At 5.30 a.m. on Monday 7 August 2017, I was awoken by the shrill bleep-bleep-bleeeeeep of the alarm clock in my London flat. I rolled out of bed, wandered into my bathroom, stepped onto the scales and watched the digital display rapidly ascending to 308lb (140 kilos); exactly 22 stone. I then padded over to the sink, brushed my teeth, splashed my face and stared into the mirror.
Day One, I told my reflection. Bring it on.
After months of thinking, reading and planning, it was finally time to start afresh. It was, at last, time for me to regain control.
Laid out on my bed was a crisp, white Nike training kit, which I’d soon be wearing in readiness for my first session with a personal trainer. I had bought it on the cheap from my local sports outlet; raiding the XXXL bargain bin was one of the few advantages of being obese, and I’d saved myself a fortune.
As for my trainers, I dug out a fifteen-year-old pair of barely worn Otomix that had gathered dust at the back of my wardrobe following a short-lived gym membership.
As an added incentive, I also borrowed a Fitbit tracker from my mate Steve Torrance (he’d upgraded to a Garmin running watch) in the hope that, over the forthcoming months, it would help me to plot a nice upward trajectory.
All the conventional wisdom said that a successful weight-loss plan involved 80 per cent diet and 20 per cent exercise, so I knew that–whether I liked it or not–any meaningful lifestyle change would need to incorporate a basic fitness programme.
Indeed, increased movement and activity was pretty much essential for those hoping to reverse their type 2 diabetes, as it helped to reduce your short-term and long-term glucose levels, and helped you to use insulin more effectively.
‘Insulin resistance, which leads to all sorts of blood sugar problems, often starts with inactivity,’ wrote the estimable Dr Michael Mosley on his thebloodsugardiet.com website. ‘If you don’t use your muscles enough, then over time, fat builds up inside the muscle fibres and insulin resistance develops. The best way to reverse this is to get active.’
For over three decades, my physical shortcomings had thwarted any conventional exercise–even half-mile walks were nigh on impossible–and I’d become part of that wider societal trend that saw people virtually chaining themselves to their desks or sofas, and spending comparatively less time outdoors. I desperately needed to break out of that sedentary existence.
Toward the end of our trip to Glastonbury I’d summoned up the courage to have a heart-to-heart with my mate David about all things exercise-related. He had battled with his own weight issues in the past but having embarked upon a healthy living plan himself, I reckoned he’d be a good sounding board. The ensuing conversation was candid, bordering on brutal, as he reaffirmed what I already knew: if I was aiming for longevity, I’d have to get my act together and transform my whole lifestyle, from diet to exercise. David then made the suggestion that I should kick-start my new fitness regime with his personal trainer, Clayton.
An ex-Special Forces soldier from South Africa, this guy had set up a boxing and martial arts gym in Bermondsey and also offered one-to-one private sessions. ‘Clayton’s the man to sort you out,’ my friend had said as we’d sipped cider in the Theatre Bar. ‘He’ll show you what to do, and he’ll keep an eye on you so you don’t keel over.’
‘Well that’s reassuring, David, but point taken,’ I’d replied, feeling both pleased and relieved that I’d plucked up the courage to confide in him. ‘I’ll call him when I get back to London.’
I turned up a few minutes early for my first appointment with Clayton, feeling somewhat anxious and self-conscious. I looked colossal in my new sports gear–even the XXXL kit was a pretty snug fit–and as I walked through the park gate I pulled down the peak of my baseball cap, worried that I might get recognised by a politics-savvy jogger or dog-walker.
Clayton had asked me to meet him at 7.30 a.m. in the children’s play area in Kennington Park, a pleasant green space south of the river and not too far from my flat. The specific nature of the venue had intrigued me, but I chose not to question it. Clayton was already waiting for me as I lumbered over.
As wide as he was tall–the proverbial brick outhouse–he shook my hand, dispatched a cursory nod and opened the gate (David had already warned me that Clayton was a man of few words). As I followed him in–it was deserted at that time of day, thank God–I came over all queasy and nervous. This was new territory for me, since I was miles out of my comfort zone, and I was petrified that I was going to a) fail miserably and b) make a total and utter tit of myself.
We kicked off with some very gentle warm-up exercises like side stretches, knee bends and neck rolls, before Clayton explained why he’d chosen the kiddies’ corner as our workout area. ‘We’re going to do some low-impact, basic-level training to improve your stamina,’ he said, ‘and this playground equipment’s perfect for it. Now, let’s see where you’re at…’
First of all, Clayton asked me to do as many press-ups as I could. Just the mere request made my blood run cold. I could barely manage one–the utter shame of it–and collapsed in a pathetic heap on the tarmac.
Great start, I thought, feeling totally crushed.
‘No worries, Tom,’ said Clayton.
He then asked me to do some 45-degree press-ups off a nearby park bench instead and, despite my chest almost caving in, I performed two. Once I’d recovered from this Herculean feat, I was taken to the children’s sandpit, where I was instructed to jump on and off its wooden rim, which must have been all of eight inches high.
‘Let’s have fifteen of those,’ said Clayton. Halfway through, I felt so weak and light-headed I genuinely thought I was going to faint. For a fleeting moment I considered turning on my heel, absconding from the park, heading to my flat and climbing back into bed.
Things didn’t get any easier. Dripping with sweat, I was ushered to a miniature bridge painted in gaudy colours, and was ordered to run across it, to and fro.
Why’s that fat bloke staggering around a kids’ play area? I imagined puzzled onlookers thinking as they passed me by. That bridge will collapse if he’s not careful…
I was wheezing like a set of old bagpipes after my mini shuttle run, and had to cling on to a climbing frame as I got my breath back.
‘I knew I was unfit, but I didn’t realise I was this unfit,’ I panted. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ replied my taskmaster. ‘The fact you’re here in the first place is an achievement. It gets easier.’
I was under no illusions; I’d always known that personal humiliation and pride-swallowing was going to be a necessary part of this process, especially in the early stages. However, never before had I felt as exposed and as vulnerable as I did in that children’s playground. My desire to get healthy superseded any sense of indignity, though, and as I virtually crawled back home to Vauxhall I felt a genuine feeling of elation.
Clayton’s session had almost killed me (I hadn’t even been able to say thank you or goodbye, since I could hardly speak) but I felt certain I was going to return for more of the same the following week. The switch had been flicked.
As regards diet and nutrition, Day One heralded the start of a new regime of sorts. I didn’t feel quite ready to adhere to a structured plan, or set myself any massive targets, so for the time being I decided to go down a less prescriptive route based on monitoring calorie intake and trying healthier options.
Determined to curb my long-term sugar addiction (with my fluctuating glucose levels, this had to be my main priority), I made a concerted effort to omit sugary carbohydrates from my diet (so no cakes, biscuits or chocolates) and I tried my best to limit starchy carbs like bread, rice, pasta and potatoes. I endeavoured to drink more water and eat more vegetables, and try to make more home-cooked meals. By forming habits and implementing rules – the most important being ‘cut out sugar’ – I hoped that I’d encourage certain routines, which would in turn morph into daily rituals.
Yet again, I looked to my old mentor Aristotle for some guidance in this regard, sticking one of his most famous quotations to my fridge door:
We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.
Next to it I pinned a photograph. I had not long returned from a lovely holiday in Majorca with Siobhan and the kids – now and then we still liked to holiday as a family unit – and she’d quite innocently taken a photo of me diving into the swimming pool, with flab flying in all directions. The resulting image was hideous – I looked like a flying whale – and, as I affixed it with Blu-tack, I knew it would act as the perfect deterrent to any late-night fridge raids.
The morning after my inaugural Kennington Park workout, still feeling slightly weak-kneed and wobbly, I tackled a job that had desperately needed doing for months: a wholesale clear-out of my little kitchen. It was high time to consign all foods containing refined sugar to the green recycling bin, so this meant bidding a final farewell to a variety of sweet snacks (goodbye, my beloved KitKats) as well as my favourite breakfast cereals and muesli bars.
I didn’t want to do anything in half-measures, so nothing remotely sugary was spared the cull. I almost had to adopt the strict, disciplined approach of a recovering drug user, removing all temptation in order to avoid a perilous relapse. It seemed to me, having scrutinised their labels, that even many of the supposedly ‘savoury’ convenience foods in my larder and freezer were laden with sugar (61.2g in a supermarket sweet ’n’ sour chicken, no less), so into the bin went a stack of microwaveable meals, shrink-wrapped frozen pizzas, tubs of instant noodles and jars of cooking sauces.
Then it was time to clear the fridge of Guinness and Coca-Cola: the drinks that I have swigged more then any other in my lifetime, but which had no doubt contributed to my health problems.
I piled them up next to the sink, snapped back the ring-pulls and ceremoniously poured the dark brown liquids into the sink, watching them bubble and froth as they disappeared down the plughole. I reckoned I’d miss the stout more than the cola. To me, Guinness was a beautiful drink, was so lovingly made, and was best enjoyed in great company. Now I’d just have to find something else to drink with my pal Paul Latham in the Toucan pub near Soho Square.
As I’d planned to limit my refined carbohydrate – no more tempting, late-night cheese toasties for me – I duly donated the George Foreman Grill to the local charity shop. I had often used it to make two toasted sandwiches in one go, filling them with cheese and ham and gobbling them down in minutes.
I chucked away any out-of-date ingredients, too (including a six-year-old bottle of black bean sauce) and donned my yellow Marigolds to scrub all the grease and grime from the fridge, the oven and the cupboards. It was, to all intents and purposes, a cleansing experience; a chance for me to reset the dial and start from zero.
That afternoon, I set aside some time to configure a lifestyle tracker on my phone and computer, which I’d use to measure my food intake and activity levels (I opted for the MyFitnessPal app, which seemed to best suit my needs). It came in really handy as a calorie-counter – I got into a habit of inputting my meals and snacks on a daily basis – and it also enabled me to gauge the ‘macros’ (macronutrients) of everything I ate, which meant breaking down the proportion of fats, carbs and proteins.
My first ever food log comprised the following:
BREAKFAST: two large eggs, one avocado, two slices of wholemeal bread
LUNCH (BISTRO): crab salad, spaghetti carbonara and cheese, mixed salad
DINNER: breaded chicken breast and two rollmop herrings
DRINKS (NOT INCLUDING TEA AND WATER): four glasses of rosé and one glass of white wine spritzer
In total, that day’s intake came in at 2,348 calories, 43 per cent fat, 33 per cent carbohydrates and 24 per cent protein, which probably wasn’t ideal for me in terms of carb levels. Just logging this was a significant step, though, because I soon got into the habit of inputting all my food and drink into MyFitnessPal, which in turn gave me greater clarity in relation to calorific values and macronutrient balances.
Weaning myself off that carb-heavy spaghetti carbonara and that sugar-laden rosé wine wasn’t going to be easy, but I was determined to give it my best shot. As the month progressed, my outdoor exercise became more routine and, as my confidence increased, I began to feel less embarrassed in public.
I started to go on lots of early-morning walks, too, often at the crack of dawn. I had always been more of a lark than an owl, and two or three times a week I’d awake at 5.15 a.m., throw on my kit, strap on my Fitbit and head over to Kennington for a leisurely stroll, bidding the park-keeper good morning as he unlocked the iron gate.
In the early days of my weight-loss plan, I set myself tiny but achievable goals – ambling from Lambeth Bridge to Waterloo Bridge, for instance, or completing one lap of Dartmouth Park in West Bromwich – but my lack of fitness meant that I rarely went faster than snail’s pace.
In the park I’d often find myself being overtaken by a toddler in a toy car, or a pensioner on a walking-frame. ‘C’mon, Tom, keep going,’ I’d say, urging myself on as the sweat poured off me.
Occasionally my pal David would join me on my early-morning promenades in Kennington. Our chats were wide-ranging, encompassing current affairs, science, literature and, more pertinently, our newly found articles on men’s health. We offered each other a lot of support (we were both porky middle-aged men embarking on similar journeys) and we’d often engage in friendly, motivational competition although, at around 16 stone (102 kilos), he was much lighter and sprightlier than me.
‘Let’s walk past five lamp-posts without stopping,’ he’d say, striding ahead as I shuffled behind him, struggling to keep up. As I gradually acclimatised myself to walking, however, I allowed myself to raise my targets and expectations. After a fortnight I was able to walk past six lamp-posts, then seven, and then eight.
Soon, I found myself completing a whole lap of the park, triumphantly overtaking the toy cars and the walking-frames. Come late August, I was achieving 5,000 steps per day (my Fitbit would emit a congratulatory bleep when I passed the threshold) and, a month later, I’d doubled that tally. Setting these objectives and meeting my goals gave me such a fantastic buzz.
I reckoned that this target-based competitiveness probably stemmed from my deep-seated love of video games. This lifelong obsession had started on Christmas Day 1982, when my parents had bought me a Sinclair ZX Spectrum home computer, together with various games cassettes.
One of my favourites, Manic Miner, was a particularly exacting challenge that involved achieving one level and then the next, and which punished any mistakes by sending you spiralling down to square one. That was almost how I felt when I exercised; if I didn’t maintain momentum, and didn’t improve incrementally, everything would come crashing down and I’d have to start all over again.
I continued my weekly activity sessions with Clayton, which, as he’d predicted, became far less arduous. The exercises that I’d initially found impossible gradually became tolerable, and then – shock, horror! – they actually became rather enjoyable.
It being a very dry and mild autumn, we had plenty of opportunity for outdoor training, and Clayton upped the ante by making me do daily press-ups, standing squats and burpee jumps (I was terrible at the latter, embarrassingly bad, in fact, and grew to loathe the damned things). And while I remained a fat, sweaty bloke, still bursting out of my supersized kit, at least now I was a marginally fitter, fat sweaty bloke.
One morning, during a hydration break, I showed Clayton some phone footage of my kids doing some boxing training. Their mum hailed from a family of keen boxing fans, and Malachy and Saoirse had always shared my in-laws’ passion for the sport. And, as my PT watched the video of my daughter punching seven bells out of some vinyl pads, he made a suggestion. ‘We could do some boxercise ourselves next session, if you want to mix things up a little,’ he said.
‘We could film a bit of it, and you could show off to your daughter.’ I paused for a moment, feeling slightly reticent about the whole idea.
‘No harm in trying, I suppose,’ I replied, finding it hard to visualise myself ducking and diving.
The following week Clayton met me in the park’s basketball court, carrying two pairs of boxing gloves and a set of foam pads. I wish I’d never shown him that video, I thought, fearful that more public humiliation was heading my way.
As I’d suspected, what followed was forty minutes of pure hell. Clayton made me pummel the rectangular pads as hard as I could, while constantly bouncing on my feet, and it was absolutely torturous. My chest heaved, my breath rasped, and I seriously thought I was going to vomit all over the tarmac.
Worse still, halfway through the session I happened to be recognised by a passer-by, the first time I’d experienced this in Kennington Park. A bloke in his thirties, walking his young son to school, had clearly clocked who I was (the specs and the waistline probably gave me away) and immediately stopped in his tracks. He whispered something to the boy, perhaps explaining that I was a Labour politician, which prompted the lad to press his little face against the surround netting.
‘Hey, Tom, who are you punching?’ he yelled. ‘My dad wants to know if it’s Jeremy Corbyn…’ The cheeky little blighter. I couldn’t help but laugh, though, albeit mid-wheeze.
From then on, I saw the father and son regularly passing by the basketball court, usually as I was nearing the end of a boxercise session. The twosome always gave me a friendly wave, which the boy would follow up with some words of encouragement.
‘Keep it up, Tom,’ he’d say, punching the air. ‘You’re smashing it!’ I would try to wave back – I quite liked these pep-ups, to be honest – but I was often so jiggered that I could barely lift up the boxing glove.
Though it was hard work, I had lots of fun doing boxercise, and I really liked how it made my body feel so pumped up afterwards. That being said, I had no immediate plans to challenge Anthony Joshua, despite the fact that Tommy ‘Two-Dinners’ Watson would have made a fabulous ring name.
Kennington Park soon became a huge part of my life, thanks to Clayton, and I grew extremely fond of the place. I regarded it as my own outdoor gym, I suppose, and I loved the feeling of being part of the park community, as just one of the many local residents who used it for pleasure and leisure.
I would always smile to myself as groups of joggers or cyclists, especially those of a certain age, passed me by. Maybe that’ll be me one day, I’d think, visualising my slimmer, sportier self.
For me, the benefits were psychological as well as physical; after three decades of sedentary living, it was exhilarating to get myself out into the open air, with the sun on my skin and the wind on my face, and see the outside world in all its vibrancy.
I returned to Westminster in early September, following the parliamentary recess. I had made so much progress since the summer (I was eating more healthily, exercising more regularly and sleeping more soundly) and, as a bonus, I’d shed a few pounds, slowly but surely.
This minor weight loss wasn’t enough for workmates to notice, though, and to most of my fellow MPs, I was still Tommy Two-Dinners, waddling around in the same big black suit and baggy white shirts.
The Commons Tea Room staff must have realised that something was amiss, though, because one of their most regular customers had suddenly stopped popping in for his daily bacon butties and his Friday lunchtime fish ’n’ chips (cutting out those butties was purgatory, by the way; they’d been part of my life for fifteen years).
The more observant among my colleagues might have also noticed that I was now taking the stairs instead of using lifts, and walking to work instead of hailing a cab. I did let my office staff into my little secret, though. We were a close-knit bunch, and I thought it only right that they should be privy to Project Weight Loss. Also, for the previous few weeks I’d ploughed a fairly lonely furrow (other than chatting with David and Clayton) and I think part of me was ready to share my thoughts and aspirations with this select coterie of colleagues.
In all fairness, two of my team, Jo Dalton and Sarah Goulbourne, had at one time or another (and with admirable politeness and diplomacy) tried to nudge me in the direction of a gym or a salad. Back then, I’d not been ready or willing to heed their advice, but now I’d finally started to ring the changes.
‘Good for you, Tom, that’s brilliant,’ said Jo, when I told her about my plans. ‘So impressed,’ added Sarah. ‘Onward and upward, eh?’
I instructed Jo and Sarah to ensure the other core staff were in the loop, but – since I didn’t want to put myself under too much pressure at Westminster, or draw undue attention to myself – I asked them to keep matters within our four walls. They were only too happy to oblige, which I greatly appreciated.
I also asked them to be as flexible as possible with my diary in order to accommodate my morning fitness sessions. In the past, I’d always arrived at the office between 8.30 a.m. and 9.30 a.m. (not that late in Westminster terms, as we often had evening votes and events) and it was common for briefings and meetings to be scheduled around this time, via the electronic diary system used by the whole team.
However, now that I’d taken the first steps on my health and fitness journey, and was heading in the right direction, I had no intention of ditching my Kennington Park walks or my exercise regime with Clayton. On certain days, therefore, I’d need an early-doors slot blocking out in the diary, with mid-morning or afternoon spaces ring-fenced for any meetings.
The plan was to concentrate on my fitness for an hour, return to my flat to get showered and dressed and report to the office for no later than 10.30 a.m. Jo and Sarah did their very best to accommodate this but others in the team, who were all vying for my diary time, sometimes forgot. Much to my frustration, I’d discover that the 8.30 a.m. slot earmarked for Clayton had been filled with a last-minute meeting, which I’d feel obliged to attend at the expense of my boxercise.
Despite my pointing this out as gently as I could, the following week the same thing would happen, and instead of going for my soul-enriching power-walk I’d be sat around a committee room table, discussing Christmas card designs.
All this started to create a palpable tension among the team. Perhaps a few of them weren’t taking my requests seriously; understandably so, maybe, because I’d attempted weight-loss plans before that had come to nothing. And they, no doubt, found it frustrating to have to organise a jam-packed schedule around my morning workouts.
In the end I had to put my foot down. ‘Look, I know there’s a crushing demand on the diary,’ I said, during a pow-wow I’d convened, ‘but I’m trying my best to structure a lifestyle plan, and to implement a few rules and routines. These exercise sessions are so important to me, and I really need your help.’ I added that if any more morning meetings happened to clash with my walks or workouts, I would simply not attend, full stop.
Amid much rolling of eyes (I could only imagine what they were muttering under their breath) my staff took my comments on board, and agreed to protect that diary time. Indeed, once they realised the true extent of my commitment and determination, the rest of my team bought into the whole thing and offered me a great deal of support and encouragement.
Health and well-being soon became a common topic of conversation in the office – somewhat ironic, since I’d avoided broaching the subject for years – and we’d readily compare and contrast our own experiences. Sometimes, my colleagues and I would go for lunchtime walks around Westminster, walking over to the South Bank, past the London Eye, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. If it happened to be raining, we’d pace the House of Commons corridors instead.
‘Who fancies a stroll?’ I’d ask, especially if we’d been confined to the office all morning. ‘Let’s get our blood pumping, eh, and stretch our legs. Sitting still for four hours is no good for anybody.’
Later that September, the annual Labour Party conference took place at the Brighton Centre, comprising its usual mix of speeches, debates and motions, followed by convivial get-togethers and drinks receptions with members and delegates. However, compared with the previous year’s gathering in Liverpool, it turned out to be an altogether different experience for me.
This time, unlike 12 months previously, I neither touched a drop of alcohol, nor ate my weight in buffet food. For once, I didn’t find myself hogging the karaoke machine, or joining in a drunken singalong to ‘The Red Flag’. Instead, every evening I fastidiously went to bed at 9 p.m., keen to avoid these after-hours temptations and determined to stick to my regime.
‘Hey, Tom, where are you going?’ exclaimed a member of the Unite union, Jim Mowatt, as he spotted me in the lobby of my hotel, about to take a Waitrose chicken salad and a tub of Greek yoghurt up to my room. ‘You not coming for a drink, then?’
‘Just taking it a little bit easier this year,’ I replied with a smile.
‘Got an important speech tomorrow. Going to get my head down so I can wake up feeling nice and clear-headed.’
‘Oh, OK…’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Fair enough, I s’pose. But you know where we are if you change your mind.’
I could totally understand his bewilderment. He had attended conferences with me for 25 years, and had never once known me to decline the offer of grub and Guinness. Not only was I going to bed early to get my beauty sleep, I was also getting up at 5.30 a.m. to achieve my latest 10,000- step target.
In fact, if any colleagues or comrades expressed the desire to talk politics with me during the conference, I told them I’d only agree to a chat if they accompanied me on one of my five-mile walks along the coastline. I remember strolling from Brighton to Hove with my good mate James Gurling (a lifelong Liberal Democrat, who was attending our conference in his corporate communications role), taking in the lovely sea views and marvelling at the magnificent beachside mansions.
James couldn’t quite get his head around my newfound lifestyle change – he’d known me as Tommy Two-Dinners for years – and, after we’d returned to the hotel, he reluctantly admitted that he’d found it difficult to keep up with my walking pace.
‘Have to say, I’m bloody impressed,’ he said. ‘Fair play to you, mate.’
‘This is just the beginning, my friend,’ I replied. My deputy leader’s speech took place on the penultimate evening, and was a rallying cry for all delegates to maintain pressure on the flagging Conservative Party.
‘Yes, there’s hard work to do and no, we mustn’t be complacent,’ I said, ‘but Jeremy Corbyn has broken the spell of fear the Tories sought to cast on this country. He has helped us all to remember that politics should be about inspiring hope, not peddling despair. He has shown us again what a real alternative to Toryism looks like and what it can achieve.’
It went down pretty well, I think, although the next day’s Guardian cartoon, sketched by the inimitable Steve Bell, ruthlessly lampooned me. ‘Brighton Fatberg Spotted,’ ran the caption, above a huge caricature of yours truly looming over the comparatively svelte figure of our party leader.
Fatberg? Ha! Not for long… I thought, before wondering whether Bell would have used similar fat-shaming terminology had he parodied a female Member of Parliament.
Being an overweight male MP seemed to justify such satire and, despite it being a grotesque portrayal, I was expected to laugh along and suck it up.
On the final day of the conference, as soon as Jeremy Corbyn’s speech finished, I headed straight out of the Brighton Centre and hailed a cab to Gatwick Airport. Five hours later I was enjoying a meal in a Torremolinos restaurant, La Taberna de Guaro, talking diet and nutrition with a well-known TV weather presenter, as you do.
Her advice, as it happened, would change my life. I first met Clare Nasir, who came to national prominence while working for GMTV, through mutual friends. She and her husband, BBC 6 Music DJ Chris Hawkins, were good pals with fellow Labour MP Gloria De Piero, who happened to be married to James Robinson, my former communications director.
Gloria and I had known each other for years, and during our twenties had even shared an apartment together in London. I was by no means the perfect flatmate, as my friend will attest. Once, following a boozy night out, I returned home and put some boil-in-the-bag kippers on the hob for an early-hours snack. I then staggered into the lounge and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. The water evaporated, the plastic melted and soon the flat was filled with acrid smoke and the aroma of burnt fish.
‘Are you trying to bloody kill us, Tom?’ I vaguely remember Gloria yelling as she ran into the kitchen in her pyjamas, flinging the pan into the sink and flapping at the plumes of smoke. It took weeks, and countless air fresheners, for us to get rid of the smell.
Our friendship continued regardless, and in September 2017 Gloria, James and I decided to go abroad for a few days during the parliamentary break. An autumn recess was always scheduled to accommodate the various party conferences, and a cheap week on the Costa del Sol seemed just the ticket. Clare and Chris happened to be there at the same time, and we all decided to meet up one night.
Clare and I chatted for ages in the restaurant. Like me, she’d once experienced her own weight struggles and, by completely overhauling her diet and fitness regime, she had since undergone a total lifestyle transformation. Coming from a scientific background – she was a trained meteorologist – Clare had conducted meticulous research into various nutrition programmes, reading widely and furnishing herself with as much information as possible.
In the end, she chose not to proceed down the conventional low-fat, low-calorie Eatwell Plate-style route. She instead embraced the low-carb, high-fat (LCHF) philosophy of so-called ‘ketogenic’ nutrition, a concept that I’d come across as I’d ploughed through my extensive reading list. I was intrigued to learn more about it – Clare had lost so much weight, and looked a picture of health and vitality – and, over a couple of glasses of Rioja, she gave me the run-down.
Ketogenic nutrition, I discovered, was a regime that drastically reduced the carbohydrate in your diet and replaced it with fat and non-industrially-produced oils (it had originated in the 1920s, having been prescribed for children with drug-resistant epilepsy). This reduction in carbohydrate meant that your body effectively ‘learned’ how to reach a metabolic state called ketosis, which then enabled your body to draw down on fat stores to produce energy by turning fat into acids in the liver, known as ketones.
The Western diet very often ensured that the body only ever used glucose to provide energy, yet by restricting carbs through fasting or diet, ketogenic nutrition allowed the body to become ‘fat-adapted’ in order to provide fat-burning as a fuel source.
Many who followed the nutritional programme claimed that it reduced sugar cravings and feelings of hunger. Clare’s LCHF keto diet predominantly comprised meat, poultry, fish, dairy products, oils and vegetables. All manner of starchy carbohydrates (pasta, rice, grains and potatoes, for example) were strictly forbidden, as were sugary carbs in all their many guises. Highly processed convenience foods were wiped off the menu, too, in favour of natural, wholesome, home-cooked alternatives.
Typical keto-friendly meals could consist of bacon and eggs for breakfast – with no toast, of course – and a chicken, avocado and leafy green salad for lunch. Dinner might be a rib-eye steak with broccoli and cauliflower, followed by fresh raspberries and double cream for dessert.
Snacks and nibbles could include a handful of nuts or a couple of chunks of dark chocolate (although the latter had to be a variety with 80 per cent cocoa solids, to ensure the sugar content was low). Due to its carb content, beer was a no-no, but the occasional glass of wine, or a measure of vodka, was permitted.
Eating out ‘keto-style’ was eminently doable, it seemed, by adapting certain restaurant dishes – forgoing the mashed potato with the pork chops, for example, and ordering spinach instead – and by avoiding others that weren’t suitable.
‘Have to say, Clare, I really like the sound of that.’
‘Well, all I can say is that it works for me,’ she replied. ‘I love the meals, and like the fact that they’re so filling. I never have any hunger pangs.’
I then explained to Clare how things currently stood with me: how, since the summer, I’d commenced a fitness programme, and how I’d started to monitor and reduce my sugary snacks and starchy carbs in an attempt to lose weight and control my insulin levels.
‘I’m pleased with the way my fitness is going,’ I said, ‘but I know I won’t lose weight with exercise alone. I need to really drill down into my diet and nutrition. I think it needs more structure and refinement.’
Like her, I’d done plenty of research – much of which had pointed me in the direction of LCHF programmes – but I’d not really found the impetus to go the whole hog.
‘Maybe now’s the time for you to move up a gear,’ said Clare with a smile, adding that not only could ketogenic nutrition help me shed some weight, but that it might also help to manage my type 2 diabetes. She promised to send me some useful links to keto-related websites and podcasts, too, that had helped her on her way.
For the next few days I couldn’t get our conversation out of my head. I spent a good deal of the holiday sitting under a parasol, glued to my tablet, watching the YouTube channels and listening to the podcasts that Clare had recommended. The more I gleaned, and the more I learned, the more convinced I became that this nutritional credo was right for me.
Once I returned to the UK, I vowed, I would put my own ketogenic plan into action, and I would do my utmost to stick to it. The prospect of this was so exciting that it quite literally put a spring in my step.
Toward the end of my week in Torremolinos, and for the first time in decades, I went for a jog. It may have been from one palm tree to another – and it may have left me sweating cobs in the searing Spanish sun – but, to me, it represented yet another important milestone.
The next instalment from Downsizing will be shared next Wednesday. Missed the previous chapters? Find the links below