the lucky three

Those are enormous pants, Jones.
Dude.

I have lost almost 3 kilos.

WeightWatchers might make me sweat like a euro in a Greek bank, but it's actually fucking working.

Yes I'm starving all the time, yes I weigh myself more than what is probably necessary, yes I drink water and eat air, but I've also had Italygate and 1000 Carbonaras in between.

It's slowly but surely working. Even if I am sweating like Pierre Dukan in a bakery.

Only 8 weeks to go until I get to the weight I was in varsity. Can you even imagine that for two and a half seconds? Well, no, you probably can't because you probably haven't seen me in real life, but whatever - I'm battling to fathom it.

(Obviously, if all carries on according to plan yadda yadda).

This doesn't mean I don't think about Belgian chocolate cake and pies all the time.

I do. I fucking do.

It makes me sweat like Margaret Thatcher trapped inside a socialist's basement.

But it's Friday. So that means I eat salad, fruit, air and water until 6pm until I can go to the pub and have a slice of pizza and a few glasses of wine.

Jesus. Sweating on a boat on the sea of Galilee.

The excitement of sinking my molars into an oozing mozzarella fried thing makes me want to start sweating like a paedophile in a school yard.

It's the small joys. That make me sweat like a vegan in a KFC.

Air tastes great if you squeeze a fresh lime in it, FYI.

Even if it makes you sweat like OJ Simpson standing trial for murder in Texas.