Captain Pieshop

I looked in the mirror this morning, and my Uncle John looked back at me. He looked better than when I last saw him, which is unsurprising, because when I last saw him he was dead, but he didn’t look that good.

Now it wasn’t that long ago that I could see my jaw-line, as opposed to finding it by pressing firmly with both hands. I gave up smoking a year ago. I’d only been smoking (again) for four years, having given up the last time way back in 1980. I can only think that I decided to restart something as monumentally stupid as sucking tar into me as a kind of death-wish. Having found that I already had high cholesterol and raised blood pressure I obviously concluded that drinking my self to death wasn’t working fast enough. “Hey, uhhh, what else can I do? I know…” It was in the death-throes of my marriage, and fortunately I wasn’t Doing Sex, except occasionally on my own, because it probably would have killed me.

I’m fortunate in that when I put on weight I don’t get a big belly or a massive arse. It’s more like a wet suit made of lard. I can get away with it for a while because I have long legs and very broad shoulders, so as long as I avoid tight-fitting clothing only Sooz and I know that I am in reality Captain Pie-shop.

Anyway, I’m getting married again in August, and the video guy’s already charging a fortune so I’m damned if I’m going to shell out more money for a body double. The head and crotch shots are costing enough. So it’s down to the gym, reducing the beer intake and Counting Those Calories for me. The countdown has begun. On the wildly optimistic scales in the bathroom, I’m 13 stone 7 pounds (189 pounds for the benefit of transatlantic visitors.) Target 160, even if I have to go somewhere I can catch dysentery.

I’ll keep you posted.