Now generally being too preoccupied with the contents of her fridge, Fatty here was a little late to get onto the Glee bandwagon. But like all things cheesy, it found its way onto her plate and the inner gleek has caused mayhem to the neighbours (and her joints! Ouch!)
Fatty’s uncle has the most inconvenient, irritating and noisy neighbours; slamming doors and what not at unsociable hours. What better revenge than a little late night (by this I mean roughly 3am) sessions of glee karaoke? Often this is Soco (Southern Comfort and Coke) fuelled, meaning more gusto and extra ceiling thumping dance moves. Because of course, where you have cheesy singing, you simply must have cheesy dancing.
Now this would be an appropriate time to mention I categorically cannot sing, cannot dance, cannot hold any kind of rhythm what so ever. But like a few extra pounds, why should that stop you anyway?
The show itself celebrates all things lingering on the social outskirts; a place many fatties find themselves condemned to. And just like the glee losers, I mean kids, do why not stick two fingers up to adversary, or lack of talent, or lack of a waistline and go for it anyway!
Life is too short (and according to all the health buffs, fatty lives are even shorter) to wait for the perfect body/ voice/situation to have a whale of a time. So whether it’s a go on karaoke, a crack in the shower or a midnight version of “Don’t stop believing” on the sofa with a hairbrush, unleash the inner gleek and enjoy. You never know, you may have an inner Mercedes lurking in there somewhere...
Word of caution: excessive obsession in the world of glee can cause a sore throat, sore knees and uncontrollable singing on the underground where the commuter next to you will tell you to be quiet (embarrassingly true).
Tuesday 22 March 2011
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Fatty Does....horse riding (well...attempted at least!)
A while ago I made a new friend and on better acquaintance was offered a stay at her home one weekend. Great I thought, a nice relaxing weekend with some good company! After ten minutes of her picking me up I soon realized whilst I got the company part spot on, the relaxing part was a little off base.
"You can finally meet my horse!" she said with enthusiasm.
Now being from London and having led a very different existence to my country friends, I’m still taken aback by statements like these. However, I was well aware of my friend’s equine passions and thought a sunny afternoon in the field feeding sugar lumps to a life-sized my little pony would be quite fun.
“Sounds great.” I reply, summoning polite keenness.
“You can ride him, I’ll teach you.” She replies happily.
Err, you’ll do what?! I panic. I smile awkwardly in confusion, thinking surely she wasn’t going to let a lumpish oaf like me anywhere near her pride and joy? However, she takes my odd expression as a show of excitement and suddenly some kind of agreement has been struck.
“Settled then.” She says triumphantly, obviously assuming she’s about to convert a lifelong pavement junkie to the joys of horse riding.
So somehow, the following day, I find myself silently walking in a state of panic, fear and horror (and that’s just at the prospect of actually getting on the bloody saddle!). The first thing that strikes me is how large the field is and thereby how far we would have to walk to get to the sodding horse.
“Oh, don’t worry, he usually comes over to see if there is any treats going.”
Ah, I think, bit similar to how I pop downstairs just after my flatmate has ordered a pizza, hoping I may get a slice. I might just get on with this horse after all! Sure enough, after a quick shake of her bucket, the horse’s ears prick up and it begins trotting over to us.
“Oh, you have two horses.” I say, noticing the second horse emerging from the stable, having heard the promising sound from the bucket.
I get a mental image on me and my friend side by side on our horses, jaunting along the countryside and feel very Jane Austin-ish all of a sudden.
“Yeah, that’s Rod. He’s getting on a bit now, won’t let you get on him anymore. He just likes to potter around.”
Ok, so maybe I have more in common with this creature instead!
Finally the other horse, aptly named Lightning, has arrived. He’s not as big as I thought’s he’d be and I’m suddenly overly conscious of our relative sizes. As my friend does the complicated bit with the saddles and reins, getting him ready, I can’t help but feel sorry for the bugger having to carry a load like me. I think it would be fairer for me to carry the horse!
“Ok, have you done this before?” my friend asks.
I think back to a Spanish holiday where, fuelled by ridiculous amounts of sangria, I let a ranch cowboy heave me by the arse onto a beast of a horse, where I promptly fell off the other side.
“No.”
“Ok, approach slowly and just give him a minute to quieten down. Then put your left foot into the stirrup.” She instructs, handing me the reins.
I get as far as to approach the horse, at which point he’s obviously figured out it isn’t his svelte owner but a hunk of a chunky woman about to get on his back. And fairly so, goes a bit mental. I run for the hills as my friend tries to calm him down. She keeps saying not to worry and he sometimes is a bit cheeky like this. I think fair cop, I’d go ape if I had to give me a ride. By this time, the horse has bolted and my friend trots off after him.
With my pride in utter tatters, I pick up the bucket and give it a shake in a vague effort to help get the rogue horse back but I only manage to attract the playful nudges of the stable bound Rod. He stands mildly at my side attempting to look hungry and adorable (I trick I know well). Clearly he thinks I’m a soft touch and will offer some food. He’s right. As I let him eat out of my hand I think today wasn’t so bad and I did end up getting my afternoon in the sun cheering up an old nag with some treats.
Shame my friend has to spend the next hour chasing a horse in a temper brought on by the prospect of a fatty as a passenger....
"You can finally meet my horse!" she said with enthusiasm.
Now being from London and having led a very different existence to my country friends, I’m still taken aback by statements like these. However, I was well aware of my friend’s equine passions and thought a sunny afternoon in the field feeding sugar lumps to a life-sized my little pony would be quite fun.
“Sounds great.” I reply, summoning polite keenness.
“You can ride him, I’ll teach you.” She replies happily.
Err, you’ll do what?! I panic. I smile awkwardly in confusion, thinking surely she wasn’t going to let a lumpish oaf like me anywhere near her pride and joy? However, she takes my odd expression as a show of excitement and suddenly some kind of agreement has been struck.
“Settled then.” She says triumphantly, obviously assuming she’s about to convert a lifelong pavement junkie to the joys of horse riding.
So somehow, the following day, I find myself silently walking in a state of panic, fear and horror (and that’s just at the prospect of actually getting on the bloody saddle!). The first thing that strikes me is how large the field is and thereby how far we would have to walk to get to the sodding horse.
“Oh, don’t worry, he usually comes over to see if there is any treats going.”
Ah, I think, bit similar to how I pop downstairs just after my flatmate has ordered a pizza, hoping I may get a slice. I might just get on with this horse after all! Sure enough, after a quick shake of her bucket, the horse’s ears prick up and it begins trotting over to us.
“Oh, you have two horses.” I say, noticing the second horse emerging from the stable, having heard the promising sound from the bucket.
I get a mental image on me and my friend side by side on our horses, jaunting along the countryside and feel very Jane Austin-ish all of a sudden.
“Yeah, that’s Rod. He’s getting on a bit now, won’t let you get on him anymore. He just likes to potter around.”
Ok, so maybe I have more in common with this creature instead!
Finally the other horse, aptly named Lightning, has arrived. He’s not as big as I thought’s he’d be and I’m suddenly overly conscious of our relative sizes. As my friend does the complicated bit with the saddles and reins, getting him ready, I can’t help but feel sorry for the bugger having to carry a load like me. I think it would be fairer for me to carry the horse!
“Ok, have you done this before?” my friend asks.
I think back to a Spanish holiday where, fuelled by ridiculous amounts of sangria, I let a ranch cowboy heave me by the arse onto a beast of a horse, where I promptly fell off the other side.
“No.”
“Ok, approach slowly and just give him a minute to quieten down. Then put your left foot into the stirrup.” She instructs, handing me the reins.
I get as far as to approach the horse, at which point he’s obviously figured out it isn’t his svelte owner but a hunk of a chunky woman about to get on his back. And fairly so, goes a bit mental. I run for the hills as my friend tries to calm him down. She keeps saying not to worry and he sometimes is a bit cheeky like this. I think fair cop, I’d go ape if I had to give me a ride. By this time, the horse has bolted and my friend trots off after him.
With my pride in utter tatters, I pick up the bucket and give it a shake in a vague effort to help get the rogue horse back but I only manage to attract the playful nudges of the stable bound Rod. He stands mildly at my side attempting to look hungry and adorable (I trick I know well). Clearly he thinks I’m a soft touch and will offer some food. He’s right. As I let him eat out of my hand I think today wasn’t so bad and I did end up getting my afternoon in the sun cheering up an old nag with some treats.
Shame my friend has to spend the next hour chasing a horse in a temper brought on by the prospect of a fatty as a passenger....
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