Originally published at supple.co.uk. You can comment here or there.

Going to the gym can be depressing, as I found out today.

I expected my healthy living regime had taken a turn for the worse from a bit of over-indulgence over the bankholiday weekend, and in the last two weeks the occasional curry or takeaway with booze and the very rare fish and chips at lunchtime. However.. 8 fucking pounds in two weeks!!!

And a horrible thing happened today as well. The true test of fatness is not what the scales say, but when the largest girl in the gym comes up and starts chatting away to you. It’s like you’re automatically signed up to the munter club where members spot each other and start nattering away. I need out of this gang!

Actually, I’m used to this in clubs when I’m strutting my stuff on the dance floor. I don’t try chatting up women because (a) I have a girlfriend, (b) I think women have a right to just have a night out without men bugging them and (c) I would no doubt look and sound like an utter twat, but when I do get a woman come up and start dancing with me and/or (usually ‘or’) thrusting her arse against my crouch it’s very rarly the slim, young attractive girl but more likely to be a cross between an Umpa-Lumpa and a Morlock. However when I get accosted sober it seems to hit home more.

So as of now, no more messing about! Until my Rome holiday in June I am making a pledge not to have a drop of alcohol pass my lips and my food will be as healthy as I can make it. I will also get to the gym at least three times a week for a proper session. I’m then going to have to see how my weight goes. Hopefully down.

My wine collection can stay in the rack unless Lisa wants it, but I think the Guinness in the fridge can be donated to her dad.

Determination! Yeah!