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Fighting the Flab: Week 1


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Self-confessed gym failure Matthew Bailey has started a grueling exercise and gym regime - how is he getting on?

Wednesday 4th December:

I rock up to the gym, feeling optimistic. There I was, standing in the midst of what seemed like a group of Mr England contestants flexing their muscles in the mirror. I conjured up memories of my own school life; scrawny like Harry Potter, complete with the glasses, I was ruthlessly pummeted in the face by basketballs, footballs and softballs. How on earth was I expected to lift weights? Of course, my personal trainer, Tom, reassures me that everybody starts out at the gym as beginners.

Hmmm, we'll see. He leads me to an empty gym studio where we begin some basic squats. YES, I thought. I can do this! But it gets harder. The squats become bizarre, pear shaped. My legs, back, feet and bum hurts like mad. As I start to pass out, Tom suggests we take a 30 second break. This way, we help recover from the hard workout, and this allows our bodies to repair and relax itself. Then, sadly, I end up lugging a tyre across the gym. I was sweating like a Loose Woman recieving her test results on the menopause. Dragging it back and forth like a maniac on steroids. "Come on, you can do it!" Tom shouts at me. 'Almost there!' I wish. I end up gasping for breath, fainting, and glugging my Evian back. I eventually leave the gym in pain. I can't do this; it's torture. 

I suggest that, right before the end of the workout, I'm going to vomit. My legs wont carry me to the toilet. My arms have given up hope. What kind of person does this for fun?!

Thursday 5th December:

Right. Dietry habits MUST be tackled, I write in my planner. As somebody who has easily survived off Snickers and beef for a decade, I finally decide to get to grips on my eating problems. Out goes the Galaxy, the peanut butter, my favourite cheeses. I instead head to my local supermarket, and begin to salivate at the sugary foods on offer. Luckily, my legs still throb from the day before, so i decide against grabbing anything remotely chocolate related. I guess, with all the pain, aches and fainting from starvation, why ruin anything? 

So, I load up on chicken, vegetables, mixed leaves and fruit. Tom tells me that its okay to have a small slither of what you fancy, but only that. No carbs after 7pm. Strict as hell, like the nuns at boarding school. I'm living like a rabbit, dear reader! I'm limping about with lettuce leaves in my mouth, hoping to dear god that I have made a difference in my body. I'm average at best, and need to tone up, lose the 'jelly belly' and cross my fingers. 

Friday 6th December:

I can't have a social life now, since my friends refuse to not go to restaurants. I suppose I can go and order a side salad, but what can I realisically order that is below 400 calories? Water? I'm in so much pain I can barely get out of bed, let alone limp to the cinema. So picture me on a Friday night, in bed all alone, catching up on Gogglebox. Alcohol is out of bounds, you see. No beer (are you joking?) or wine. I can't even climb the stairs anymore, because my limbs feel like hell, so I avoid them like the plague. 

Weekly Summary:

Hmm. Only one workout, and I feel like hell. I want to vomit, but instead suck it up and gobble on my leaves and rice. I just imagine David Gandy, every Mens Health model and Ryan Gosling, as perfectly ripped as they are. They don't swan off and hide Cadbury bars under their pillows do they? They surely don't gobble up Haribos when nobody is looking. So, although I feel like crap, I know I have to carry this through.

Verdict: death

Image courtesy of Mosh Nightclub Derby

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