Phwoar! Look at that specimen!

In January 2020 I decided I wanted to lose some weight so I fired up an app on my phone, began religiously recording every calorie I consumed and made an effort to have a deficit of about 500 calories a day from the 2,500 recommended limit. It was miserable. 

I dropped beer and swapped it for vodka with fresh lime juice and soda water, my large bar of chocolate became a small and infrequent bar, pasta was substituted with gnocchi and I spent most of my time either hungry or drunk because I'd not eaten enough stodge before I cracked open the Russian Standard. 

Despite the hideousness I started losing weight and come March I'd dropped half a stone (7 lb for those outside the UK). Some of my old shirts began to fit me again, without gaping between the buttons, and I suddenly rediscovered pairs of trousers which, a few weeks earlier, gave my thighs the look of a zeppelin in a boob tube. 

I was only half way to my target, and quite used to the change in eating habits, when Covid-19 – that flu-like condition from a little known Chinese town, which had gone on to strip Australia of toilet paper – landed in the UK and led us to a national lockdown.

At first there was little difference. Then gradually, and over a number of weeks, I started to morph back to my former self. Despite the fact that I continued to eat well I hadn't counted on becoming a veritable hermit. Daily marches across town which formed part of my commute and went some way to keeping the blob at bay, stopped as I settled into working from the dining room table; likewise the twice monthly nightclub dancing sessions ceased; even simple things like walking to a restaurant or bar ended. I had become toad-like in my burrow with a daily routine that took me from the bedroom to the sitting room, with occasional diversions via the kitchen, the bathroom and the garden.

In about the same amount of time it took me to loose seven pounds, I put it right back on again. The shirts were returned to their traditional place in the wardrobe, the trousers reduced in number and the love handles expanded like proving dough. Frustrated and disappointed I realised the only thing for it was either exercise or starvation.

Over the years I've toyed with the idea of running in much the same way as I toyed with the idea of growing dreadlocks and setting up a turtle sanctuary on a Greek island. It's something I like the idea of but, in reality, I just don't have the enthusiasm to do anything about it. 

That being said, some time ago, I mentioned this kernel of an idea to a friend who is a keen runner. There was definitely an element of bravado and swagger in what I was saying to him but deep down I was genuine. Unexpectedly he gave me an expensive pair of running shoes which he'd bought in a mad panic but didn't fit and were discontinued so he couldn't swap them. I accepted his incredibly generous offer graciously hoping this would be the kick up the arse I needed and, as a thank you, I took him to the pub and we got smashed on highly calorific pints of lager. The shoes subsequently languished under the stairs at home.  

That was until a couple of weeks ago when I found myself knocking about on social media one afternoon and a blurry, old photograph popped up showing me, in shorts and tee shirt, the last time I attempted running – seven years ago. I remember the occasion well, I'd lasted all of twenty minutes then spent the remainder of the day recovering and promising myself that one day, after I'd stopped smoking, I'd try again.

I shared the photograph once more on Facebook, almost as a joke, saying that I might take up running again – again, like it was even a thing back then! Within minutes the friend who had gifted me the expensive trainers commented on the photograph, writing, 'Well I did give you those trainers for a reason!' 

Then minutes later another friend offered to go running with me if I wanted a buddy and, before I knew it, I was inspired. 

I contacted the first friend to ask about where I should get running gear. He advised me and I immediately spent the best part of seventy quid on shorts, tee shirts and socks – I didn't want to waste the momentum and I thought, if I spend money on something that will be an incentive to use them in itself. Next I got in touch with the other friend, asked him if he was serious, interrogated him on whether he was any good at running, and if he cared that I would probably be a hindrance to him, then I took him up on his offer – I was on fire!

Three days later the kit arrived. I tried it on, fully expecting to have to send everything back, in the manner of an overly enthusiastic ASOS order, but to my surprise everything fit. Shit was getting real!

I did make a couple of mistakes with the clothes: firstly I'd ordered small socks instead of large, but resolved to make do and stretch them over my size elevens; secondly I'd made a boo boo with the shorts – I could have sworn I'd bought the seven inch shorts but alas, I'd gone for the three inch ones with the slit up the side. 

There was nothing to stop me now; two more friends had heard my story and offered to run with me, and I finally had the right outfit, (is that what you call running clothes? An outfit? A uniform?) My only real concern was being catcalled and heckled as I scandalised the neighbourhoods of South Manchester in my slutty shorts. 

I say 'there was nothing to stop me' when what I mean to write is 'there is nothing to stop me'. The tiny shorts and teeshirts are waiting patiently in my wardrobe, and I've worn the trainers around the house to break them in, I've just not got round to going outside in them.

I will do it eventually, I'm sure. It's the same with everything – I do stuff in my own time. I love the idea of being a runner, and I like the idea of being healthier in my mid-forties than I was in my early forties, or even my thirties for that matter. Most of all though, I long to lose the love handles and the belly, to fit into those shirts again, and mostly to feel confident the next time I take my shirt off at the beach. 

When it boils down to it, and whichever way you look at the situation, it's all about vanity. I don't want to run because I'm embarrassed about what I'll look like when I'm out there sweating and panting yet, at the same time, I want to have a better body than I do now for no other reason than for people to look at me and say, 'Phwoar! Look at that specimen!'

The country opens to the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth

    This weekend saw lots of places reopening for the first time after the lockdown. Pubs were, of course, top of the list for many people. 

I'll be honest, I'm really missing a pint of overpriced, cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger, but that being said, I chose not to venture to the pubs just yet, opting instead to wait and see how it went for others.

I know a few people that did go out on Saturday and it seems, on the whole, to have been a positive experience. My boss went to a place in Chester with some friends and said it was a bit clinical and a strange set up but he's glad he did it. He told me there was a one way system in the pub, which judging by the shops that are open was to be expected, but rather unexpected was the fact there were so very few tables and their nearest one was apparently more than ten metres away. Drinks had to be ordered via an app, then brought to the table by someone wearing a visor. Even going to the loo was monitored by a member of staff with only one person at a time allowed to use them.

Other friends were on Canal Street in central Manchester and reported that it was a nice atmosphere. They sat outside, under parasols, again being served by staff at their tables - staff who were pleased to be back at work no doubt. One even reported the journey home being civilised with people observing social distancing rules, a far cry from the usual last train to Stockport

There have been reports of people flouting the rules and overcrowding streets but people have flouted the rules throughout in one way or another and the papers have got to get their story. Judging by the media it seems the worst area for this was Soho in London but what did anyone expect? It's arguably the busiest night time area in the West End of the biggest city in Europe. Besides, it's not like the people there don't know what's been going on for the last three months - surely it's time to let them choose their own level of risk now the general risk is so low. It seems the venues are mostly doing the right thing, of all the venues in Manchester only two were closed down on Saturday for not adhering to guidelines.

Few and far between were the stories about how great it was to support the hospitality industry as it tried to pull itself back up from on its knees after a crippling three months brought about by a global health crisis.

    After much wailing and gnashing of teeth on social media, the Prime Minister has announced a large funding package for the arts in excess of £1.5 billion. This comes at the end of the week where the Royal Exchange Theatre announced that up to 65% of their roles were to be made redundant, a flurry of images appeared across Facebook of people working in the arts to remind everyone of its importance, and the actor Paul Clayton referred to the PM in an astonishingly shrill tweet as a 'fucksplat'.

I get that the arts in the UK is an almost entirely politically left-wing affair, but the vitriol I've heard from those that work within the industry, directed towards the Government and particularly Mr Johnson of late has been astounding. One might presume from listening to it that he is single handedly responsible for the collapse of the theatres, festivals, live music and the death of all its darlings. I have visions of Ken Loach and Maxine Peake fearing for their very lives as Boris Johnson stalks them down the South Bank of the Thames with a blunderbuss in one hand and a Union flag in the other. 

    Hairdressers, barbers and beauty parlours have also opened their doors again and people are being restored to their pre-lockdown appearances in their droves. The wild man of Borneo look is gradually being replaced with the less unruly, short back and sides; appointments are gleefully being announced as we say goodbye to three inch stripes down the partings of people I always assumed were natural blondes; and we bid adieu to laughter lines, furrowed brows and thin, spiteful lips as the botox & fillers clinics fling open their expressionless doors once more.

    Sadly dentists are not yet fully operational. I called mine this morning to ask about having my temporary crown replaced with the permanent one which they've been holding to ransom since early March, only to be told that they're waiting for PPE, an acronym few people understood in February but that is now part of the lexicon. They can't even give me an idea when they'll be open again so for now the only thing they're doing is pulling folks' teeth out in a dental emergency.

    While all this goes on, or doesn't as the case may be, there's a constant, squawking murmur in the background. As persistent as it is irritating, a whinging chorus of voices claiming to be confused as to what they should do at every turn. Is it two metres or one? Can I go to work or not? The Government should do this, the Secretary should say that. How will I possibly live my life if I'm not instructed precisely how to undertake every single task that involves human interaction or leaving the house?

Swathes of society seem to have relinquished the ability to think for themselves and use common sense. The pedants are out in force - he said, she said, that means, etc - and are desperate to make the most minor things more complicated than we could ever have imagined. Often this is done on behalf of others who they neatly categorised as 'the vulnerable.' Call my a cynic but I suspect they are in fact looking for problems in order to criticise the powers that be. It's really tiresome and my snooze button has been out in force on Facebook again.

The vulnerable people I know haven't once complained that the information is confusing. My housebound dad and Chris's elderly parents have trooped on as usual, taking onboard the precautions they're advised to take and using their nouse to decide when something is right or wrong for them.

    So as the country begins to creak back to life I'm looking forward to going out for a nice meal in a local restaurant some time this week. Croma, our usual pizza place, isn't opening up again for the time being so I think we'll pop down to Saray instead for some Turkish tucker and show our support for the family that own it. Hopefully there'll be a local pub open too, somewhere I can sit in a booth and drink over priced, cold, fizzy lager poured by someone with a bad attitude and the social skills of a badger.