Well, it’s the first day back at work after the long weekend and it was mediocre. Had a couple of days where I ate more than normal, and it was a disaster – the scales had me at 3.9kg more than the weigh in on Saturday. I can’t believe how ridiculous that is! I’ve never recorded such a weight gain after a free day. I’m wondering if my body is not enjoying the low calorie diet I’ve been consuming for the last couple of weeks. I’m wondering if it’s having the opposite effect. I’m worried if I consume more that it’ll be a disaster, also. I can’t win really! So I’m gonna suck it up and keep around 1100 calories this week.

The weigh in was bad, even though I stayed within my calories and worked out five times last week – I was the same as the week before – 66.1kg. I know the free days on the weekends don’t help, but I need to be able to relax my diet sometimes! It’s not fair that I do and get so punished for it! Argh. I’m going to think of a nice meal I want to have on Saturday and have that be the only ‘extra’ I have this week. I would love a weekend that I’m not obliged to drink, or be around people who are. I don’t enjoy it if I have to abstain and watch everyone get sloshed.

There’s only a month and a couple of weeks until we leave Wellington now, and our financial situation isn’t too encouraging – I’m hoping to get this sorted out so that I won’t feel too stressed and turn to food for ‘comfort’. In reality, it does so for the few minutes post-consumption, then quickly turns into regret!

Anyway, I’ll quit there with the negative overtones and try and focus positively on this week – I’m looking forward to my muscles becoming more defined and getting closer to fitting my goal jeans. I know that even if the scale is barely moving like I’m needing it to for this challenge, the consolation is to be looking good! I bought the jeans a while ago and they’re a New Zealand size 10, although I’m sure they’re quite a small size 10. Glassons aren’t exactly reknowned for their consistency in sizing!

I’m still undecided as to what I should do at the gym tonight. I’m really not motivated enough to go. I don’t know what I’m going to eat for dinner. See what crap results does for your self esteem? It really doesn’t help it. We have barely any food in the house so I might put together some scraps from the pantry and hope it’s palatable enough!

Day Nine

Breakfast

Nutrigrain, 25g – 95

Apple, 150g – 78

Lunch

2 x Plums, 225g – 104

Chocolate Crunchy Nut Carbless Bar – 171

Snacks

Chocolate Fudge Carbless Bar – 180

Dinner

Cinderella Instant Mashed Potato, 100g – 65

Gravy, 62.5 mL – 25

Tomato, 100g – 18

Smoked Tuna, small tin – 239

Total: 976 calories

When you spend a chunk of your life savings on improving your appearance, I think it’s fairly reasonable to expect your nearest and dearest to show a little support and enthusiasm. If I’m honest I think after the amount of fucking money I’ve spent I deserved an “Extreme Makeover” style finale; descending the marble staircase of a Victorian country manor while all my family and friends applaud and shed tears of joy… The fact that I’ve got no friends and my family are all dead is besides the point.

I’m the second youngest of 4 kids. One brother and two sisters. When we were growing up my little sister Kim was obsessed with clothes and fashion. It was the early 1990’s and we lived on Wythenshawe council estate; my Mum was on disability benefits (nothing wrong with her) and my Dad used to make his living robbing and selling chimney pots off peoples rooftops with a bent-nosed window cleaner called Geoffrey Mincer; so as you can imagine, we weren’t exactly rolling in it. Any “new” clothes my Mum bought were from the Salvation Army and all us kids had to make do with hand-me-downs that didn’t fit from cousins we never met. This turned out to be Kim’s bread and butter. Had she been alive today I’m sure she’d be a famous fashion mogul. When she was just 7 years old my grandma taught her how to use a sewing machine and during the school holidays she used to sit in the front garden and charge people on the estate for a while-u-wait sewing service. £1 for adjustments and £2 to sew a fake “Nike” or “Adidas” label on to your t-shirt. Her most successful weekend saw her pocket £40. Imagine that for a 7 year old, even today. My Dad spent it on whiskey and Hamlets, got pissed, puked into his Sunday dinner and then beat the shit out of us with a wrench.

Being the brother of a fashion guru meant that all my clothes were converted to Nike for free… but in order to help my sisters talents flourish someone had to play guinea pig. By the time I was 12 my Dad had walked in on me so many times wearing a dress and high heels he was convinced I was gay; every time he caught me an argument would ensue between him and my Mum as to the origins of this strange habit “he’s a fuckin‘ faggot, Janine, I’m telling you”. Mum used to defend me by saying I was “probably just a bit of a tranny“. She knew I wasn’t gay because it was round about this time that she walked in on me dry-humping one of my teddies with a picture of Pamela Anderson sellotaped over it’s face.

All things considered I think that had my family been alive today to see my transformation, they’d have been over the moon. Kim would have loved the flash clothes and fancy labels; my Dad might finally believe me to be heterosexual; Mum would be pleased to see I now have the potential to give her grandchildren that weren’t part-grizzly; and my older siblings Danny and Claire would have just been happy to see me wearing something that didn’t require they spend all day telling people to leave me alone.

Unfortunately I’m forced to rely on these imagined reactions of dead family members because if I was hoping for the nod of approval from my girlfriend I might as well sit around and wait for Danni Minogue’s face to stop being as vile as the worm infested turd of an aids patient. For those of you who have read the previous episodes of this blog and took note of my passing references to Suzanne and her infidelities, I’m willing to bet that the mental picture you’ve built up of her looks something like this… like most girls dating a goggle-eyed geek, she’s a bit dorky herself; svelte, timid, badly dressed in materials that resemble grandmas old curtains, but nevertheless still quite cute in an “Ugly Betty” kinda way. As for the reason for her infidelities, you might imagine my hermit like existence and preoccupation with my own insecurities have led her to feel unappreciated; the neglected partner of a sad loser, forced to look elsewhere for the love and attention she deserves. Ha. Yeah right!

You wanna know what Suzanne looks like. Imagine a pig with fingers and haemorrhoid’s… that’s Suzanne! She’s 18 stone. The tits on her back are bigger than the ones on her front. She smokes 40 Superkings and drinks 8 warm cans of 9% lager a day. She wears the same white t-shirt and black pyjama pants 24/7. She farts and follows through (I wash her knickers). I accidentally dropped her toothbrush down the toilet last December, she never even noticed or replaced it. She sits and watches TV in the same spot from the moment she wakes up to the moment she falls asleep, all the while having the audacity to say “look at the state of that tramp” to any female celeb that comes on screen. The dent in the leather settee where she parks her big fat arse holds 3 pints of water (yes, I’ve tested this). And because of this lack of movement we have an entire shelf in the bathroom dedicated to her haemorrhoid treatment.

Now, I might be somewhat of an ugly twat, but if anyone should be cheating in this relationship it should be me. At least I brush my teeth and wipe my arse properly. Yes I neglect Suzanne, but can you fucking blame me? Me, I’ve been a tin-ribbed little tosser since the day we first met outside my Nana’s house on Poundwick Lane; she at least had some idea of what to expect. For me though, that first meeting held no clue as to what I was letting myself in for. Quite the opposite in fact.

When I was about 12 years old my Nana got sick and had to have one of her legs amputated about half-way up her thigh. I’ve told you the money situation, there was no way in hell the old bird was getting a prosthetic limb to hop around on. We had to make one! The first attempt involved me distracting a bunch of shop assistants in Mark & Spencer pretending to be lost while my brother Danny sawed the leg off one of their mannequins. The hollow leg slotted over my Nans stump perfectly and we held it in place with silver duct tape. It looked weird seeing my 80-odd year old nan with one long slim sexy leg. She couldn’t walk on it cause it was about 12 inches longer than her real leg; plus it didn’t bend at the knee, so we struggled wheeling her round the supermarket in her wheelchair because her foot kept knocking things of the shelves. You can imagine the kind of stick I received at school. My Nans sexy leg had to go.

For two whole weeks I locked myself in our garden shed and engineered a replacement using a broom stick (the bones), a door hinge (the knee joint) and tons of papier-mâché. One week of moulding and sanding later and I’d built the the perfect granny-shaped leg complete with a flesh covered stocking for added effect. When I took my Nana her new leg she was over the moon but told me she couldn’t wear it because I’d forgotten to put a foot on it. I couldn’t believe it. How could I forget the FOOT? I went and sat outside on the pavement thinking about all the piss taking I was going to have to put up with for yet another week, when out of the blue…

“What’s that?”

I looked up to see the most beautiful curly-haired blond girl in dungarees pointing at my Nans new leg. Too miserable to be nervous or think up some impressive lie, I told her everything that had happened and my failed attempt to fix it.

“I’ve got an idea!” she said, before dashing off and returning five minutes later with a hammer and nail from her Dads shed.

“What am I gonna do with these?” I asked.

She took off one of her Nike Air Max trainers and handed it to me. “Put a foot on it.”

My Nana wore that leg until she choked to death on a peach stone 8 years later and me and Suzanne have been together ever since.

I sometimes wonder if it’s a bit paedo to remember a 12 year old girl as being beautiful? I’m sure if the 12 year old Suzanne stood in front of me now she’d just look like every other little snot nosed tart with mucky knees and elbows; but still, that’s the Suzanne I miss and love. That’s the Suzanne I was hoping for when I showed her the new-look me this weekend; inquisitive, enthusiastic, generous and wanting to make me smile. Instead, all I got was “Didn’t you get me anything?” and “It doesn’t suit you, you look like a fucking idiot!”.

It breaks my heart to see how she… we have turned out; to think my own girlfriend makes me feel physically sick. It breaks my heart even more to think that out of the two of us, she’s the one whose been able to find someone else to turn to. I mean, what does that say about me? A few weeks ago I’d have probably said that it just goes to show how undesirable I am, but now I’m more inclined to say this; I’ve been faithful, period! I haven’t found anyone else to turn to because I haven’t been looking. Despite nearly half-a-decade of celibacy and wanking into my Reebok socks. Despite her chronic piles and having to wash her shitty knickers twice a week on a 90° cycle (our electricity bill is ridiculous). Despite the fact that she’s been unfaithful to me for the past 3 years and lies to me every time she goes out to meet her little fuck buddy. Despite all this, I’ve been faithful. Well you know what? Now it’s my turn. I’ve been fantasizing about black girls, tit wanks, rimming, spanking and tea-bagging for too fucking long now. All I know is I’m in a city with over 50 massage parlours and I’ve got an invite to a Halloween party next weekend where I’ve been told the girls will outnumber the guys by 5 to 1. Be it free at the party or £80 per hour at the parlour, I am going to cheat on Suzanne this week. And should I get hit with a sudden pang of guilt or apprehension, I’m going to remind myself of the following…

The last time me and Suzanne had sex was four years ago. We were at her sisters party and after a couple of glasses of wine Suzanne led me upstairs into the spare room. Kissing and touching me passionately she pushed me down on the bed and said “You wait right here, I’ll be back in a minute.”. I lay there for about 10 minutes thinking I was in for a treat. Had the mixture of wine and a rare night out together reignited the flame? And what was taking her so long? She must be getting herself all fixed up, maybe even putting on a sexy outfit of her sisters. My cock was like a fucking metal baseball bat. A couple of minutes later she walked back in the room in the same clothes she left in. With her hand down the back of her pants scratching her arse she said “Sorry babe, I just needed to do a shit before we started.”

We’re all in the kitchen with a gossip magazine…our team is of girls only… so imagine that!

There was a picture of Britney Spears… one just before her loosing weight… you know when she’s wearing a bikini at the beach and she has a gut.

girl1: OMG who’s that
FB: Its Britney off course
girl2: Ohh… uhmmm yeah
Me: Only that she’s fat now
FB: I can’t believe you’re calling her fat, I know what I look like but have you looked at the mirror lately
Me: Of course I have, but I am not a celebrity and I am not in the public eye… if I was I’d be at the gym everyday…. If I was a celebrity and had that gut I wouldn’t be caught dead in that bikini by any papparazi
FB: I can’t believe you just said that, I’m not having this discussion with you…

FB gets up and leaves while saying: You’re the fucking reason this world is so into appearances and why girls are all bulimic…..

I so heard her!
BITCH…

I am right on this one I’m sorry…. Maybe I should have shut up…. but I don’t know I believe if you are a celebrity you are going to get criticized by me… by everyone….

If you are a fat bitch and your upset about it go loose weight! Drink freaking slim fast! Get operated…. but don’t let out your frustrations on me because your ass has more craters then the moon and you don’t do a think to loose your gut…..

Its called working out or high self-esteem… choose one or the other!

This is a glimpse of how i see the world around me, we will start off with scenario and then quickly move to the two subjects that i have chosen today to describe in such a way, so you could see through my prospective. To start of with i shall also like to thank Mystic Molvi for keeping my identity secret as unveiling it would put me in greater troubles.

To my memory, it was an extremely normal day, so normal that i had almost died of boredom and the only thing left to fill any excitement was that days newspaper, which lay on the left side of my dark walnut wood victorian styled table, i sat starring at it and there i saw in a picture the first of the two people i will be describing, Johnny Diablo.