Destroyer of Foreheads

Chunky but funky

Disaster.

I'm 88.5 kg again! 

I went on a work trip to Nottingham last week where I had 3 cooked meals every day, zero exercise, and beer every night.  Imagine my suprise when sitting naked on the toilet (with a full length mirror in front of me- a baffling decor decision by the hoteliers), I saw undergut. 

We all know what underboob is.  Underbelly is the unpleasant lower-abdominal equivalent.  Where the belly protrudes from the body, it's the bottom of the curve- often the part exposed by a t-shirt not designed for the job of being, frankly, maternity wear.

This.......................................................................Not this.

 

Anway, I'm off to Nottingham next week again.  I'm going to burn this fat off asap, so that when I'm sat slightly pissed and naked on the toilet in a hotel on a Wednesday night, hopefully I won't see undergut.

Anyway, a song to take the mind off what I look like naked on a toilet.

 

 

 

 

 

Weight loss.

So, here we are!  2 weeks into the weight loss regime!  On the day I weighed myself I was down to ~85kg- a loss of 3kg!

Rock and fuckin' roll!  I've made zero changes to my diet, and do no more exercise than I used to.  The only difference is that I've cut out about 4 litres of beer (7 pints, ~1200 kcal) out of my weekly drinking regime.  I must admit however, that the day I weighed myself I was stark naked, and had just finished my second monsterous shite of the day.

I still had to lean forward slightly to see the digits on the scale.  Beer belly was in the way.  So was penis.

 

What a tune this is!

 The owl!

Bit of a fat c-unit.

After a holiday in Germany with the family, I return to Oxford ever so slightly more rotund than when I left. 

This is part of an ongoing issue that stretches back to when my boy was born- it's common knowledge that there's a link between sleep deprivation and weight gain.  Since he angrily burst forth into an unsuspecting world 2.5 years ago, the little git has rarely put together more than a couple of weeks of unbroken sleep.  Thus I have gained some weight.

I've noticed that when I play football, it takes me a good 20 yards of running to accelerate to a full sprinting pace.  I also notice with some dismay that my trousers aren't quite as comfy as perhaps they once were.  Further to that it's come to my attention that my preferred underwear type, boxer trunks, which usually have a 3cm elasticated waist band, are occasionally A) bunched horribly around my balls and arse and B) the front portion of my boxer-trunk-elasticated-3cm-waistband sometimes unaccountably finds itself folded forward.  Whisper it quietly, but I think the downward pressure might just come from my beer gut.

So I find myself now at a fork in the road- continue down the path of growing into a great big unit of a man, or make a few changes in order that I slim down and stop needing to adjust my underpants when I'm sat in meetings.  It's ridiculous really if you stop to consider the logistics- I've got to inhale, pull in my gut, and serruptitiously yank up my boxer-trunk-waist band.  Then I've got to sort out the gusset and legs of the boxer-trunks because now they're scrunched up around my loins, creating an irritating sweaty heatsink.   So then I pull the legs of my boxers back down my thighs and alla-kazamm I've got a folded over waistband again because my gut's resting the bastard thing.

It is therefore an obvious choice- time to get in shape.   This morning I was 88 kg (194lbs, or 13.9 stone for those confused by the metric system).  I have yet to devise any specific goals or speak to a doctor about getting back in shape, but I think a good marker is that I was about 80kg before the sleep thief was born.  That gives me about 15-20 lbs to lose.  Really though I'm not so concerned about the final weight, more about weight distribution on my body.

I'll track my progress here for the next 6 weeks and we'll see what happens.

Strange people and things I've seen this week.

Monday AM.  A man in his 60s wearning a pair of tiny shorts and a wife beater, along with a pair of beetle crushers.  Skanking down the Woodstock Road shuggling his hips and doing jazz hands at passing cars.

Tuesday.  A man on rollerblades wearing a Richard Nixon mask hurtling down Broad Street.  He had a speaker inside the mask broadcasting spoken word, but he was travelling too fast for me to catch the jist of it.

Wednesday.  A dog shit in a kebab box sat on top of a telecoms junction box on New Street.

Thursday.  A toothless old man in Sainsburys needed me to explain the workings of a vegetable weighing scale.  Once I'd educated him on the matter he thanked me for my time and immediately accosted a passing woman to 'help him find yellow fruit.'

There are a lot of weird people here!

Worrying gains.

My weight when Peter was born: 12 stone 7 pounds.

My weight now: 14 stone, or 196 lbs.

Time elapsed: 15 months.

Weight gain per month: 0.93 lbs.

 

Assuming that my weight continues to soar, unabated, my weight when Peter turns 21:

(21 years x 12 months- 15 months) x 0.93 +196= 417 lbs, or just shy of 30 stone.

Something must be done.

My plan of campaign will be as follows: football twice a week as usual.  Swimming once, workout in the morning prior to work on Tuesday and Wednesday and no beer throughout May*.

*Except for the times I decide I want some, obv.

I'll track my progress here.  14 stone.  Fuck me....

Daft punk

The hardest thing to do with these blogs, or any other sort of writing is staying in practice.   I've not posted here in nearly 7 months (it's probably the baby's fault), and now what?  I don't write anything anymore, I don't play the guitar anymore; my creative powers have waned!  I've used them all up in my part of creating a 15 month old 25lb terror!

To whit- here is some stolen content in leiu of anything original by me.

Now this is a catchy little tune

Goldfish- We Come Together. They're Sith Ifrikaan!

Son's first illness

Poor old bump.  He's been striken down in his infancy with a malady that could snuff out a lesser baby's life.   Stoically, he fights on, but the war is not without cost- I'm fucking knackered and he's given me a cold the little beast.

___

With Mrs Doff going back to work, the wee man is now attending mother and toddler groups with his grandmother who has taken over part time care.  This is no doubt a brilliant thing- it's important that he's socialised with other babies and gets some context of his place in the world.  Sometimes I watch a program called 'It's me or the dog' in which some ill-tempered woman says that her useless shit of a husband needs to sort out his revolting dog's behaviour or she's going to leave him.  Along comes Victoria Stillwell to put things in order:

(phwooar!  She could instill a bit of discipline in OUR households, eh lads?!)

Modelled on a cross between Anne Robinson and a dominatrix, she berates the rubbish dog owner man for his refusal to discipline or socialise his awful dogs while his smug bitch of a wife stands there, nodding with her arms folded and her mouth puckered up like a cat's arsehole.  Frankly I get the impression that most of the men on the program rather enjoy being downtrodden and abused by this feisty bit of crumpet and feel a measure of disappointment when they have to go back to their pillow shaped wives after the program, but that's neither here nor there. 

Anyway, long story short, the owners get trained in looking after their dogs properly which often involves letting the things hang about with their own kind for a little while each week.  And that's what Bump's Grandma is doing by taking him to mother and toddler group.  To be honest neither the Mrs or I can think of any worse way to spend our time than in the company of other people and their repulsive children so it's a huge boon to us that Grandma is prepared to do it in our stead.

There is a cost however.   Now he's coming into contact with these kids, he's got a cold.  At 10PM last night his cold was rather sweet- he was a bit tragic and weepy, so I put him down to bed and he began to snore.  A tiny, gentle, peaceful little buzzing, like a vibrator accidentally turned on in a knicker drawer, as he dozed off.   Lovingly, we looked down into the cot, met oneanother's eyes and shared a moment of parental pride (we still get those), and off we went to bed...

11PM he was up.  No problem soothe the boy back to sleep.

12AM he was up.  Hmm.  This doesn't bode well.

1.30AM he was up.  Ugh.  I feel like I've got a cold.  On the plus side, Mrs Doff starts tickling my legs and scrotum as I try to calm the baby.

3AM.  You must be kidding me.  Seriously?  Jesus Christ.  Ok, poor kid.  *takes a deep breath and goes to soothe him again.

4.30.  FUCK.  FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCK.  A vein starts pulsating on the side of my head.

6.40.  Up I get.  My nerves are quite literally fried.  Stuff is pouring out of my nose and this thrice-damned child is demanding attention AGAIN!

I love this kid- it's important to make that clear, but my word.  What a night.  And now he's going to these Mother and Toddler things nearly daily and in the back of my mind I remember someone describing parenthood to me as a 4 year long cold during which you're never allowed to get better. You age faster than you ever will again and suddenly the realisation hits that you never see a parent truly happy in the company of their children until the day they finally leave home.

compose.

When you log in to the typepad interface, it has a button that says 'compose.'  This takes you to a new screen where you scribe your thoughts.  Thing is, Mozart, Greig, Beethoven, these guys compose(d).  The daft fuckers who write these blogs do nothing of the sort.

song of the week HAHA and a brief soliloquy of fatherhood.

Last night was that most beautiful and rarest of things.  Mrs Doff was out with Baby when I got home from work, which allowed me to have an entire hour to myself!  Furthermore, they'd exhuasted themselves having a day of activities, meaning that Her Indoors was in bed by just gone 10 and he too was asleep by 10.30!  I'd struck gold!  I had the run of the flat, beer in the fridge, an endless supply of entertainment on the internet!

I guess it was 10.45 by the time I was in bed myself.

....

My youth seems to be gone, c'est la vie.  There is great comfort to be found in memories though, and who amongst the early internet cognisceti could forget schifty-five?