Happiest Fatty in Homerton… STILL (Tough Crowd)

I had my 2nd group session of post fatty chat at the hospital yesterday.

You remember the first session where I seemed to be the only one not crying into my protein shake about how I was now unable to chow down on a family sized chocolate bar, it was embarrassing man.

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This one was slightly better, less tears.

It was amazing to see these people 3 months down the line. They all looked, well, smaller. I now understand people’s reactions when they see me for the first time since the operation as i have always assumed It’s just polite to tell someone they look like they’ve lost weight after they’ve had an operation to cut their belly off. And as I don’t see the results in myself it was reassuring to see them in others.

We went around the group and each spoke briefly about our new eating habits.

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So Sandra, how’re you getting on’… Sandra looks up from her Turkey slices wrapped in cling film now sweating in her clammy grip.

Well, the thing is I’m still really struggling to eat full meals. I still get very upset at dinner time when him indoors and the kids sit down to a roast and I’m left there watching and well, it just really gets to me’

Everyone nodded in agreement. How dare those bastards sit and eat their tea in front of us well we sit here like a shaking shitting Donkey from an NSPCC advert?

I watched from the back left hand corner of the room trying not to laugh and shout at them all. ‘BUT YOU’RE NOT STARVING ARE YOU, SANDRA. YOU CAN EAT. YOU COULD EAT WITH THEM YOU SILLY COW BUT YOU JUST LOVE MOANING DON’T YOU. YOU FUCKIN GREMLIN’

Look, I fuckin get it man. It’s hard at times. Can be frustrating. But come on, get a grip. If I can sit and eat a roast with my friends and family why can’t they?

Yes, my roast is minuscule in comparison to the others but who cares, it tastes ace and is great protein if you make a few adjustments. A little bit of chicken, a sprout and maybe a tater if I’m feeling fruity. I can enjoy that just as much as you can scran your roast like a bossman. What’s the beef?. mmmmmmm BEEF.

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It just felt to me like I was hearing a lot of excuses. Whinging for no real reason. Only me and 2 others had even started going to the gym yet. The other 7 still didn’t feel ready, was too tired.

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I’m over these people man. These are the one’s that will be blending up Mars Bars and chugging them down convincing themselves it’s a treat day every other day and end up having another surgery 4 years down the line. What a fuckin shame.


I went on to have my own personal one on one with my dietitian. I’ve lost 56% of my excess body weight so far. Sounds good yeah?

But it did get me thinking. If I’ve lost 56% of my EXCESS body weight and still have another 44%, what the fuck do they class my target weight as?

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I’m 5’9 and 33 years old and looking forward to be a happy healthy 11 / 12 stone. By their math it looks like I’ll have to be about 2 stone before I’m no longer classed as overweight. Liberty bro. Pure. Liberty.

So, what to do about this. The plan of action is keep my own personal target in mind. When i reach that target, reevaluate the situation. If I look like road kill and my skin is blowing in the wind behind me, i’ll know it;s time to stop.

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Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. Fuck’sake

It happened. The inevitable.

Lathering up my hair in the shower this morning I felt my fingers tangle as I massaged my succulent swede.

Inspecting my soapy paws I could clearly see the hair, my hair, wrapped around my fingers like fucking Zoodles.

I was expecting it, I literally wrote about it only last week but there is a whole world of difference between preempting and reality. Now, it’s a reality. The bald Eagle hath taken flight.

I dried my hair delicately hoping my follicles wouldn’t noticed and would stay put embedded in my crown. That’s not how it works, I know. But FUCK man. Urgh

I’m not going to harp on about it today, NO. Its inevitable right? Another day on another week I’ll not be so blazay about the grim situation but today, well, who the fuck gives a shit. Queue Beyoncé – Independent Woman. QUESTION…


I’ve got bigger fish to fry today, more pressing matters about this whole weight loss malarkey like at what point can I buy new tits?

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Legit question. It’s not that I need them RIGHT NOW but i’d kinda like to know the score as to when new tits will be required.

For instance, if one was to purchase a new rack in lets say, 2 months that being only 5 months post op, would one’s brand new Babylons get totally mash up in the pilgrimage to a lighter life?

Am I getting ahead of myself? I’ve never been one for patience, the long game. I want everything done yesterday and I kinda feel like if my hair is going to fall out then I should at least eradicate the worry of shit tits but maybe I’m being ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time.


Failing buying new boobs prematurely how about exercise? I’m sure there has to be some legit work out maneuvers out there especially designed to turn your udders into rock hard buns of steel?

So far my gym efforts leave me more of a puddled mess as opposed to a stone goddess of mega tits. Woe is fucking me bro.



Welcome, The Lost Member Of Right Said Fred. Weep.

I’m almost 10 weeks post op now and the countdown has majorly started for the ‘3 month cycle’ balding extravaganza.Vertical-Sleeve-Gastrectomy-Seattle-Weight-Loss

Losing my hair was the one part of this whole process that caused me any self-doubt. Who the fuck would chose to do this knowing their hair would fall out?

I’ve tried not to focus on the hair loss, keep it at the back on my mind, pretend it’s not happening but alas I have 2 weeks to go and as much as I’d love to believe this won’t happen to me, why should I be any different, right?

Your body works on a 3 month cycle so when starved of nutrients, protein, vitamins and the likes your body will usually take 3 months to really recognise this form of malnutrition and REACT.

Pretty fucking cruel in my opinion that it chooses to react by making your hair thin / fall out. This is pure agony man.

Every day I wash my hair and inspect the damage. Nothing so far. I know this won’t last.

I’ve stopped bleaching, dying it every other day. Stopped using GHD’s. Stopped DIY’in at home.

I keep googling ‘fat bald women’ just to gear myself up for the worst case scenario.

I’m my mind I can envisage a Chubby Demi More circa GI Jane days but in reality I know it will be more like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall when he is dressed as a bird trying to get to Mars. Too fuckin glam.


Like, why can’t the nutrition God be like ‘Yo, let the dick head keep her hair and just take her pubes’

I’ll give up my pubes to keep my weave, I’m not precious about this. Take my leg hair man, take my fuckin eyebrows. But my hair? Ratty beatz that’s cold man.


I’m frantically trying to eat as well as possible to trick my body into not noticing the lack of shit entering my mouth box. I’m nailing through 20g Protein Quark Yogurts which let me tell you really takes it’s toll as it has the texture of cement with a consistent taste of sour, gone off milk.

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I’m one step away from nailing a pint of raw eggs like my spirit animal, Rocky. which I would probably try if I knew my belly was big enough to handle one whole egg but I can imagine the aftermath of this experiment would be more like The Exorcist as opposed to THE PEOPLE’S PROTEIN CHAMPION. One can but dream yo.


So I suppose the only thing I can do at this stage is not stress, right? If i worry about this phase too hard no doubt i’ll trigger some kind of stress induced alopecia and turn into a full time Gail Porter. No one needs that.

It’s only 3 months. That’s nothing, right? I have enough head scarfs to see me through this shit storm. I can take this on the chin for the sake of a healthier future.

I say this now. Whilst sound of mind. Wait until I like this mangy dog and then see how fucking buzzing I am. Can’t wait bro 😦


Witness The Poor Fitness. One Hope One Quest.

I went running this week. Me. Yes. I.Went.Running


I’d like to say this has become a standard part of my daily routine but NO.

3 reasons why:-

1 – I can’t run. It’s hard. It’s so tiring. I’m so unfit. I’ll die. I’m dead.

2- My tits are too big. Sports Bras are NEVER to be underestimated. I have a new found respect or every woman, ANY woman who can run and not die. I’ve done my research and will now purchase the most supportive straight jacket’esk Shock Absorber Sports Bra that has ever existed.


3 – I bought the wrong size running pants. This seems like a silly thing to do, right? See, I’ve always sized up my entire life, bought a bigger size to ensure I’m not bulging out or busting at the seams. I need to stop doing this. Get measured. Mentally accept that I can and need to wear smaller sizes because that’s what my body is now, smaller. It’s hard to get my head round. Do you know what happens when you run with pants that are too big? They fall down. A lot.

face to face

Picture a first time runner in the blistering heat with her tits flying around her head and pants round her knees. That was me. It was not cool.

Aside from that I did actually enjoy it. I could feel the burn. Literally. My thighs were fucked for 3 days later. I see runners now along the canal and give them the secret nod. You know the nod? It’s what we pro runners give each other to be like ‘Yo, cool run bro’

They still don’t seem to give me the nod back yet though. Maybe it takes more than 5 x 1 minute stints? Hmmmm.

Now as we will all be aware this week has been hotter than the fiery pits of hell. Hotter than Tom Hardy smothered in Foie Gras with an Apricot Jus and a pinch of black pepper. Jesus man I’m salivating.


I usually hate summer. I still kind of do but for very different reasons this year.

I live in London and have to travel from East to West on the Central Line twice a day so my life is always going to be somewhat Les Miserables until the day I win the lottery and that shit commute can bounce.

The Central Line for those that don’t know is the most intense form of social torture one person can endure so you can imagine there’s a lot of sweat knocking about. A lot of body odour. A lot of, how shall we say, scent. Vile


I also partake in this sweating shindig. Its 154862545932 degrees. Why would I not? But I do feel a certain change in my sweat patterns. I get hot, I chill and I cool down. This sounds like a standard format for sweating I know. But this is new to me.

I used to sweat, get worked up about being the hottest person alive, panic everyone would notice I was the hottest person alive, get hotter, then hotter, then die, never stop sweating, lose my breath, have an asthma attack then eventually cool down.

As of today I have lost 4st and 10lbs. That has made a HUGE difference to the smallest of things. Health was always my main objective and it’s reassures me every day of my decision when little things like that make a difference.


The Running Man part deux will take place with week. Pray for Lilli B yo.

As Shania Once Said. ‘Man, I feel Like A Fuckin Fat CheeseBurger’ Da Da Dadada Da!

I spoke too soon. Double chin dilemma is the devil.

Why do I feel like my belly is getting smaller yet my face is getting fatter?

1 of 2 things has happened to me.

1 – The utopia of seeing my double chin disappear has now subsided leaving me back to square one with what’s medically known as ‘Fat Eyes’.


Fat Eye is a common ailment found in 1 in every 1 person. You look at yourself in the mirror and your brain box defaults to the Negative Nancy that lives within you. Negative Nancy whispers to you ‘So what if you have lost over 4 stone, your face is getting fatter by the minute’


Nancy is a cunt. Nancy fuels the Fat Eye.

2 – My face is actually getting fatter.

Is this possible? Has my body found new ways to disperse calories?

MINDBOX – ‘Don’t send those calories to her belly you fool, she’s on a diet. Throw it on her face, she has room for a few lbs’

It’s probably no coincidence I’m feeling like a Pig in blanket, it’s my first vagina blood bath since the operation. WELCOME SWEET AGONY.


I’m craving sugar. I’m craving a bit of Chocolate, Caramel and or Gnocchi. Okay, that’s not quite a sugar fix but I fuckin love roasted Gnocchi with Parmesan.


I’ve tried to scratch the itch with alternatives. SEE BELOW FOR BULLSHIT RESULTS OF BULLSHIT ALTERNATIVES.




What others foods lure you in to a false sense of security? Cock Coup? Fish Assholes? (That potentially is legit assholes) Different Kettle of fish but you get my point.


1 final theory to explain Today’s potential body dysmorphic meltdown.

If it’s not my period making me swell like a tampon in bowl of hell blood, if it’s not calories collecting in my chin(s) the only other explanation is the reverse Beetlejuice syndrome. Viable?


I’m holding off on my weekly weigh in until Aunt Flo has packed her bags and fucked right off for another month or so. By then this bloated, constipated belly of hormonal hell might have subsided and reward me another lb or so off my weight loss. Tactics man. Tactics.

Wish me luck.