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....
Friday 19 March 2010
Fatty does.....TV Interview!
So I was taking a leisurely stroll along to my lecture the other day (strolling being my default walk, saves energy!)and I bumped into my friend. We had barely spoken a couple of words before two girls came up to us, kitted out with clipboards and an audio mic. They asked us whether we'd be up for a quick interview which they would use for a short film they were making. I'm bang in the middle of doing a dissertation and have relied on kindness/ inability to say no of others to get me through it. So in good karma fashion I said yes. Then I noticed they were aiming the question more at my blonder, thinner and generally all-round prettier friend of mine. Hmmph!
But, apparently being blonde, thin and pretty does not always equal confidence and she scuttled away before you could say make-up. That left the interviewers with just me and like most students, they'll take what they can get. So I was shuttled off to a secluded spot on campus with a good view, sat on a wall and told I'd be asked ten or so questions on camera. It is days like this when you...A) wished you'd wore something nicer, B) brushed you hair a bit better and C) continued that diet you started in January... But thank God for widescreen!
Now whilst they set up they're equipment and I thought I'd fill the silence and ask a few questions. Just the usual; what's this for (dissertation), where will it be shown (possible at Glastonbury!), what is it about....(2012 Olympics). Oh f**k! Did you say the olympics? Suddenly I forgive them for aiming the invite to my friend. I mean, I'm hardly the poster child for such a prestigious sporting event am I? I'm now looking for the quickest escape route but suddenly the camera is on and I'm in the spotlight.
(Question 1) So, how do you think London will cope with the 2012 event?
Ok this is good, I'm from London so I actually had something to say. I start going on how cars are useless in London due to traffic and public transport is the way to go, or walk (though not to far otherwise chub rub is coming your way!)
(Question 2)Is it a glorified event for the elite few and not worth the tax payer's money?
Now here is where I go from on the fence to full out supportive! To be fair I'm not that fussed for the most part but I'd just spent the last few days obsessively watching the Bolero performance Torvill and Dean did to win gold in the Olympics way back along (and just to be straight the incentive behind this strange behavior was to perve over Christopher Dean's bum in tight trousers!) But whatever the source material, I am now full out raving about how great the Olympics are.
(Question 3) Do you think Boris Johnson's approach of making the event "low key" is correct?
Much to the surprise of the interviewers (who obviously assumed I wouldn't care, clearly not being of the sport build)I am now jumping on my high horse (figuratively speaking- I don't jump of course). I start babbling on using words like "privilege" and "importance of sport" and "we can do better than a bunch of fireworks".
And thus endeth the shoot. I smile and head off to finally to that lecture, having stunned the interviewers and myself a bit too. Just goes to show you should never judge the filling by the donuts appearance!
But, apparently being blonde, thin and pretty does not always equal confidence and she scuttled away before you could say make-up. That left the interviewers with just me and like most students, they'll take what they can get. So I was shuttled off to a secluded spot on campus with a good view, sat on a wall and told I'd be asked ten or so questions on camera. It is days like this when you...A) wished you'd wore something nicer, B) brushed you hair a bit better and C) continued that diet you started in January... But thank God for widescreen!
Now whilst they set up they're equipment and I thought I'd fill the silence and ask a few questions. Just the usual; what's this for (dissertation), where will it be shown (possible at Glastonbury!), what is it about....(2012 Olympics). Oh f**k! Did you say the olympics? Suddenly I forgive them for aiming the invite to my friend. I mean, I'm hardly the poster child for such a prestigious sporting event am I? I'm now looking for the quickest escape route but suddenly the camera is on and I'm in the spotlight.
(Question 1) So, how do you think London will cope with the 2012 event?
Ok this is good, I'm from London so I actually had something to say. I start going on how cars are useless in London due to traffic and public transport is the way to go, or walk (though not to far otherwise chub rub is coming your way!)
(Question 2)Is it a glorified event for the elite few and not worth the tax payer's money?
Now here is where I go from on the fence to full out supportive! To be fair I'm not that fussed for the most part but I'd just spent the last few days obsessively watching the Bolero performance Torvill and Dean did to win gold in the Olympics way back along (and just to be straight the incentive behind this strange behavior was to perve over Christopher Dean's bum in tight trousers!) But whatever the source material, I am now full out raving about how great the Olympics are.
(Question 3) Do you think Boris Johnson's approach of making the event "low key" is correct?
Much to the surprise of the interviewers (who obviously assumed I wouldn't care, clearly not being of the sport build)I am now jumping on my high horse (figuratively speaking- I don't jump of course). I start babbling on using words like "privilege" and "importance of sport" and "we can do better than a bunch of fireworks".
And thus endeth the shoot. I smile and head off to finally to that lecture, having stunned the interviewers and myself a bit too. Just goes to show you should never judge the filling by the donuts appearance!
Saturday 13 March 2010
Fatty on a treadmill!
So despite having more tyres than the Michelin Man, Fatty does actually own a gym membership! The other day I decided to stop using it as an ice scraper for the car and actually go. So I donned my ever so sexy, clings to all the wrong places tracksuit and hit the gym floor. Now it is true; the gym is for everyone (anyone who’s got £40 quid a month to dribble out of their purses). However certain areas of the gym are only for the elite fitties: the weight room, the class room, the sauna, the steam room, any area where there is a mirror present and above all the lounge area where the snack machines are (because Lord almighty dare a fatty be seen to be eating!) So the shy, the fat and the ugly are limited to the main floor and cowering in the toilets shamefully.
I head straight for the cross trainer, wanting an overall workout (and to watch eastenders on the mini TV they handily attach to it). Whoever invented this machine is a genius; it burns off calories much faster than most other gym torture devices, is fairly kind to out of shape bodies and even at a leisurely pace it looks like your doing a lot. I stay on long enough to ease my guilt over paying a small fortune for something I hardly use and this turns out to be about 20 minutes. I’m all ready to do my traditional glance at the activities board (as if I will ever do a class?!) and then dip in the pool (which is much more floating than swimming for me). But a strange thing happens; the cheesy motivating music hits me, my pace slows as I notice an old fart on a treadmill next to me and I suddenly think “I can do better than him!”. Suddenly I’m on the treadmill with no one to stop me and I’m away! Well, I say away, I’m actually meandering at the pace of a geriatric dog with arthritis but I accidently hit the speed button and I have to power walk (turn out this just means walking fast enough to go all red and puffy like a lobster). After a few minutes where I thought my legs may roll from under me I get the hang of it. Minutes go past, I’m am picturing that summer bikini.... Then I notice the old fart who got me on this thing is now jogging! Bumfluff! I must out do him! I hit the seed button again and suddenly am clinging to the handle bars as I attempt to do something I don’t even do for a bus these days: run! The adrenaline kicks it and I’m stunned I can even run, which keeps me at it. I think this must be what its like for a prepubescent boy discovering his willy; I keep up the motion to see what will happen. Well turns out after a few minutes I nearly collapse from lack of oxygen and dire worry of being the idiot who fell over on the treadmill. Plus, thankfully, the old fart has buggered off to shame some other overweight twenty something into doing a bit more than she’d like. I really should have bought him a drink thank him...
I head straight for the cross trainer, wanting an overall workout (and to watch eastenders on the mini TV they handily attach to it). Whoever invented this machine is a genius; it burns off calories much faster than most other gym torture devices, is fairly kind to out of shape bodies and even at a leisurely pace it looks like your doing a lot. I stay on long enough to ease my guilt over paying a small fortune for something I hardly use and this turns out to be about 20 minutes. I’m all ready to do my traditional glance at the activities board (as if I will ever do a class?!) and then dip in the pool (which is much more floating than swimming for me). But a strange thing happens; the cheesy motivating music hits me, my pace slows as I notice an old fart on a treadmill next to me and I suddenly think “I can do better than him!”. Suddenly I’m on the treadmill with no one to stop me and I’m away! Well, I say away, I’m actually meandering at the pace of a geriatric dog with arthritis but I accidently hit the speed button and I have to power walk (turn out this just means walking fast enough to go all red and puffy like a lobster). After a few minutes where I thought my legs may roll from under me I get the hang of it. Minutes go past, I’m am picturing that summer bikini.... Then I notice the old fart who got me on this thing is now jogging! Bumfluff! I must out do him! I hit the seed button again and suddenly am clinging to the handle bars as I attempt to do something I don’t even do for a bus these days: run! The adrenaline kicks it and I’m stunned I can even run, which keeps me at it. I think this must be what its like for a prepubescent boy discovering his willy; I keep up the motion to see what will happen. Well turns out after a few minutes I nearly collapse from lack of oxygen and dire worry of being the idiot who fell over on the treadmill. Plus, thankfully, the old fart has buggered off to shame some other overweight twenty something into doing a bit more than she’d like. I really should have bought him a drink thank him...
Welcome to Fatty does...
So what do you do when you’ve the childish enthusiasm of a three year old on speed but trapped inside the body of Nelly the elephant? Well the answer is you carry on anyway! And then shamelessly flaunt the comedy value of the moment when size really does matter. Welcome to the blog of “fatty does...”, a true life account of those cringe worthy moments when the mind is willing but the body is barely able. So here is proof of the pudding (mmmm pudding) that no matter what your shape, you should never let the jelly stop you jingling!
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