so over the past few months I have had a number of dealings with many different estate agents. Smartly dressed with the gift of the gab, this is a profession that with the use of clever camera angles and flamboyant descriptive language can create an illusion that even David Copperfield (showing my age) would be proud of. From the information provided you set off to view what appears to be Park Lane, only to discover in reality it bears a far closer resemblance to Old Kent Road. Below is my beginners guide to estate agents translations;

Estate Agent: Deceptively spacious.

Translation: Small.

Estate Agent: Some original features are retained.

Translation: Most have been stolen.

Estate Agent: Part refurbished.

Translation: The owners ran out of money.

Estate Agent: Low maintenance garden.

Translation: Concrete.

Estate Agent: Easy access to local shops, public transport and motorway links.

Translation: Make sure you wear ear plugs at all times.

Estate Agent: Excellent opportunity offering superb value.

Translation: Please help us we’ve been trying to shift this shithole for months.

When the house was initially put on the market the estate agents also used their powers of persuasion to convince me that I was the best person to do all the viewings because, and I quote, “Nobody knows more about your house than you do.” The fact that I have no sales background and zero property knowledge didn’t seem to be an issue so I can only assume they were confident that knowing bin day was Wednesday and that Tony next door likes to use power tools early on Sunday mornings would be sufficient ammunition to secure a number of near to asking price offers.

One issue that I did encounter was that the majority of viewings were booked for first thing in the morning between 9-10.30 am. While I was happy that this would free up the remainder of the day, these timings unfortunately clashed directly with my body clock’s routine liking for ‘a visit to the toilet.’ This repeatedly left me with a big dilemma which had three possible options;

1. Go as planned but risk leaving an aroma in the house that was less appealing than the recommended ‘ground coffee and freshly baked bread.’
2. Hold on and hope that being shown around by someone with facial expressions like they are about to shit themselves wouldn’t be totally off-putting to potential buyers.
3. Go in the garden and blame it on a family pet that there is clearly no other evidence of me owning.

Miraculously, and despite some particularly poor sales patter (“The kitchen is really good for cooking” – as opposed to the lounge), the house sold and I decided to take a few months off working to sort the move and organise my way forward. I was determined not to waste this opportunity of some free time and make sure that I focused on getting my life on track, accomplishing a number of progressive goals and above all making sure that every day was coordinated, productive and a purposeful stepping stone. In all honesty the first month saw me stray slightly from this pledge and was a period of time where my most significant achievements included;

• An 85% success rate in predicting the verdicts on Judge Rinder.
• The compilation of a new Spotify playlist (Nick’s 90s Bangers).
• Watching 2190 minutes of ‘Line of Duty’.
• Joining the Facebook Group ‘Easy Air Fryer Recipes’ when I don’t even own one.

While some may adopt the blinkered opinion that this has been wasted time, I would argue strongly to the contrary using the evidence that I am now almost certainly a more rounded individual for knowing;

1. The procedural workings of a reality TV arbitration based civil courtroom.
2. The lyrics to ‘Blame it on the Weatherman’ by Bewitched off by heart.
3. That an anti-corruption suspect can only be questioned in interview by an officer at least one rank above their own.
4. That Mary-Lou from Orlando is having trouble crisping chicken wings in her Ninja AF100.

Having never previously followed Line of Duty, I binge watched all the previous episodes and was totally taken in by the iconic characters and complex plots filled with countless twists and turns. I also soon discovered that it has the most extensive use of acronyms known to man to the point that it would often be useful to have a translator to keep up with what everyone is talking about. To summarize a recent plot line;

‘The DI from the MIT who is an AFO was told by a CHIS that the UCO in the OCG had been in an RTC and suffered a GSW. The DCI who is also the SIO got the DCS, ACC and the DCC, joined the ARU,TFC and SFC in a ARV before confirming their TOA and meeting the CSE and FME who arrived in a IRV. On discovering a ED905 with links to the RUC they set up an OP, told the CPS and then the DS, the CC and a WPC all read about ACDC in the NME and went for a KFC.’

Having watched so many episodes in such a short space of time, AC12 and their pursuit of bent coppers started to take over my life and I became convinced that I had witnessed the dealings of a local organised crime gang. Setting up a complex covert surveillance team (me through my son’s bedroom window curtains with a pair of ‘Dora the Explorer’ binoculars) I observed a distinct pattern of suspect packages being delivered by the same person from the same vehicle to the same property over a prolonged period of time. I grabbed my police issue protection vest (North Face body warmer), hi-tech tracking equipment (mini torch from last year’s Home Bargains Christmas cracker) and my official ID (Tesco club card) and moved in to apprehend the suspect. After some intense interrogation (quick chat on the pavement) it turned out that he wasn’t part of a ruthless International drugs cartel that operated on intimidation and violence after all. He was Malcolm, a 68 year old semi-retired Amazon delivery driver who’d been dropping parcels to my neighbour whose online shopping addiction had spiralled out of control during lockdown.

He was however able to give me some interesting information regarding the highly illusive ‘Fourth Man’, telling me that it wasn’t actually Detective Superintendent Ian Buckells after all. In the biggest twist so far, it turns out that the real ‘H’ is not even a police officer but after finishing 7^th on ‘Dancing on Ice’ is currently in final rehearsals for a summer season at Butlins Bognor Regis with the rest of Steps.

Thanks again for reading, keep smiling and by the time of my next blog hopefully the world will be a different place.