RIP 10 Stones of FAT! Laters Potatoes

YO! Long-time no see hey?

So I took a little time out from my incessant chatting of shit whilst my whole weight loss ‘journey’ was being severely dominated by the bane of my existence that is my Gall Bladder.

I have bored myself to tears many times now talking about them, moaning about them, over explaining to my boss why I can’t get off the floor because of them. Unfortunately the stones care not for my plea to FUCK OFF and remain a solid fixture until my surgeon whips the whole gall bladder out.

When will this be? How long is a piece of string, Bro? Who the fuck knows.

I do however FINALLY my Pre Op Assessment have on the 22nd on January so maybe…MAYBE we will get some confirmation. A little shiny light at the end of this pretty fuckin painful tunnel.

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Anyway, let’s move on to more pressing issues like.. ME HITTING MY FUCKIN GOAL WEIGHT.

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Yas, it happened. Now, let me first of all stress that this is MY goal weight, not my Doctors goal weight.

According to my Bariatric team I should weigh approximately 10 to 11 stone whereas for my height and build my aim has always been 12 Stone aka 168 Lbs aka 76.6Kg

Now, call me crazy but having lost 10 stone 2Lbs aka 142 Lbs aka 64.3Kg I feel quite a sense of achievement in that.

lil 2

I feel healthy happy, both mentally and physically and I whilst it’s been such a challenge adjusting my mind-set to my new diet I feel like I have a great balance I am confident I can maintain which to me is the most important thing. Not going backwards.

Going backwards, the dreaded gain, the ‘popping that one extra mince pie in at Christmas’ which will catapult you a hundred miles an hour straight back to Fatty Ville is every VSG Post Op’ers realest nightmare.

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I weighed myself this morning after a heavy weekend on the sauce in Switzerland followed by a Chinese last night upon our return.

1lb gain. MELTDOWN?  No, I’m not going down with that ship. It’s so very easy to become obsessed with the scales, too easy to beat yourself up and tear yourself down over a 1 pound gain as opposed to cheer yourself on for the other 168 that you have actually lost.

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Today I’m back on my protein shake breakfast, my skinny decaf and my high protein low carb lunch. That lb will have fucked off my Friday and life shall go on.

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I’m guessing what you want to know by now is what happens to someone’s body when they lose 10stone?

Okay, the truth. My truth at least.

My tits are fucked. They look like suet puddings.

Nice with chips & gravy but not what you want stuck to your chest. When I lie down I feel like a 6 year old boy. My ribs stick out higher than my boobs. Not ideal.

Weirdly it’s not like they’ve sagged, just deflated. Could I have picked a more apt blog name before this all happened? Maybe I jinxed myself. Ace

Next is my arse. ‘What arse’ I hear you say? Exactly. It’s gone. The only reason I know I still have one is thanks to my constant state of protein induced constipation.

Belly? It’s defo like jelly now. I kind of like it. Feels like velvet when I’m in the bath and I squidge it all together.

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Will I need plastic surgery? Maybe. I 100% want my boobs reflated.  I have always had jugs a plenty and I miss them greatly. Plus it would be nice for my Fiancé to revert back to my original nick name of ‘Big Joooceh Titties’ as opposed to the ‘Tiny Cupcake Tits’ he calls me now.

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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.

10 Days Done & Only Shit Myself Once.

11 days Post Op

25 days Post Food

10 days until I can move on to puree food

18 days until I can eat mush

30 days until I can eat food

By the time I can ‘eat’ real food it will have been 7 weeks since I last chewed a piece of food.

Nearly two fuckin months of no chewing.

Even my teeny tiny pills have to be crushed to dust and nailed in n NHS shot glass like a boss.

I feel that I now finally appreciate the psychological impact of not being able to eat.

I’m not hungry. That’s not the issue. It’s that physical act of chewing food. Licking the spoon when you cook. Licking your fingers when you prepare juicy meat.

It’s the physical act of just wanting something, anything substantial in your mouthbox.

I have no idea why I’m obsessing so much over trying to lick a spoon when I can barely even get inside me the basics required to keep me alive.

It’s really fuckin laborious planning your entire day around ml’s of protein / water / liquids and at times I will find any excuse to skip one because I simply cannot be arsed.

But did I go through all this to then start fucking about with my diet. NAH BRO.. sip that shit and crack on.

The greatest thing happened to me yesterday when I dipped my now not so chubby little digit fingers into Holly’s hummus pot.

That taste. That sweet mother fuckin savoury taste of chick pea.

Why do protein shakes not come in ace savoury flavours? Chicken Curry Protein Shake, why does that not exist?

With the image of Chicken Curry Protein shake in my head this reminds me, did I tell you I shit myself the other day?

Okay, not my finest moment. In fact, up there with one of the worst.

Fucking constipation man, the bane of my life. The wonder that is our NHS provided me kindly with Lactulose Solution to help get things going down there in the old bowl box to ensure I didn’t have to push too hard and burst my belly open.

It was a very unfortunate event. See, I just assumed it was a regular fart after being pumped with gas for keyhole surgery.

It was not a regular fart.

The last time I felt wet water shit splash up my back was when I was in nappies. I never thought at the age of 32 it would be something I would have to encounter again but alas.

Anyway, enough of shit talk. I finally took my dressings off today. The dissolvable stitches should be about to, well, dissolve?

This is what I’m left with so far. Not too shabby in my opinion. I was kinda expecting Zorro slashes or like, big dutty war wounds. But no. Just nice neat, not too gross little shank wounds.


In fairness the worst looking part at the moment is battered and bruised belly from the Enoxaparin Sodium Injections. To say these injections are used to minimise bruising (and clots) it’s quite ironic that my belly looks like land and sea plotted across the globe. ONLY 4 MORE LEFT THOUGH. I’ll kind of miss the injections I think, there is something quite empowering about stabbing yourself in the belly and not crying.


I’m back at the Doctors today for my first official check up. Make sure i’m still alive and all that shit. Bloods, blood pressure, heart fate, leakages, bleeding.. all the fun stuff.

Wish me luck.


LILLI’S FEAR CHART – 0 out of 10 … this fear chart can fuck off now. I AM BEOWOLF.

Eating’s Cheating

I’m throwing myself a ‘Farewell to food’ brunch, Saturday 8th April.

I contemplated a last supper but late night eating encourages booze and booze creates a hangover and a hangover ALWAYS wants feeding delicious foods.

That, my sweet bae’s is not an option. Imagine waking up, dead as fuck from a night of binge eating / drinking and only being allowed to nail a pint of milk. Nah bru.

I figured it was time to educate myself thoroughly on this Milch Diet I am about to embark on. I’ve avoided it so far but the reality is creeping closer and closer and let’s face it, if I want this operation I need to man the fuck up and get stuck in.

Below is my diet for 2-4 weeks before the op. MY next appointment with the Surgeon is 27.03.17 so PLEASE pray for me that they confirm 2 weeks is enough time to shrink that fatty little drunk Liver of mine.


Daily allowance: You MUST HAVE the following:

4 pints of semi skimmed milk

2 pints (1 litre) of other fluid

 1 multivitamin and mineral tablet (e.g. Sanatogen A-Z Complete or Centrum Advance)

 1 salty drink e.g. stock cube, Bovril (1 teaspoon in hot water), marmite (1 teaspoon hot water) 

 Allowed Drinks:

At least 2 pints (1 litre) of the following: No added sugar or diet variety soft drinks Tea or coffee using milk from allowance (you can use a sweetener but must not use sugar)

Water Flavoured water (providing it doesn’t contain sugar – check the label)

Allowed extras: Sugar free jelly- 1 sachet a day  

Sugar free chewing gum- maximum 3 pieces a day

Following the pre-op milk diet It is important to have a routine for taking your milk. Try to divide it into glasses taken regularly throughout the day. For example: 8am, 12 noon, 3pm, 6pm, 9pm

Let’s be honest. this is fucking grim.

BUT, a small price to pay for a happier healthier life, right?

I feel like this 1 sachet of sugar free Jelly is going to be my lifeline, my reason to get up each morning. The carrot dangling at the finish line of another day.

This salty stock cube drink however, will be the exact opposite. grim

I mean really, who in their right mind even drinks/eats stock that is not laden with a bottle of red wine? No one i’d like to associate myself with, that’s who.

All of this is irrelevant at this moment though as the food that will engulf my face on this final brunch/supper/tea binge is all I can think about.

Menu so far, total Lilli B classics – @NorthernSoulSisters

Hot Sweet Sticky Chicken with Spinach Spiced Rice

Slow Cooked Short Beef Ribs in Red Wine


Slow Cooked Asian Brisket


Creamed Sprouts

Spicy Koftas with Raita

Oh man, I’m dribbling. My mouth is WET!


0 out of 10


Fat Diary Part Deux

I’m gearing myself up for this milk diet.

6 pints of Semi Skimmed every day for TWO WEEKS.

I’ve dismissed comments previously about how grim this will be, it’s two weeks, how hard can this be?



I’ve been testing myself on a daily basis to see how far I can get without cracking under the pressure when I see someone at work nibble a biscuit or chow down on a butteh.

I crack pretty easily it seems. Not too surprising if you consider that I’m about to have an operation to cut my belly out.

If will power was my strong point I’d prolly be blogging about the great landscapes of the British Isles or some shit.But nay. Fat diary it is.

My dietitian called me last week, the NHS Board have approved my operation. I’m like thiiiiiiiiiisss close to being allocated a date.

It’s long, I’m getting frustrated. I feel like I’ve put my 6.5kg back on. I really should buy scales. I hate scales though.

I also hate milk.

I’m struggling to understand what it will feel like to never be hungry. Well, not for months. I can’t imagine this, I don’t normally wait until I feel physically hungry to eat. I just eat. Problem numbero elevenio.


I also still cannot believe no matter how many people tell me that 1 spoonful of soup will fill me up to the point I will want to vomit if I was to force a second in.

How is that even possible? That’s obscene man.

I understand the medical logistics of course but the reality is a whole new kettle of fish, right? 1 SPOON SOUP = FULL BELLY FOR DAYs.. nah.


These thought are plaguing my brain this week, how will I cope. Can I cope? Will I regret it? What can I do if I regret this?


The operation is irreversible. IRREVERSIBLE.

I imagine my current feels on this sitch are not dissimilar to how a soon to be mother feels when her waters break and the pain kicks her right in the fanny and you know for reals man that life will never be the same again.

That same ‘FUCK, no turning back now’ vibe.


I mean, obvz, I can back out at anytime. There’s no squealing human about to tear my cunt in half and bleed me dry for 18 years. But Still

I won’t back out though, I’m buzzed man. I’m ready for it no matter how much i’m shittin myself.



7 out of 10


Okay so the final Christmas Dinner is DONE and Oh My Fuck, it was good.

I said FARETHEEE WELL FESTIVE FINERY in my head as I ploughed the last spoonful of creamed Sprouts into the bullet wound in my face, also known as my mouth. (Recipe for creamed sprouts at the end of the post you lucky LUCKY bastards)

I planned to gorge over Christmas, stuff my fat little face with all the treats because, why not eh? FEED THE BEAST.

I’d lost 6.5kg (OVER A FUCKING STONE) just before the festive period so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to undo the good work. As one typically does.


Alas I did not do this, I did not succumb to that podgy little devil slumped on my right shoulder chipping away in my earhole.. ‘Eat that block of white Wensleydale with spiced apricot. Gwarrrrrrn Lilli B… he wants you to eat him’


I SHALL NOT. Go away fat brain. You aint welcome here, G!

An elaborate Cheeseboard for breakfast has always been a staple part of my festive diet. I can’t even handle the dairy. It makes me shit pure agony and destroys my stomach lining but fuck, it tastes so damn good that the pain and repercussions have always been worth it. Ridiculous, I know.

Now the countdown is on and I’m feeling eager to try and be as healthy as possible so my body doesn’t try and kill me when it realises what it will now be fuelled by for the next few months, at least.

The process already seems a little bit easier now that the whole debacle is out in the open. My dirty little secret is out and I feel like a weight has been lifted. Who knew sharing was so therapeutic.

The response to my last post was overwhelming and I am truly buzzing that so many of you opened up about their own thoughts, fears and experiences on this matter.

It’s enlightening to hear some of you are going through the same process, considering it, afraid of it and even opposed to it. It’s so fucking important to educate yourself on this, trusss me when I say this is no easy option.


In response to this, please find Lilli’s FAT FAQ’s

  • Yes, I am scared of the surgery but refuse to think about it right now
  • No, I will not look different the minute I have surgery, they’re cutting my belly out not off.
  • Yes, I will be able to go for dinner with you again within our lifetime.
  • No, I will not become vegetarian. This makes absolutely no sense to me.
  • Yes, I will be fun to be around again… one day.
  • No, you cannot have all my old clothes.

Now, for the most important part of this post.

CREAMED SPROUTS. For all you haters, this is the one recipe that will change your life. Forever.

Shred sprouts x loads


Cook down in a knob of butter

Add chicken / veg stock

Salt and pepper


Double cream

Please, no need to thank me. Just promise to think of me when you eat them.


2 out of 10


Je m’appelle Alan Shearer. Wounded.

The 2 years of waiting are drawing to a close.


I had my ‘final’ appointment with my dietitian last week. I’ve had this ‘final’ appointment 2864384793 times it seems.

This though, this was the FINAL one.

I’ve shed enough lbs, I’ve had enough injections, I’ve even stopped bleaching my fucking weave to show commitment to the aftermath. What else can a brother do?


In 16 weeks (or less) I will slice my belly off for life.

I want to celebrate by filling my face with enough booze to sedate me until 2017. Alas, I WILL REFRAIN. I want to eat a bucket of KFC so fast that I have to plug a greasy thigh up my arse hole just to absorb the chickeny goodness rapid ting. Alas, I WILL REFRAIN.

The fear hasn’t kicked in yet, the nervous sick feeling that will soon engulf my body is far from close because i’m buzzing so. fucking. hard.

The knock on effect of this new found happiness is reaching new levels I never thought possible. Online shopping. Thine nemesis. How I love/loathe thee. 2 months ago I couldn’t make it through at day at work let alone a week with a ‘cheeky’ purchase from ASOS Curve or some other plus size distributor I felt compelled to pretend I liked through lack of options.

Now when that scratch needs to be itched I side step the BUY NOW option and add a ‘thinspiration’ outfit to my ever growing wish list. This will be an expensive transition. Sorry Leigh. NOT SORRY.

Questions:- When you lose a sizeable amount of weight, is it true your feet shrink too?

Questions:- Will my carves shrink and finally coexist along side the rest of my body?


My calves have lived as a separate entity along side my legs/body for for 32 years. When I was in Primary School the ‘Professional Photography’ called me Shearer as I waddled in for my end of year photo. Cute.

I was buzzing, I thought he was insinuating I looked like She Ra, ultimate babe station. Which in itself would have been odd considering I was 8 and that surly would have made him the ideal candidate for operation Yew-tree. He corrected me sure enough. Shearer. I looked like fuckin Alan Shearer. Red faced bruiser with MASSIVE CALVES. Did you know Big Al was known for his muscular calves? Me neither when I was 8, I’ve known that ever since though. Truss.




3 out of 10