18th Jan - Confessing my Addiction

As regular readers of my diary will know, I've been recovering from a nasty bout of man-flu this week, and today, I've spent much of my productive best in bed, binging Afterlife, the Ricky Gervais sitcom (not sure you can call it a 'sitcom' actually, some scenes are more morbid than watching Prince Andrew in a nursery). This time, though - despite various unfounded claims from my partner that I'm 'dramatic' (such insults verge on propaganda, if you ask me!), you can truly tell my illness is not faked or exaggerated in the slightest, because even my appetite's gone. 

That's right. The man who once championed La Salsa Cantina's El Champion Burrito challenge in Las Vegas 2016 (I've still got the T-Shirt to prove it), has been defeated, by the lurgies. In all seriousness though, my temporary starvation got me thinking, about our lifestyle here in the United Kingdom, and I certainly take a degree of umbrage with our educational system when assessing my own lifelong yo-yo pattern with weight. The first thing I'll add, is that my choices and nothing more, have led to a particular gain of chub - over the past few years especially - during my adult years. There is no magical formula, or excuses over being 'big-boned', it's a simple scientific formula dependant on calorie deficits and surplus. 

But, as I mentioned during a chat with a friend today, an alcoholic cannot be scorned for his/her addiction, likewise with how anger cannot fix the insatiable demand of the crack-hungry junkie slumped in a doorway. These problems begin at a much earlier stage, through small lifestyle choices which become gateways, and habits. If you find yourself drinking more vodkas than soft drinks on a daily occasion, then the next time you're opposed with such a choice, it's time to grab a Volvic. Likewise when you start noticing your Monzo breakdown of JustEat bills, it's imperative to ensure your next sustenance is coming from a salad. It's only when we repeatedly make the wrong choices that they can become habits, and habits lead to addictions.

Now, here in 2022, we are better educated on the healthier options available to us than ever before. Hence why - as above - you'll find me making no excuses. With a range of vegan and vegetarian items on the market, there are quick-to-nuke ready meals, easy-and-simple cookery books, and just about every cellophane wrapper or listing on a restaurant menu shows a detailed enough breakdown to input into MyFitnessPal, or similar. But growing up in my generation, apps like this were not yet founded, and red meat was seen as a 'strong' part of a homely meal, the fuel on the fire for a hard-working testerone-pumped Father who had been getting his hands oily all day. The latter, in my case, was a violent bigamist, an alcoholic, and a scoundrel, and my Mother - through no harm, but her own affection - would seek to lavish me with delicious pleasantries as a comfort. Sausage rolls, or Jaffa Cakes, things that could fill a certain void of misdirected guilt, as she shouldered the blame for my sperm donor's failings as a man.

Well, alas, at least I could turn to a healthy and nutritious meal during School hours. But, no. Because our canteen was awash with Gillian McKeith's worst nightmare. Slices of pizza, hamburgers, cheese-soaked chips, and bacon baps. All made readily available in takeaway packaging for repugnant teens to fuel their acne with, scoffing down on the school field mid-way through a kick-about before nonchalantly tossing the wrappers onto a litter-clad grassy knoll. The school would offer up one 'proper' meal per-day during the chaos of the noisy and packed food-hall. A shepherds pie, or toad in the hole, served up on a giant china plate with mixed veg and a real metal knife & fork, as opposed to the takeaway plastic cutlery. Except such was the hustle-bustle nature of the speedy in-and-out footfall of the venue, only the social pariahs and retarded were silly enough to dare attempt such a culinary choice, and were swiftly bullied for doing so. I'd seen Chris Buckle thrown into a hedge, Daniel Bore receive a flurry of steel-toe capped boots to the shin, and Ben Jenkins with his head flushed down a shitty toilet for daring tackle the bravery of a meal soaked in gravy, and had no intentions of joining their club. 

So yes, right now, my abdominal plight has been caused by my own adult 'stress-busters', the Chinese takeaway and movie nights, the pints of Stella, and the chilli-soaked kebab on the way home. Though, here in 2022, I'm now tackling this issue with a degree of purpose and vigour, I cannot deny that the seeds of my lifestyle were planted into a habit at an age with few alternate options. A habit - just as that piss-soaked tramp with the needle hanging out of his arm can tell you...

Will, sadly, then become an addiction.