a pound, I shit a pound

Right then,

I finally decided it is time to do something about my weight and last Wednesday I went and enrolled at Weightwatchers.

I didn't know what to expect, I had images of Majorie Dawes and Yvonne from Peter Kay's Slimming World tale. It is not a million miles away!

After filling in more forms than your average civil servant, I was finally enrolled, and Danielle (the leader) invited me onto the scales. Now it is about 4 years since I last weighed myself but I thought I had a fair idea of my weight. To my horror it was almost 2 stone higher than I'd anticipated, which left me with the feeling that I'd made the right decision to attend.

As a new member, you are invited stay for the meeting and afterwards the leader will take you through how the weightwatchers points system works etc. The meeting begins with Danielle standing in front of a before and after picture of herself 'from fat munter to slim ugly pig'. She then proceed to pass around a 1lb block of lard to make those who'd lost only a 1lb realise how much that was. Lots of oohs and aahhs later, she passed around a bag with 12lb of weight in it. The challenge was in the 12 weeks up to Christmas to aim to lose a lb a week. Nods all around. At this point, my mind started to drift as she'd mentioned fish and chips wiping out a day's points....Mmmmm Fish n Chips!!

After being inflicted to a further 15 minutes of prattle from fat middle aged scrubbers talking about water retention and how one of them got so pissed her grandson had to put her to bed, I'd really had enough.

So, then it begun. My diet allows me quite a lot of scope as I get more points for being a man, more for being 35, shit loads more for being a fat cunt. Fish n Chips could be accomodated for less than half my daily points allowance. Despite a couple of early wobbles on the weekend with my niece's birthday I managed to stick to this diet relatively easily and well below my points allowance.

Tonight, I went back with some apprehension for my weigh in, as it got closer to my turn, I got really quite nervous, what if I'd not lost anything? what if my Friday night had scuppered my week?

Well fuck all of that, cos I lost 11 lb in a week, and like they do on the videprinter (eleven fucking pounds). So tonight I'm well happy and more determined than before to continue with this. I'm not comfortable telling all how much I weigh but once I've lost a bit I'll probably say what it was. My staged goals are all about losing 10% of my weight and I'm well on my way to goal number 1.

I've set my own objectives, to be able to shop at regular high street stores like M&S rather than High & Mighty as well as feeling able to fly economy!

Look out for donuts before and after picture in a sunday supplement before Xmas 2009!

More updates to follow

Donuts

Things you're still doing in your forties that you should have given up in your twenties

Thinking you’ve a chance with 19-year old girls
Pissing in bottles on coaches
Actually travelling on coaches
“Doing the day”
Thinking that Heskey “has got something”
Watching MTV Base
Checking out what people are wearing at the match
Considering buying a motorbike
Facebook
Talking about the performance of cars
“Turning your arm over for a few overs in the summer”
Searching for clothes that you wore in your twenties
Getting involved in a pub brawl
Arguing about God/politics/football
Going the rugby
Going the shop in your trackie bottoms and replica shirt
Willing the ball to come to you when you pass some kids playing football
Not eating on a Saturday
Listening to four skinny indie kids in a bar in Camden
Dancing
Spending more money than the previous year on a winter coat.
Browsing through the lads mags section in Smiths
Being shocked by pornography
Considering taking up smoking as it’s becoming too unfashionable
Getting your ear/nipple/lip pierced
Discussing who is currently the best rapper
Cheating on the missus with some ugly trollop
Eagerly awaiting the latest adidas reissues
Trawling myspace to listen to the band on the cover of this week’s NME
(Even) Considering buying an ironic tee shirt
Playing 5-a-side football. And taking it seriously
Buying pudding, chips and peas at midnight on your way home from the pub
Doing drugs

As Pizza Hut becomes Pasta Hut here's a small tale

Nail your top takeaways.

Mine are simple
Kebab
Kentucky
Pizza.

Still remember the first time I tasted ‘em all. Not cosmopolitan me. I’m from Wigan. Brought up on lobbies and braising steak and liver and chips. Egg and chips when we skint. But always a roast on a Sunday. Mum and dad made sure of that. Always ate well on a Sunday. And then on Mondays we’d have cold meat with chips. Used to love it when it was lamb as the fat tasted so nice.

Probably that’s why I love kebab. Still remember the day when I first tasted a kebab. Little restaurant up from Camden Town. Primrose Hill way. Nice little gaff and I sat down and had beer, kebab and chips. On a plate with salad and chilli peppers.

We had salad on a Sunday at home. Sunday dinner was roast while Sunday tea was salad. Grandma White insisted on it. Always said: “You can’t beat a good salad.” Never had chilli peppers in our salad though. Never had a salad like I had with the kebab. Still remember the taste. Can food taste beautiful. Well that kebab did that night. Never had it on a plate with a knife and fork since but…

First time I had Kentucky was on the County Road before an Everton game. Must have been 14 or 15. Surrounded by rapscallions, trying to disguise the woollyback accent. Letting the scouse mates do the talking and then sink the teeth into something unworldly. Breadcrumbs and chicken and spices and that taste and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’m more jerk chicken now but there are no faded photos of Marcus Garvey in Muswell Hill. Jah Rastafari has not made it to N10. So it’s still Kentucky in Muswell Hill and it still moves my soul on sad and lonely nights when I’ve had too much to drink and too long to think.

And pizza is pizza. And pizza is girls. When I first came to London it was Pizza Hut at Stamford Hill. Pizza and mulled wine and beautiful girls called Rose. Laughing and joking. Big multi-racial gang of us. Me from the north with these North London folk that let me into their world. And I let them into mine. Had some laughs in that Pizza Hut. Good folk – my friends.

Still go to Pizza Hut when I’m with a girl. Was in the one around Leicester Square with Janet the other week. Straight from work and bloody Wham were in there. Made her day. All sat there. George Michael, Andrew, Pepsi and Shirley. Four of ‘em just sat there having pizza and Coca Cola. Laughing away like we do up in Stamford Hill. Flirting before the fucking. Top of the Pops and still in Pizza Hut. Sort of made me smile that.

Went over and said hello and got the lads to sign a napkin for Janet. Didn’t want to disturb them but they were fine. Took it back to the table and it really made her day. The girl with the biggest, brightest smile in the world flashed it towards me.

Might go out and buy Wham’s next single now. Made my mate’s day and you can’t ask for anything more than that...

Sonnets of Wigan - No 1

Shall I compare thee to a Wigan day?
Thou art more filthy and far less ornate:
Rough birds do shake my massive spuds of spray,
And my Johnny Bag hath too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of plonker shines,
And oft' is his purple headed bulb dimm'd;
And every bird from Ince sometime declines,
By chance or more crabs changing minge untrimm'd:
But thy eternal dole cheque shall not fade
Nor lose currency of thou sweaty breast;
Nor shall Death brag thou fat arse in his shade,
When in eternal pies to belly thou growest:

So long as Brocol House gives free money,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


The Bard of Wigan

The Ghost between the Posts

A cold wind blows around the vast deserted dark stadium. The only sound to be heard comes from the scuttling litter being blown hither and thither under the seats across the concrete terraces. No one sees the pale figure in the goalmouth standing guard for an attack that will never come. John Thomson, the ghost between the posts.

John Thomson was born in the Fife mining village of Cardenden on January 28th 1909. When he left school he did what most men in this community did, he worked down the pit. Outside of work he played football for local side Wellesley Juniors and he gained a reputation for being an excellent goalkeeper. Celtic were alerted to his talent and he signed for the club at the age of 17. £10 secured his services and it was surely the best £10 the club ever spent. At 18 he made his first team debut in a 2-1 win at Dundee and he went on to become the first choice goalkeeper at the club.

He wasn’t the tallest of keepers being around 5ft 10in but he was a superbly athletic one and was renown for his bravery. That same bravery would cost him his life at the tender age of just 22.

John’s talent was backed up by hard evidence. In his short career he won two Scottish Cup medals with Celtic, in 1927 against East Fife 3-1 and in 1931 against Motherwell 4-2. He was also picked for the national team and won four caps for Scotland and four for the Scottish League side.

Sadly his promising career came to an abrupt and cruel end at Ibrox on Saturday, September 5th 1931. 80,000 witnessed it and not a one would ever forget the tragedy that unfolded that day. Rangers v Celtic one of the greatest derbies in the history of football has always been a passionate affair and it was young John Thomson’s final day of his life. Early in the second half of the game the Rangers centre forward Sam English broke through the Celtic defence and moved swiftly towards the goal. Thomson was off his line in a flash and raced out to block the imminent shot. There was a sickening collision and both men fell to the floor. English got up but the young keeper lay prone on the turf. He was obviously badly hurt and was hurriedly placed on a stretcher. One report said that as he was being taken from the pitch he managed to raise himself up and looked back towards his goal before collapsing back unconscious. A hush fell upon the huge crowd as he was carried down the tunnel but one piercing scream rang out from the main stand when John’s wife of a couple months saw her stricken husband. He was taken to the Victoria Infirmary in Glasgow. At 9:25pm that night John Thomson died.

Sam English was cleared of any blame in the incident, it was purely a tragic accident. In the collision as Thomson bravely dived at the attackers feet the knee of English struck a mortal blow to the goalkeepers head. It was the first old firm derby that English had played in and it was only his 7th game for the club. He was never the same man again and throughout his career he was taunted by fans who blamed him for the death of the keeper. The fact is he was blameless, it was a shocking accidental collision with no malice intended. Sam English was 23 at the time of the accident and he retired from the game 5yrs later. He died on April 27th 1967 aged 58.

The funeral of John Thomson was attended by over 30,000 people, , including thousands who had travelled from Glasgow, some of them had even walked the 55 miles to the Fife village. His coffin was carried by his Celtic team mates. Rangers players and officials were also there to pay their respects to the keeper.

He will never be forgotten by the Celtic supporters and his name lives on. Even today nearly 80yrs after his death, his grave is visited by the fans and green and white tributes are placed on the monument.
Many thanks to the excellent website www.kerrydalestreet.com for their info.

Come all you Glasgow Celtic
Stand up and play the game
For between your posts
There stands a ghost
Johnny Thomson is his name



John Thomson 1909-1931

Tony Topping

An Open Letter to Paul McCartney

“Oh Paul oh Paul oh Paul
Oh how the mighty fall
Oh how the times have changed
From hero to deranged”

Ok, so it’s a stanza from a poem I wrote about Paul Jewell, but the same rules apply.

You’re a fucking joke McCartney, and have been for some considerable time. If I’m being brutally honest I never really did like you. Your mate, that Lennon lad, was much more my cup of tea. There’s just something about you that I find unsavoury. It’s a smugness about you that I normally associate with one of those pseudo middle class twats who have just arrived on the [italics]upwardly mobile express[italics] from workingclassville. I used to attribute it to a more softer characteristic in your personality, maybe a touch of shyness.

You see Paul, the public has forgiven you for a lot over the years. From your fucking awful collaborations with Stevie Wonder and Michael (anal bleaching) Jackson, to the musical abortion that was the Frog Chorus. In fact, aside from a couple of songs with Wings your post Beatle career has been painful. We even forgave you when you got hitched to the wooden legged pit pony that is Heather Mills. And we stood by you during the messy divorce even though we knew she wasn’t all to blame.

We stood by you because you were [italics] OUR[italics] Paul McCartney, a local lad made good. A local lad who shook the world with his music. However, you hammered the final nail in the coffin for me a few weeks ago.

What in the name of Hezbollah did you think you were doing playing in Tel Aviv? Let me remind you Paul, as you clearly have forgotten your history about the State of Israel. Israel is a country that is flaunting every UN resolution under the sun. A short while back you may remember a little publicised incident called Gulf War 2. In that war, we, the civilised counties in the west, invaded a little known country called Iraq. And why? Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which of course as we all know now didn’t exist. Israel has been carrying such weapons for years only they wont confirm or deny this. What do we do? Nothing.

Point 2. I seem to remember you being against the South African regime of apartheid in the 1980’s, but I don’t seem to remember you breaking ranks and playing Sun City. So how does this sit with the 1.5 million Palestinians that are being held siege in Gaza and your decision to play in the land of their oppressors? Of course you said of playing Tel Aviv;

“if I go to a place it becomes evident that my message is a peaceful one and I hope that the idea will spread”


So what reason did you have for not spreading yourself over the border and play a concert there? Could it be the $5m you got for it eh Paul? Because you really need it don’t you. It’s up there with one of the other natives of that region, Iscariot, in the fuck you I’m getting paid stakes of betrayal.

Not to worry though eh Paul as I see you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Those naughty boys and girls at McDonalds have been using Beatles images in their restaurants. I see your spokesman did your dirty work for you:

“What sort of morons do McDonalds think Beatles fans are? It's ridiculous and insulting to use images to peddle hamburgers. Fans should boycott McDonalds - and not just in Liverpool.”

I hope that crisp iceberg lettuce you’ll be eating for your salad lunch is noisy enough to drown out the screams of innocent, starving and dying. You’re a fucking disgrace McCartney. John must be turning in his fucking grave.

Dirrrrtyoldman

http://thethoughtsofadirrrrtyoldman.blogspot.com

Real-ity Television?

I’ve kept too quiet for too long but it is really getting on my wick! At the risk of upsetting 99% of chavs who watch Jeremy Kyle, whilst smoking in front of their baby and shagging their boyfriend’s mate, who is really their cousin, I really dislike reality television programs!

My interest in this as boiled to the surface after bullying racist Jade Goody was told on India’s version of ‘Big Brother’ that she had cancer. If this is true, then I hope she recovers. But it’s a wee bit convenient isn’t it? Whilst on a television show, grovelling for forgiveness from a country whose Bollywood star she had apparently bullied.

Of course all the goons have taken to the ‘brave Jade’ campaign, not realising that 1000’s of men and woman suffer with this awful disease every day with no help from no-one. They are the brave people, not self-styled thicko’s who make a tit of themselves on television just to get famous. She’ll be okay, she is now the darling of the gutter press once again and the millions of people who believe the media hype. I’m just worried about all those everyday people who can’t afford those treatments that ‘brave Jade’ will be getting, perhaps in exchange for exclusive snippets from her new autobiography, well one written in her guise anyway!

Get well soon Jade, just hope Max Clifford has covered his tracks……..

But where will it end? Will it ever end? Most of my hatred is towards all these ‘pop music’ shows. We have four numpties who know as much about music as a two year-old. Granted Simon Cowell knows what sells but he knows jack all about music. Why is Danni Minouge there? Ditto Cheryl Cole? Louis Walsh has been sacked by Cowell more times than York but seeing as his ‘expertise’ is in boybands (wink, wink!); he’s probably the only one worth keeping on.

But I can’t for the life of me, know the answer to one question. If there is one question we will never know the answer to, even if we live for another 1000 years, it’s this: Why the bloody hell is Amanda Holden a judge on, the ironically- titled, ‘Britain’s Got Talent’? What the hell does she know about talent that we don’t?


After making her debut as a contestant on ‘Blind Date’ (she didn’t win), Amanda’s career has flourished. Starring in such epics as er, er, er, okay she used to go out with Les Dennis, apart from that, I can’t think of anything!

Okay that’s a bit unfair, the star of ‘Cutting It’ and ‘Wild at Heart’ knows how to act (a bit) but crying when some big lad, who is bullied at school, sings some opera (which undoubtedly, his mother ‘bullied’ him to sing!), isn’t the sign of a judge who is fair and knows her stuff.

Infact mastering the show itself, is like a checklist of criteria you must be, to get through. You either have to be seriously ill, bullied, fat, a weirdo, a dog, a failed contestant on another related show or Holden’s dole officer. And who won last year’s contest? A comedian? A magic act? Even a dancing dog? No, its was a fucking ponce who danced in water!

There’s nothing these reality shows won’t do. You look in your television mags, singing, dancing, cooking, hunting for ghosts, jumping out of planes and eating a Kangaroo’s testicle! They are supposed to represent real life. If they are true to life, then I really fear for our future!

Anyway here a couple of my suggestions for reality television shows which I’ve forwarded to a number of different television channels:

Britain’s Got No Talent What So F***ing Ever! – ‘Talent’ show in which Amanda Holden and Kerry Katona judge a variety of acts, including singers, dancers and er that’s it! Presented by Kate Thornton.

I’m a Celebrity (apparently) Chuck Me Out Of Here! – Game show where viewers phone in, answer a question and the winners are chosen at random from our 4 year old Sri Lankan boy, who we pay 2p a day, sorry I mean a computer! The winners will get to choose which washed-up celeb that will be thrown out of an in-flight aircraft, with no parachute. (Calls cost £25 a minute + Network charge, just to take the piss out of you that little bit more)

I’m a Celebrity (apparently) Chuck Me Out Of Here! – EXTRA – Game show/drama, in which the two remaining washed-up ‘celebs’ fight it out on the wing of the plane – like in Die Hard 2! Yippee Ki-Yay m**********ers!

Straight Eye For The Gay Guy – Reality show in which a gay guy is taken to live a ‘straight life’ for a week but realises that his new found straight mates are a bigger bunch of poofs than normal gay guys. They take in a Kooks concert and drink coffee at ‘Nero’. And our guy realises that he isn’t missing out after all!

21st Century Eye for the 19th Century Gentleman – Spin-off reality show in which we transport a 19th century man into the 21st century to sample life in our time and see how much as changed in 200 years. Our man is decked out in the latest ‘attire’. His smart waistcoat, shirt, trousers and top hat are replaced by the finest Henleys has to offer. Out goes timeless sheet music by Mozart, Verdi and Beethoven and in come ‘banging tunes’ like McFly, Fall Out Boy, 50 Pence and ‘banging house anthems’. He longer as to work for a living as a fortnightly trip to the dole will sort him out. And in order to woo a lady, he no longer as to win her father’s favour and invite her to dance. He simply has to slap a ‘bitches’ tracksuited arse, shield his eyes from her orange skin and fumble for her bra. It’s touching stuff!

The Drinking Klub – Reality/game show in which 5 young people are invited to take on each other in a drinking contest. They are allowed to quaff as many bottles of WKD (or ‘Wicked’ as they are generally referred to) as they like. They are allowed just one food stop (generally a kebab or pizza) but it’s not compulsory. Its last-man standing as our contestants will no doubt turn to dirty tricks to win. Sick buckets, police officers on probation, with arrest figures to reach and ambulance crews will be on standby. Doormen will be provided if the action is a little slow. Girls will come into the game, to try and ‘mix things up’, if our lads are still standing at 2.00am.

Viva Marsh Vegas

Check out his fine blog at http://caravanofhate.blogspot.com/