Downsizing: Healthy Turnaround

Chapter 5 of my Sunday Times best-selling book, Downsizing. Serialised exclusively for subscribers to my weekly Persons of Positivity Newsletter

I continued to visit my GP, Dr Nazeer, albeit perhaps not with the same regularity that I’d done in the past. I was feeling so much better health-wise, and felt far more in control of my condition, and simply didn’t think it necessary to be knocking on his door every two or three weeks.

However, during a scheduled appointment toward the end of 2017 I’d happened to mention that I was following an ultra-low-carb ketogenic programme, that the subsequent weight loss had been dramatic and that, according to my daily fasting plasma glucose tests, my blood sugar levels had dipped to 5.7mmol/L (millimoles per litre), which, according to the chart that I’d been given, was within the ‘pre-diabetic’ range.

He seemed pleased to find me looking brighter and lighter, albeit via unconventional methods, but was keen to manage my expectations. Technically, once the NHS tells you you’re a type 2 diabetic, you’re always a type 2 diabetic, and it was prudent and professional for my GP to exercise caution at this stage.

In January 2018, and following some gentle persuasion, Dr Nazeer agreed to give me an earlier-than-scheduled HbA1c blood test. This annual measurement of my long-term fasting blood sugars wasn’t due for a few months but, since I was feeling so good, I wanted another in the interim.

The results were astonishing. My HbA1c test came in at 4.9mmol/L, which, according to the NHS measurement guidelines, indicated that I was within the normal range (the upper end of normal, granted, but that was good enough for me).

I could hardly take it in. A year ago, I’d have considered this impossible. Had I not been sitting before this very distinguished doctor I might have let slip an expletive, but I bit my tongue and said it in my head instead.

Normal. Bloody hell.

It appeared that, by controlling my own biochemistry through nutrition, I’d managed to significantly reduce my glucose levels and, for the time being, had put my type 2 diabetes into remission.

Three months spent strictly monitoring my carbohydrate intake had had a transformational effect on my body, and had enabled my blood sugars to come down to within the normal range.

While this was the finest personal victory I could have ever imagined, I also felt a twinge of regret. I had spent five years of my life in denial about my health issues, yet had I got my act together sooner I could have sorted it out in three months flat.

Dr Nazeer’s face was a picture. For years I’d been one of his problem patients, frequently missing appointments and often mired in denial, and I’m sure he’d never imagined me making this breakthrough.

Many a time I’d noticed him raising his eyebrows at me in undisguised disappointment, but on this occasion he was positively beaming. He even came over to give me a little man-hug.

‘I’m so proud of you, Tom,’ he said, patting me on the back. ‘You really deserve this.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘Genuinely, thank you.’

As soon as I got home I rang my brother Dan. I had been regularly updating him on my progress and he’d been hugely tolerant of his elder brother’s health and exercise-related ramblings. He had also been on a weight-loss journey some years previously, and understood just how toilsome the whole process could be.

Dan’s lifestyle change had involved a huge amount of cycling, including a daily 20-mile pedal to work along the canal towpaths that ran from Kidderminster to West Bromwich.

‘That’s such great news, Tom,’ he said. ‘The first of many milestones, eh?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ I replied. ‘Still can’t quite believe it.’

Within a few weeks, and in consultation with Dr Nazeer, I began to wean myself off metformin, my type 2 diabetes medication.

From a physiological perspective, the HbA1c test (combined with my daily finger-prick test, and my improved general health) had acted as the confirmation that I was able to control my blood sugar levels through nutrition alone.

From a psychological perspective, as soon as I’d realised that my diabetes was in remission, ditching the medication became my absolute goal, a symbol of success.

My weight continued on a downward trajectory, going from 252lb (114 kilos) on New Year’s Day to 227lb (103 kilos) by the end of April. As the flab began to fall off, people soon cottoned on.

At Westminster, fellow MPs gave me double-takes as I strode purposefully through the Commons’ corridors – ‘that can’t be Tommy Two-Dinners,’ I heard someone say – and lobby reporters began to jest in print that I was ‘a political lightweight’ or a ‘diminished figure in Westminster’. It may not have sounded entirely flattering, but in the most literal sense it was indeed true.

Some people even mistook me for a dark, slim, bespectacled colleague of mine, Karl Turner, the MP for Hull East. That amused him no end. ‘Never thought I’d see the day that I’d get confused with Tom Watson,’ he said, laughing.

‘Time to buy yourself some different glasses,’ I replied. I also had a handful of politicians knocking on my office door, intrigued as to how I’d lost the weight.

My good pal, the Labour MP for St Helens North, Conor McGinn, had not long joined the Westminster fray – in his early thirties, he was one of the younger breed of members – and had been alarmed to discover that his busy new lifestyle had led to some weight gain.

I told him how a ketogenic nutrition regime had worked for me (while stressing that it wasn’t the answer for everyone) and he decided to follow in my footsteps and lost a few pounds in the process.

I received a visit from a somewhat rotund backbench MP, too, whose wife had seen a photo of me in the newspapers and had insisted that he paid me a visit to discover my ‘secret’.

‘My other half says she won’t stop bugging me until I see you,’ he admitted, a little sheepishly. ‘So here I am.’

‘No problem at all,’ I smiled. We talked for a while, and I agreed to email him my reading and research list, from Dr Michael Mosley’s book to Professor Roy Taylor’s study, so that he could make his own informed decision.

Three further MPs (all of whom were suffering with type 2 diabetes) decided to confide in me as well. One colleague in particular had only recently been diagnosed, and was incredibly anxious about his future health and well-being. We sat down for a private chat in my office and, as he poured his heart out, I found myself relating totally to his deep sense of fear and shame.

I ended up spending a good deal of time with this MP, reassuring him that type 2 diabetes really didn’t need to be a lifelong condition and explaining how, by adapting his diet and by introducing some exercise, he could even try to put it into remission.

‘It’s a long-term project that can have lifetime results,’ I said.

‘I hope you’re right, Tom,’ he responded. ‘I’m worried as hell.’

I received support from across the political divide, too. Conservative MP Sir Nicholas Soames (grandson of Winston Churchill, no less) was a jovial individual with whom I’d always got on well, despite our ideological differences.

He too had successfully slimmed down his once-bulky frame, although, unlike me, he’d followed a more conventional low-fat, low-calorie plan (he claimed to swear by yoghurt and berries for breakfast but, knowing Soames, he probably lost his weight by going down from seven courses to four). Different diets worked for different people, of course, and Nicholas had certainly found the one that best suited him.

‘I can’t quite believe my eyes, Tom,’ he said, collaring me in the House of Commons one afternoon. ‘Congratulations. What a transformation. You’re a credit to parliament. You must send me your diet secrets.’

‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ I replied. ‘Much less of a squeeze on those Commons benches nowadays.’

Another Tory MP, James Duddridge, became a great support and sounding board. In the wake of a few health scares he’d lost weight and become super-fit, and along the way had developed a serious running addiction.

James and I would often meet up for a light lunch in the Commons Tea Room, where we’d share our health tips, compare our experiences and try to avert our gazes from the bacon butties.

Since I’d now started jogging in various parks around the capital, including St James’s Park and Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, he kept trying to tempt me into training with him, with a view to running the London Marathon.

I always declined, though. Clayton the taskmaster had always stressed that the golden rule of exercise for the over-50s was DO NOT GET INJURED and I didn’t want to push myself too far and hamper my progress. I appreciated the sentiment, though (the fact he’d even asked me showed me how far I’d come) but I was perfectly happy with my runs in Kennington Park.

While the majority of Westminster folk seemed very pleased for me, I occasionally found myself on the receiving end of a reverse compliment. ‘Don’t lose any more weight, Tom, will you?’ some would say, in mildly patronising tones. ‘You look fine as you are. You don’t want to get too thin now, do you?’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I’d say, smiling – albeit through gritted teeth – mindful that such comments were sometimes born of envy, or suspicion. I sensed that some individuals believed that my ‘new look’ had some sort of ulterior motive, and was part of a cunning, premeditated bid to improve my appearance, polish my image and climb the ranks of power.

This was complete and utter bollocks, of course. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

I do think, though, that some parliamentary colleagues found it hard to reconcile themselves with Tom Watson version 2.0, in particular my newfound, non-confrontational demeanour. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that some were completely infuriated by it.

Once upon a time, in the midst of my sugar addiction, whenever a colleague tried to trigger me during a combative meeting I’d have bitten back with a vengeance, shouting the odds and thumping the desk like that flighty ex-union official of yesteryear.

However, post-Project Weight Loss, and positively radiating calmness and contentment, I responded to any provocation with a smile, a shrug and some softly spoken words. I could almost see the steam coming out of certain people’s ears as I refused to rise to the bait.

As an MP, you expect an element of aggravation – it’s par for the course to get needled by opponents, colleagues and reporters – but in my new, Zen-like state everything seemed to be washing over me. In fact, there came a point in mid-2018 when I genuinely questioned whether I was too chilled out and laid-back for the job.

My own office staff detected a change in attitude, too. According to Jo, Sarah and the team, once I quelled my sugar addiction (and cleared my brain fog) I turned into a completely different boss.

I became a lot more focused in meetings, they reckoned, I could recall facts and figures without prompting, and I was much better prepared for speeches and interviews. Their jobs had become considerably easier as a result, which was good to hear, but I couldn’t help but feel a little remorseful all the same.

‘It must have been a nightmare for you guys at times,’ I told them one afternoon, casting my mind back to those dark, dysfunctional days of KitKat binges and desktop snoozes. ‘Tom, that’s all in the past,’ said Jo with a smile. ‘You weren’t well. You weren’t in control. But you’ve turned things around now, and that’s all that counts.’

My trusted colleagues had witnessed my lows, so it was only fair that they shared in the highs. In December 2017, when I’d lost my first 50 pounds (23 kilos) in weight – and in doing so reached a physical and emotional milestone – Jo and Sarah were the first people I told.

We were walking along a Commons corridor at the time, and I recall looking to my left at Jo, and then looking to my right at Sarah, and noticing their eyes glistening with tears. Don’t set me off as well,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a committee meeting in five minutes’ time, and I can’t exactly walk in there blubbing, can I?’

As my weight dwindled and my suits sagged, I began to look a bit like Talking Heads’ David Byrne in his ‘Once in a Lifetime’ video. Indeed, following my frontbench appearance at Prime Minister’s Questions, a good friend of mine – a Labour Party councillor, Bill Gavan – turned up at my constituency office in West Bromwich bearing two black bin bags.

‘Can you make sure Tom Watson gets these?’ he asked my bemused staff. ‘He looked like he was wearing a six-berth Scout tent at PMQs, and he clearly hasn’t got the time to go clothes shopping, so I’ve dug out some of my old gear for him to wear.’

I really appreciated Bill plundering his wardrobe – his classic suits were a near-perfect fit – and for the next four or five months I turned up to PMQs wearing these stylish, second-hand clothes.

When they eventually became too baggy I boxed them up and donated them to a fellow Labour Party member, who had just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes and who was beginning his own weight-loss journey. The handover gave us the opportunity to sit down over a coffee and talk things through. One good turn deserved another, I reckoned.

Walking around in Bill’s snazzy suits had given me a tremendous buzz, but buying my very first off-the-peg suit from Marks & Spencer proved to be a hugely pivotal moment. I had spotted this summery, light-blue linen suit dangling on the sale rail for a bargain £90, and when I’d tried it on I’d felt like a million dollars (my brother Dan had told me how amazing he’d felt when he’d squeezed into a pair of Levi’s 501s for the first time; this was my equivalent).

Like a kid desperate to wear his brand new shoes straight away, as soon as I’d paid for the suit I returned to the dressing room and changed back into it, stuffing my other clothes into the M&S carrier bag.

I gave my new blue suit its first public airing at the 2018 Ivor Novello Awards, which took place at the Grosvenor House Hotel. I had been asked to present Billy Bragg with his Outstanding Contribution to British Music award – a great privilege for me, since he was a music hero of mine – and I walked onto the stage feeling on top of the world.

‘Billy’s political lyrics challenge us,’ I said to the assembled audience, ‘but his songs of love reach deep into our souls. And for my generation, who have grown up with him from the early beginnings of his career, it is a genuine pleasure to see him recognised by such distinguished colleagues from all sectors of the music industry today.’

The cameras began to click, and Billy and I flashed our smiles. I remember thinking that, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to worry about looking like a sack of spuds in the following day’s newspapers.

The print and broadcast media soon began to use my weight loss as an angle for their reports and features, perhaps prompted by a photo that I’d posted for a laugh on my official blog after an engagement in central London.

‘One of these is a Neanderthal skeleton held under close security by the Natural History Museum,’ I wrote, alongside a picture of me next to this ancient relic. ‘The other has lost 86lb in weight.’

Some lobby journalists, many of whom worked under a great deal of pressure and may well have had their own health and lifestyle issues, began to quiz me about the whys and wherefores of my weight-loss journey. What most piqued their curiosity, however, was my Bulletproof Coffee intake.

I remember taking part in an interview with the BBC’s Nick Robinson for his Political Thinking podcast, and as he kicked off proceedings he proudly presented me with a paper cup of insipid black coffee, complete with a yellow pat of butter floating on the surface. It looked nothing like a bona fide Bulletproof, and it tasted absolutely revolting.

‘One lump of butter or two?’ he said, laughing, before enquiring how this crazy coffee had curbed my sugar cravings and rid me of my brain fog. ‘It’s like mainlining saturated fat into your physiology,’ I said. ‘I just stopped being hungry, Nick, and it’s really helped me.’

Tellingly, I chose not to mention my type 2 diabetes diagnosis. Perhaps it was superstition on my part, or maybe even a lingering sense of shame, but until I was certain that I was in long-term remission, and that it wasn’t a blip, I thought it wise to keep schtum.

A few weeks later, early one morning, I found myself at Four Millbank, the Westminster-based office block in which many TV companies housed small studios. I visited the cosy little café there, the Atrium, and was delighted to see that they’d started serving proper, blended Bulletproof Coffee, complete with Dave Asprey’s Brain Octane Oil.

‘Hey, it’s fantastic that you’re doing this,’ I said to the waitress as I ordered my own frothy mugful. ‘You must be one of the few places in London that sells it.’

‘Well, we’ve had so many journos requesting this Bulletproof stuff, we thought we’d add it to the menu,’ she replied. ‘Apparently there’s been some MP bloke banging on about it, and everyone wants to know what all the fuss is about.’ I handed over the cash, took receipt of my coffee and allowed myself a little smile.

During the first half of 2018 I remained pretty disciplined with my ketogenic eating programme, but as summer approached I began to relax the parameters and become a little less stringent.

I allowed myself to slightly exceed the strict 20g of carbohydrates per day, and followed something more akin to a Mediterranean diet, albeit a loose-ish version without the pasta or the bread (I was pleased to find a great online recipe for a wheat-free loaf made with almond flour).

I had no qualms about serving up some brown rice or sweet potato alongside a salmon steak or a chicken breast, although, when my kids weren’t looking, I’d often nick a few chips from their plates.

Whenever I dined out I’d opt, for example, for a tuna salad with tomatoes and green beans (the tomatoes and the beans were slightly higher on the glycaemic index and weren’t strictly keto). These tweaks definitely took me beyond the 20g limit, but I was nowhere near the 150–200g that I’d consumed in the past.

During the summer recess I went on holiday to Italy with Siobhan, the kids and my in-laws, Paul and Karen. The week before we jetted off I had to buy a whole new set of shorts and trunks from my favourite sports outlet in West Bromwich, since the 2017 versions would have fallen down around my ankles, like some fella on a Donald McGill seaside postcard.

Compared with bygone holidays, though, this one was a revelation. My new and improved fitness meant that I was able to spend hours in the swimming pool, diving in and splashing around with Malachy and Saoirse – arrivederci, flying whale – and, unlike previous years, I was able to comfortably walk around in the heat instead of docking myself permanently on a sunbed.

However, while the kids loved being around their hale and hearty dad, I’m not sure that was the case with the adults. Even though I was on holiday, I was still incredibly mindful of what I ate and drank (far too mindful, in retrospect), since I was very anxious about veering off course and unravelling my good work.

When everyone else tucked into some speciality pasta or gelato in a hillside restaurant, for instance, I’d stick to a simple cheese salad or a piece of fruit, before meticulously keying my choices into the MyFitnessPal app. When Paul cracked open some local Italian fizz back at the villa, I’d politely decline and continue sipping my iced water, before retiring to bed with my latest nutritional science book for company.

I had developed a deep-seated fear of letting myself go and, because of this, most evenings I must have been duller than ditchwater. Siobhan and her parents had the good grace to avoid making this an issue, though, but as the week went by I think they probably missed the old Tom, that party-loving bon viveur who liked a drink, a song and a slice (or six) of pizza.

Back home in the UK, my obsessive behaviour began to irritate my good pal David, too. While he’d been extremely supportive in the past (‘It’s amazing what you’ve done, Tom, you’re just like a normal fat bloke, now,’ he’d said in his broad West Yorkshire accent when I’d lost that first 50lb or 23 kilos), I think my born-again health and fitness fixation soon became a little wearing.

During our walks around Kennington Park he’d raise his eyes skywards as I eulogised about a book I’d read, or a podcast I’d found, and would often pointedly ignore me or tetchily change the subject.‘Honestly, David, you’ve got to check out this link,’ I’d say. ‘It’ll blow your mind.’

‘I don’t need to check it out, Tom,’ he’d wearily reply. ‘You’ve told me twice already.’

David may disagree, but I think the dynamics between us began to change when I overtook him, weight-wise. I had always been the Ollie to his Stan, the Large to his Little, and when I finally became lighter than him, effectively passing him on the way down, I sensed some friction between us.

Our trips to the pub soon became fewer and further between (especially when I started to resist the temptation of downing pints as a reward for a fitness goal) and, as we sensed ourselves drifting apart, we soon stopped walking together.

Much of the blame probably lay with me. Having restored my health and reclaimed my mojo, I’d probably become a little self-absorbed and had no doubt bored my mate into submission. But this particular predicament also demonstrated how relationships could change and evolve following a major life event, be that marriage, divorce, illness, childbirth or, yes, even weight loss.

It was inevitable, I suppose, that my friendship dynamics would shift, and that my social diary would shrink. Going out for beer, curry and a late-night karaoke session with my mates Kevin Brennan, Ian Lucas and Michael Dugher – known in parliamentary circles as ‘the choir’ – soon became a thing of the past, and I also found myself declining invitations to various parties and gatherings.

Perhaps a pared-down social life was unavoidable in my circumstances. Looking back, if there was any downside to my personal health journey, this was probably it.

During the summer of 2018 I began to consider the prospect of going public about my type 2 diabetes. My thinking was largely prompted by a meeting I had with a man called Dan Parker who worked in partnership with Jamie Oliver’s organisation, helping to promote its healthy eating campaign for children.

He happened to mention that he was a type 2 diabetic – I chose not to divulge my own diagnosis – and we struck up a conversation about the perils of the sugar economy. The sugar tax had been implemented earlier that year (the only good thing George Osborne ever did as chancellor of the exchequer) and I was becoming increasingly interested in challenging ‘Big Sugar’ interests.

Dan proceeded to tell me his own T2D story, explaining how his illness caused him much embarrassment – he often felt like a failure – and how he reckoned he wasn’t alone in that respect.

‘In a room full of a hundred people, maybe ten to fifteen per cent of them will have type 2 diabetes,’ he said. ‘Ask those people to raise their hand, and only one or two people will, because the others feel so damned ashamed.’

As far as Dan was concerned, this stigma prevailed throughout society. T2D was a badge of guilt, almost, and in order to rectify this, and to help people address and improve their condition, much more openness and awareness was required.

His remarks played on my mind for weeks – I too had suffered those same feelings of shame and isolation – and I soon concluded that it was time for me to speak openly and publicly about my health journey.

I worked with my Westminster team to locate a suitable occasion and, with this in mind, we set up a meeting with ukactive, a not-for-profit organisation that existed to improve the health of the nation through fitness and movement. They were intrigued to hear my story and very kindly invited me to speak at their national summit, scheduled for 12 September 2018.

My colleagues and I then began the creative process of writing a speech. Usually a speech involves a three-way collaboration between myself and my press team, who ensure the right number of media hooks, and my policy team, who try to make it strategy-rich. However, since this particular speech was intensely personal, I wrote most of it myself, and wrote it from the heart.

My press officer, Sarah Coombes, formulated a comprehensive PR strategy to accompany my announcement. Throughout the morning I would attend a number of radio, television and newspaper interviews, including a primetime slot on ITV’s Good Morning Britain. I knew for a fact that many Westminster politicians disliked appearing on GMB, fearing the programme’s notoriously tough interviews.

The combative Piers Morgan and the forensic Susanna Reid were indeed a formidable duo – I’d seen many a guest shrink as they received a breakfast-time grilling – but I’d always enjoyed the experience. I liked sparring with Piers, and I admired Susanna’s incisive line of questioning.

I awoke at 4.30 that morning, and within the hour a GMB car had dropped me off at their White City studios. I walked into the make-up room, and received a warm welcome from Piers, Susanna and the production team.

‘Bloody hell, Tom, you’re half the man you used to be,’ said Piers, grinning. ‘Fair play to you, sir.’

‘Cheers, Piers,’ I replied. I went on air at 7.30 a.m., and Susanna opened the interview by expressing her astonishment at my weight loss. ‘It’s remarkable,’ she said. ‘Your physical presence has changed. Seven stone is a massive amount to lose. How have you done it?’

‘Well, I really did it by completely changing my diet,’ I replied. ‘I cut out all refined sugar and high-sugar foods, and then I started exercising. There’s no secret code.’

I told Susanna how I considered myself a reformed sugar addict, and how I’d come to realise that my entire diet had been based around grazing on sweet things. Sugar addiction was a real illness, I said, and it was one of the reasons why the country was facing a huge obesity crisis.

‘I started like everyone else, a middle-aged guy in his fifties, trying to get the weight off, and at my biggest I was twenty-two stone,’ I added.

‘I read the work of Dr Michael Mosley, and then I read The Pioppi Diet, and they both were, in many senses, contradicting the advice we’re given by health experts in government. So I then read the footnotes, and read all the scientific papers, because I needed to understand what was going on with my own body.’

Piers then quizzed me about my exercise regime, and I responded by saying that, despite physical activity being an instrumental part of my turnaround, the most important factor had been my diet.

‘When guys get really overweight and decide to attack it, the first thing they do is join a gym, and they never sort their nutrition out,’ I said. ‘I would say to people, if you don’t sort your nutrition out, there’s virtually no point in doing exercise.’

‘Abs are made in the kitchen,’ said Susanna with a wink.

‘I can’t quite see my abs yet.’ I laughed. A producer then entered the studio carrying a tray of Bulletproof Coffees (the genuine article, nothing like the BBC aberration), which prompted Piers to switch into rant mode.

‘Here’s this infamous thing that you’ve revealed that you take, and that you swear by. I’ve got to say it looks disgusting,’ he sneered, before taking a sip. ‘OK, it tastes like a creamy lattè, but what is the point of Bulletproof Coffee?’

I told him that, in the early days, slightly upping my fat intake had helped me to quell my sugar cravings and that a cup of the stuff could often see me through until lunchtime.

That seemed to answer his question, because the conversation swiftly turned to my day job. Piers demanded my views on the Labour Party’s Brexit proposals, accusing my fellow colleagues of a lack of clarity and condemning us for apparently sitting on the fence. Things got a bit testy and ill-tempered as I attempted to argue our cause.

‘Perhaps you’re the wrong guy to use this phrase with, Tom, but that’s like having your cake and eating it,’ yelled Piers. ‘You probably haven’t had cake in a year.’

‘You can get as angry as you want about it,’ I retorted. ‘Maybe you should try taking less sugar in your Bulletproof Coffee.’ Like I said, I enjoyed the occasional duel with Piers.

There was one question, though, that Susanna had been dying to ask me, but had dared not address while we were on air. She hadn’t been the first person to pose it; it was a topic that had aroused the interest of others, too.

‘Not wishing to sound rude, Tom, but do you have saggy skin?’ she’d whispered during an advert break. ‘It can be one of the downsides of rapid weight loss, can’t it?’

‘It can,’ I replied, unperturbed, ‘but I’ve been pretty lucky in that respect.’ I told her that, while I didn’t possess a defined chest or a washboard stomach (there’d always be a certain amount of middle-age padding), at the same time I didn’t have rolls of skin hanging off me.

Perhaps my skin elasticity was in the genes, I suggested, although there may well have been other factors. I had read somewhere that rubbing a magnesium-based cream supplement into your skin could be advantageous, so I’d given that a try, and I’d also listened with interest to a Dr Jason Fung podcast that highlighted the potential benefits of intermittent fasting in this regard. Fasting apparently helped to promote a condition called autophagy (which involved the body flushing out damaged cells before renewing healthy cells) and many of Dr Fung’s patients who’d pursued that route had tended to avoid excess skin issues.

‘I occasionally tried that as well,’ I explained to Susanna, ‘although I can’t be totally sure that it made any difference.’

‘Thank you for answering my very cheeky question,’ she said, smiling, as the ad break finished and the cameras began to roll again.

Later that afternoon, at Westminster’s Queen Elizabeth II conference centre, I stood at the lectern, ready to deliver my keynote speech at the ukactive summit. Sitting behind me on the stage were Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson, the former Paralympian and chair of the organisation, and Andrew Lansley, the former health secretary who’d once governed – or should that be tried to govern – the NHS.

Facing me in the auditorium were hundreds of the UK’s finest fitness professionals, most of whom would have known what a health journey looked like, and would have worked with plenty of fat, fifty-something blokes like me in their gyms.

In my line of work I’d attended hundreds of speaking engagements, but this time around I felt unusually nervous, and quite vulnerable. That morning I’d opened up about my weight-loss journey on Good Morning Britain but here, on this public platform, before an audience of strangers, I was about to reveal for the first time the full extent of my illness.

‘Since last summer, I’ve lost ninety-nine pounds in weight. The pounds have flown off me almost as quickly as they’ve flown off local government public health budgets,’ I said, as I imagined Mr Andrew Lansley giving me the side-eye.

‘There was a personal reason why I realised I had to take action with my own health, though,’ I continued. ‘I was diagnosed a few years back with type 2 diabetes. I’m not unusual. There are 3.8 million adults in the UK with diabetes, 90 per cent of them with type 2, which is more than twice as many as there were twenty years ago.

‘But I’m pleased and very relieved to say that, thanks to a quite radical change of diet and behaviour – not just exercising more, but eradicating ultra-processed food, fast food, starchy carbs and refined sugar – my own type 2 diabetes is in remission. I am no longer taking medication for it, and I feel absolutely fantastic.

But what I know now, that I didn’t know when I was first diagnosed, is that type 2 diabetes can be prevented. I’m living proof that it can be put into remission, and that’s my central message today. We have to get better as a country at doing both: prevention and remission.

Yet too many people today have no clue that their condition can be beaten, and I’d like to send a simple message to all the other type 2 diabetes sufferers, all three million of them. I believe in remission for all.

The vast majority of those people with type 2 diabetes can get off their medication with the right combination of nutrition and exercise, and that’s the task for all of us in this room. If they do, they will live longer and more fulfilling lives.’

I then suggested a few tweaks to the government’s public health policy – irking Mr Andrew Lansley, no doubt – before bringing my speech to a close by praising the good work of ukactive, and by pledging my ongoing support.

The reception I received was heartening – the applause from these top-notch professionals meant a great deal – and afterwards I was approached by a string of delegates offering me their thanks and good wishes.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ said a leisure manager from Greater Manchester who came over to shake my hand. ‘We see lots of success stories in our jobs, but it’s always great when someone in the public eye can share their own positive experience. Raising awareness like this can have such a huge impact, and can really help to inspire others.’

‘Well, you never know, maybe one day I could train up to become a gym instructor in my spare time,’ I said, grinning. He perked up at this, telling me that the industry recognised that there was a dearth of instructors of a ‘certain age’ who could offer well-placed advice and genuine empathy to fellow forty- and fifty-something gym-goers.

With this in mind, organisations needed to provide a more inclusive and understanding environment, and as such needed to recruit staff from all age ranges.

Mmm, I thought. I quite like the idea of that.

When I returned to my Westminster office I was greeted by my press officer, Sarah, who’d been tasked with monitoring my social media throughout the day. She had also posted up a short video on Twitter and Facebook that outlined my new mission to help others and reiterated the Labour Party’s commitment to halting the alarming rise of type 2 diabetes.

‘Tom, it’s gone absolutely crazy,’ she said. ‘Over two thousand retweets on Twitter, ten thousand likes, and hundreds of responses on the Facebook page. Come and have a look.’ I leaned over her computer and scrolled through the tweets:

@tom_watson Great campaign. Importantly, it acknowledges that it’s not just the fault of the individual. We’re all being lied to by the food industry, there should be much tighter regulation on how much sugar is put in foods, how it’s marketed.

@tom_watson Low carbohydrate is what countless cardiologists and doctors have been advocating for many, many years and yet the naysayers are doing their best to ‘prove’ them wrong. Long live the movement for cutting down on starchy and sugary carbs. Well done Tom.

@tom_watson Well done on your progress against diabetes Tom, and I wish you all the very best for the future, including, I hope, in government promoting this health message in a way that has been sadly absent under the current administration.

@tom_watson You are an inspirational role model & superb example of how we can change our habits, our lives and our health for the better. Thank you & very well done.

@tom_watson With you all the way on this. There needs to be government intervention on the disproportionately high cost and limited availability of fresh foods, funded by a tax on sugar and multinationals that profit from junk food.

@tom_watson Well done, that’s fantastic. As a food teacher I spend a lot of time teaching about healthy eating and teaching healthy recipes, hopefully together we can help with improving the health of the nation.

@tom_watson When you increase your intake of healthy fats and lower your carbs (from my experience) the cravings subside. It does take discipline and a proactive approach to your health and longevity. I’m proof, along with Tom, that it works.

Some of them raised a smile, too:

@tom_watson Quite astonishing how much you now resemble Eddie Mair.

@tom_watson Oh great. Now I’ll never be able to tell him and Elvis Costello apart.

@tom_watson You can legitimately wear Fred Perry polos again.

Over on Facebook, the positive (and not-so-positive) comments rained in, too:

‘I lost 4.5st cutting out processed sugars and doing moderate exercise. Good luck with your mission, people don’t realise it’s an addictive substance until they try and come off it… ‘

‘Saw you on GMB this morning. Inspirational! Great to hear your views about sugar addiction too. Have a feeling I’d find it hard to wean myself off it! People don’t realise how addictive it is’

‘Big congrats Tom, I’ve been on a similar journey. Odd how things stick in the mind, my happiest time was being able to buy a suit from M&S rather the local big man’s shop!’

‘I did it that way too. Lost 7 stones and I am off medication and in a normal blood range. All within 18 months. It’s great to see someone speak up about it. Well done’.

‘A great role model for men of a certain age and shape. Well done!’

‘Tom, you have lost more than my wife weighs! Congratulations and I applaud your campaign’.

‘Dear Tom – I’m a Conservative through and through, but am just coming here in the spirit of doing something different on Facebook than attack the other side. I really salute your efforts and dedication to your health and well-being – it’s really inspirational and I hope a great example of what can be achieved. All the best to you’.

‘Amazing Poster Boy – well done Tom, and good luck with helping everyone to improve their health in the UK’.

‘Tom: a real achievement and genuinely worthy of admiration. All you have to do now is give up the capitalist status quo and embrace genuine democratic socialism’.

‘Brilliant work, Tom! No one can accuse the socialists of not having the ambition to better themselves. Now it’s official, a very positive message’.

‘Brilliant. Lose the sugar, the poison of the body. Then lose neoliberalism, the poison of the socialist mind’.

‘I admire what you are doing but I once only ever voted Labour but since commies took over never again and you stick up for them’.

On the whole (and with the exception of a few trolls and naysayers) I was showered with goodwill in the months following my revelation, and was often waylaid on the street by people wishing me well or asking for advice.

I was always careful when I did this, though, prefacing everything I said with some precautionary words. ‘Look, I can only say how I’ve done it,’ I remember telling a hefty bloke in his forties who’d approached me in West Bromwich’s Queen’s Square Shopping Centre. ‘That might not necessarily be the way you should do it, though. There’s no one-size-fits-all. Sometimes you need to plot your own journey.’

received hundreds of emails from members of the public – I tried my best to reply to them all, often pointing them in the direction of different books, websites and pieces of research – and I was also sent some kind messages from one or two celebrities, including a very famous TV presenter.

Also making contact via Twitter was the actor Nick Frost, who was best known for starring with Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead, and who was often accused of being my doppelgänger. ‘I wish you’d have run this past me first,’ he tweeted, having seen a post about my slimmed-down self. ‘This has severely dented my chances of playing you in any future biopic. My only hope is the film takes place before the dramatic weight loss.’

Nick’s wasn’t the only amusing response to my transformation. Toward the end of 2018 my cartoonist nemesis, the Guardian’s Steve Bell, created a new moniker for me. I was now Fatberg Slim, still glowering behind my black-rimmed glasses, but now sporting a leaner frame and a smaller suit. My feelings about it were mixed, I suppose.

While part of me grudgingly respected the way he’d segued from his original caricature – give him his dues, it was very clever – the other part of me gained some private pleasure that my previous incarnation was no longer relevant. The Fatberg, version 1.0, was history.