Downsizing: Inspired
Chapter Two of my Sunday Times best-selling book, Downsizing.
Living with a morbidly obese junk-food addict can’t have been easy. A couple of years before my diabetes diagnosis, I’d struck up a relationship with Steph – she worked for a trade union – and we’d moved into a terraced house in the West Midlands town of Cradley Heath.
I would catch the train up from Westminster most Thursday evenings (I often had constituency duties the following day) and, more often than not, Steph would drive over to collect me from the station since the half-mile, seven-minute walk was way beyond my capabilities.
My weight frequently brought about some awkward moments in our household. I remember breaking numerous G Plan dining room chairs, the wooden frames buckling and splintering under the strain of my 22-stone bulk. Once, to my eternal shame, I even cracked the bath, the plastic base caving in as I attempted to haul myself out.
Steph had a healthy relationship with food, and had generally tried her best to curb my wayward appetite, but her efforts were often in vain.
She would despair as the kitchen cupboards were emptied within days of the Tesco ‘big shop’, shaking her head as she watched me demolish a jumbo bar of Dairy Milk or an entire tube of cheese and onion Pringles.
Tom, can’t you just have a couple of chunks instead of the whole bar?’ she’d ask, but I’d usually be too busy filling my face to answer. For me, wolfing down the entire block of chocolate was a physical and physiological compulsion: I couldn’t not eat it all.
I continued to be troubled by this lack of restraint, though, and would often ask Steph to hide my sweet and savoury treats so as to remove the temptation. Her most effective hiding place, I later learned, was at the bottom of a stack of saucepans.
I also remember her once encouraging me to bake some ‘guilt-free’ flapjacks – made with oats, nuts and coconut oil – to use as an alternative snacking option. I ended up devouring all eight of them in one go (my mindset was ‘but they’re good for me, right?’) and afterwards I felt so nauseous that I almost threw up.
My brazen eating habits continued when we stepped out of the front door, too. If we ever visited our local McDonald’s Drive-Thru, I’d order two cheeseburgers instead of one Big Mac, purely because they were easier to grasp as I scoffed them at the wheel (waiting until we got home to eat them was never an option).
Once, Steph met me for lunch in a city centre café, only to find me staring blankly at my laptop while helping myself to some leftover rainbow cake that another customer had abandoned on the adjacent table. ‘Tom!’ she’d hissed, as a passing waitress looked on disdainfully. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ I’d replied, aghast, before explaining that my cake-pilfering had been utterly involuntary. I’d genuinely not known what I was doing. Recalling this faux pas would always make me wince with embarrassment.
Throughout our time together, such lapses in concentration were commonplace. Steph would often remark that I seemed dizzy and disorientated or, as she put it, somewhat ‘disengaged from the present’.
She would talk about me ‘zoning out’ of conversations, so much so that if she had a list of questions to ask me, she would pose the most important one first, because by the third I’d have totally switched off.
Neither of us knew it then, of course, but this detached listlessness was most likely a result of diabetes-related hypoglycaemia (commonly referred to as a ‘hypo’), triggered by a sharp drop in my blood sugar levels.
My relationship with food improved marginally, however, once I’d received my T2D diagnosis, and once Dr Nazeer had referred me on to the NHS nutritionist. Urged to follow the Eatwell Plate guidelines, and keen to do things by the book, I adhered to much of her advice. I began to monitor my portion sizes, measuring out my carbohydrates using small kitchen scales like she’d suggested.
I remember, at breakfast time, carefully weighing out 20g of dry porridge oats – which probably equated to a fifth of my usual supersized serving – and wondering how on earth that was going to sustain me until lunchtime. More often than not it didn’t, and I’d find myself indulging in elevenses, and loading up with a croissant or two.
Furthermore, I tried to limit my consumption of sugary foods, cutting back on my favourite cakes and biscuits. I also stocked up my kitchen cupboards with fresh, low-calorie produce and – as the nutritionist had suggested – rustling up the occasional home-made meal instead of relying on a takeaway.
I was a fairly proficient cook when I put my mind to it, although I always tended to opt for super-elaborate Yotam Ottolenghi or Madhur Jaffrey offerings, which invariably required a long list of exotic ingredients, and commandeered two hours of my time.
The end result was usually delicious (Steph was very impressed) but I really should have focused my energy on building a repertoire of simple, easy-to-prepare everyday meals, in order to bring more consistency to my dining habits. With me, though, it was all or nothing.
Despite implementing these changes, and despite trying to follow the standard guidelines, my weight seemed to plateau rather than plummet and, disappointingly, I continued to experience overwhelming carb and sugar cravings. My willpower wobbled and wavered – typically when I was in my London flat, following a long day at work – and I’d often end up yielding to a late-night toasted sandwich and a bottle of Fanta Orange, before nodding off on the sofa.
One positive development, though, was the emergence of a certain mindfulness with regard to my eating, and a nascent realisation of the relationship between food and physiology. Although I was still unable to resist the temptation of that toastie and that fizzy drink, I felt myself becoming more aware of my actions, and more conscious of how certain foodstuffs affected me.
With this, though, came a certain frustration at my powerlessness. It seems I had identified carbs and sugar as the enemy, but hadn’t yet found the ammunition to vanquish them.
On Thursday 23 June 2016, the day of the UK’s European Union referendum, I was as fat, as tired and as unfit as ever. A fortnight earlier, however, I’d mustered up enough energy to deliver a speech in Granary Square, near King’s Cross, for the ‘Britain Stronger in Europe’ campaign. Spandau Ballet’s Gary Kemp – like myself, a staunch Remainer – introduced me on the stage, in front of hundreds of supporters.
Meanwhile, a couple of miles away, Sir Bob Geldof traded insults with Nigel Farage on the Thames, each having commandeered cruiser boats for their rival campaigns.
‘There is an economic case, a social case, a patriotic case and a political case for us to remain in the EU,’ I said to the crowd gathered in the square. ‘And there is also a Labour case. Cooperation. Peaceful existence. International solidarity. These are Labour values.’
By my side on voting day was my 11-year-old son Malachy. His head teacher had given him special dispensation to take the day off school – so long as he did his homework – and had agreed with my view that he’d benefit greatly from witnessing democracy in action at such close quarters.
My son had jumped at the chance to spend this most momentous of occasions with his Dad in London. He had developed a genuine interest in politics (he was fascinated by polls and elections, not unlike my childhood self) and had closely followed the referendum run-up.
We attended various media appointments that morning, paying visits to all the pop-up television studios located on the green outside Westminster. My son, no doubt feeling slightly star-struck, was thrilled to meet household-name presenters like Sky’s Adam Boulton and the BBC’s David Dimbleby.
‘It’s clear that Britain is better off in Europe,’ I asserted in interview after interview, as my son watched proudly from the wings. Our time together was precious, and it was so nice to have him around.
Malachy and I spent the rest of the day mobilising the vote on the official Remain bus, alongside my colleague Keir Starmer. We also squeezed in a visit to the Labour Party’s campaign HQ, something that I was keen to do for two reasons.
Firstly, I wanted to hook up with its coordinator, Patrick Heneghan, as well as the staff who had worked so tirelessly over the previous months. Secondly, and more selfishly, I wanted to indulge in the pizza and chocolate that every campaign office worth its salt had on offer.
As I munched on a deep-pan pepperoni, I remember seeing the nervous expressions on my colleagues’ faces as the exit polls began to filter through, we realised the Brexit result was going to be tighter than we had imagined.
The final stop for me and my mini-helper was my Westminster office, which was housed in the same tower as Big Ben. There, we made ourselves a little dad-and-son den, placing the sofa cushions on the floor, surrounding ourselves with snacks and drinks and watching the results coming in from the various counts across the UK.
We channel-hopped between the three main news sources until, as the clock struck 3 a.m., we could no longer keep our eyes open.
A few hours later we woke up to the shock news, delivered by Mr Dimbleby, that Leave had prevailed, taking 52 per cent of the vote. ‘I just can’t believe it, Dad,’ said Malachy, glumly shaking his head. ‘You and me both,’ I replied.”
Later that morning, feeling utterly crestfallen at this outcome (and suffering the after-effects of a 24-hour carb and sugar binge), I dropped Malachy off with his mum. And, as the day panned out, it soon became pretty apparent that I’d have to delay my scheduled trip to the Glastonbury Festival.
Steph and I had initially planned to catch a late-afternoon train from Paddington but, amid all this political tumult, we decided instead to set off the following day. In hindsight, I should have perhaps cancelled the entire jaunt–my workload had multiplied overnight–but I didn’t want to let my partner down. It was going to be her first ever trip to this world-famous music-fest, and I didn’t want to be seen as a party pooper.
Within hours of arriving in Somerset, and having set up camp and dumped our sleeping gear, we decided to drown my post-referendum sorrows by going on a spectacular drinking spree.
Downing can upon can of cider, I watched Adele crooning her greatest hits repertoire on the main stage, followed by a few bands in the Left Field tent (where we happened to bump into my pal Billy Bragg), and soon enough the previous day’s trauma was shoved to the back of my mind. Any thoughts of healthy eating were cast aside, too, as I did the rounds of the street food vendors, feasting on pulled-pork buns and Belgian chocolate churros.
Sometime after midnight, Steph and I found ourselves stumbling through a muddy field, following signs for the Silent Disco tent. There, we drank and danced until 5 a.m., giggling at each other as we threw some serious shapes to the tunes pumping through our headphones.
At one point I decided to capture our revelling on Snapchat, uploading a goofy-grinned selfie and captioning it with ‘Silent Disco!’ alongside the bespectacled ‘nerd’ emoji. In hindsight, perhaps not the most rational decision ever made by a sitting Member of Parliament.
I awoke the following day feeling dry-mouthed and fuzzy-headed, my joints aching after the previous night’s excesses. Fumbling for my mobile phone to check the time, I happened to notice that there were stacks and stacks of missed calls and messages.
‘Get your arse back to London, Tom,’ one text read. ‘It’s all kicking off here…’ ‘Seems like you’re having a blast at Glasto!’ said another. ‘Rave on dude!’
A little confused, I immediately went online. According to various news sites, the Labour Party was in turmoil, Jeremy Corbyn having sacked Shadow Foreign Secretary Hilary Benn from the front bench amid rumours of a leadership coup, which had led to reports of senior colleagues threatening to resign in protest.
Making matters a whole lot worse for me, however, was the fact that a handful of newspapers had published images of yours truly standing in the middle of a Glastonbury field, sporting baggy clothes and muddy wellies, and clasping a can of Thatchers cider.
‘Tom Watson enjoys Glastonbury disco as civil war erupts in Labour Party,’ gloated one headline, as a #FindTomWatson hashtag trended on Twitter. Not only that–and this explained the ‘rave on’ text–screenshots of my drunken Snapchat posts had been bandied around the internet for all to see.
In the circumstances, this didn’t look good. In fact, it looked absolutely bloody dreadful. You are an utter dick, Watson… I remember thinking to myself as Steph and I gathered our belongings and made a premature exit. We had only been at Glasto for 12 hours.
A couple of press photographers were there to greet me at Castle Cary station just before 10 a.m., gleefully snapping away as I shambled along the platform, missing my train by seconds. According to the timetable, the next London-bound service was due in two and a half hours’ time, so we had no choice but to plant ourselves on a bench, in the middle of nowhere, and sit it out.
I remember Len McCluskey, boss of the Unite union, ringing my mobile and giving me one hell of an ear-bashing. With my head banging, and my blood sugars crashing, I didn’t have the energy to return fire. ‘Len, could you please shout more quietly?’ I replied.
A few days later, back in Westminster, I took myself away from the political wrangling (and the relentless Glasto-related piss-taking) to attend my monthly diabetes check-up. I was dreading the outcome, to be honest; my weekend partying, as well as my referendum-related comfort eating, had no doubt played havoc with my blood sugar levels and had definitely added more wobble to my waistline.
‘Right, let’s get you weighed,’ said Maggie Jones, a very experienced and uncompromising practice nurse. Her expression was a mixture of concern and disappointment as the scales settled at a point just past the 22-stone (140-kilo) mark.
‘You’ve actually gained three kilograms since last month,’ tutted Maggie. ‘That’s not great, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I said, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself as I dismounted the scales. Maggie went quiet for a few moments before asking me to take a seat.
‘Now, I’m sorry if this sounds a little blunt, Tom, but have you ever considered weight-loss surgery?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I know it’s seen as a last resort but, well, judging by your age, weight and BMI range, the NHS would probably agree to a gastric band or bariatric surgery. But only if you wanted it, that is.’
‘Let me think about it, Maggie,’ I said, with a doleful shake of the head. As it happened, I’d previously discussed the pros and cons of these procedures with my sister Meg, and had reached the conclusion that–despite it being a viable option for obese patients like me–it wasn’t a route I wanted to pursue. Having looked into the various procedures, I reckoned there were less risky and more humane methods of weight control than one of these highly invasive surgical interventions.
However, in spite of my scepticism, the fact that my diabetes nurse had even chosen to broach the subject was pretty sobering in itself, and marked yet another low point for me. I was at the top end of the morbidly obese range on the BMI scale, which is just about as bad as it gets. By suggesting the most drastic of solutions, she was flagging up the gravity of my condition. It was a warning light, a wake-up call.
That night I had a long moan to Meg over the phone, explaining how demoralised I’d felt following the check-up, and–despite my recent lapses–how disillusioned I’d become with the NHS Eatwell shtick.
Despite following the official guidelines as best I could, and despite heeding the professional advice meted out, for months my weight had stubbornly refused to budge from the 285–300-pound (129–136-kilo) range. It was frustrating beyond belief.
‘I’m losing faith in it all, Meg,’ I told her. ‘Calorie counting, portion sizes, it’s just not working for me. I just don’t feel as though I’m getting anywhere.’
‘Maybe you need to look at some other options,’ she said.
‘There’s plenty of information out there, Tom, and plenty of alternatives to investigate.’
Having always relished a challenge, and being something of a science geek, I started to learn all I could about diabetes-related nutrition, and began to explore other ways in which I could mend my ailing body. Tellingly, I decided to conduct my own private research into my condition rather than discussing it with fellow sufferers.
My social circle contained a number of middle-aged men who’d been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, but I’d purposely avoided having any man-to-man conversations with them. There was no doubting that I felt a certain shame about the illness, and was embarrassed to share my symptoms and coping strategies with anyone else, lest I appeared weak or inferior.
I allowed myself to suffer in silence and solitude, almost like I was punishing myself. So, whenever I had any spare time on my hands–on a Yorkshire-bound train to collect my kids, or in a post-conference hotel room–I’d pore over a book I’d bought, or a research paper I’d printed, carefully marking the most interesting and thought-provoking passages with highlighter pens and Post-it notes.
At the top of my reading list was The 8-Week Blood Sugar Diet, written by the acclaimed science journalist Dr Michael Mosley. ‘How to prevent and reverse type 2 diabetes (and stay off medicine)’ it claimed on the front cover. ‘Lose weight fast and reprogramme your body.’
I read it on Steph’s mum’s Kindle during a weekend break in Malaga - Sheila often advised me on food-related matters–and I devoured every single page. The author, who had himself been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes in his forties, offered a short, sharp and effective solution to blood sugar issues, asserting that metabolic syndrome (the umbrella term for a cluster of conditions that put you at risk of heart attacks, strokes and type 2 diabetes) could be controlled, and even reversed, through diet as opposed to drugs.
He advocated a rapid weight-loss programme as the best way to combat type 2 diabetes, which meant adhering to a low-calorie, low-carbohydrate, Mediterranean-style eating plan. Starchy carbohydrates, he suggested, caused a rapid increase in blood sugar levels, and triggered the crashes that led to hunger pangs.
‘Standard nutritional advice is under attack like never before,’ he wrote. ‘The age-old instruction to “eat low fat” has been seriously undermined by numerous studies which show that such a regime is rarely effective and people who go on it rarely stick to it. The trouble is that when people cut out fat they get hungry, so they switch to eating cheap and sugary carbs, one of the main causes of the dietary disasters we have today.’
Having become increasingly cynical about the big red Eatwell Plate, I found it illuminating to discover that his doctrine largely eschewed the standard nutritional advice offered by the NHS, which was still telling me to graze on pasta, rice and bread.
‘This is a tasty and healthy way of living,’ explained Dr Mosley, while extolling the virtues of his diet plan. ‘It is low in starchy, easily digestible carbs, but packed full of disease-fighting vitamins and flavonoids. It is rich in olive oil, fish, nuts, fruit and vegetables, but also contains lots of lovely things that down the years we have been told not to eat, such as full-fat yoghurt and eggs.’
Full-fat yoghurt? Eggs? Sounds good to me… I thought.
Dr Mosley’s work on VLCDs (very-low-calorie diets) appeared to be based on robust science, and had been significantly influenced by the work of Roy Taylor, Professor of Medicine and Metabolism at the University of Newcastle.
This renowned academic had discovered that type 2 diabetes was related to excess amounts of fat in the liver and pancreas–i.e. around the waist–and that weight loss removed this harmful fat. This in turn enabled these organs to start working normally, thus allowing insulin to do its job properly.
Professor Taylor’s 2011 clinical study (sometimes referred to as the ‘Newcastle Diet’) investigated the potential benefits of an ultra-low-calorie eating plan for those with T2D. Eleven patients with the condition were put under close supervision and had their intake of food–largely comprising soups, shakes and vegetables–reduced to 800 calories per day for a period of eight weeks.
It turned out that, three months later, seven of those patients had shed fat from around the liver and pancreas, had reported a normalisation in their blood glucose levels, and were effectively in remission from their type 2 diabetes. (Further down the line, Professor Taylor’s study would be scaled up and published in The Lancet under the auspices of DiRECT, the Diabetes Remission Clinical Trial.)
Reading Dr Mosley’s book, and learning about the Newcastle Diet, proved to be a eureka! moment for me. It was a revelation to discover that type 2 diabetes did not have to be a chronic, lifelong condition, that it was not inevitably progressive and that, in some cases, it was entirely reversible.
Following two years of doom, gloom and pessimism, I felt my mind had been opened, and that I was finally able to cling onto some real hope for the future. I genuinely felt that I’d taken a step, albeit a baby step, toward tackling my own personal, health-related conundrum, one that, for years, had remained unsolved.
When I returned home to England, buoyed with optimism, I penned a rather gauche, Adrian Mole-style letter to Dr Nazeer, describing how thrilled I’d been to read Professor Taylor’s findings (I’d even attached a hard copy of his study), and outlining my determination to find the drive and energy to turn my own life around.
To learn that I have a metabolic syndrome that may be reversible is a revelation, I wrote. I would like to concentrate on doing just that, reversing the condition, with your guidance and support… the question is, as the study points out, do I have the motivation?
My reasons for writing the letter were twofold. Firstly, to almost show off to my GP, to demonstrate to him that I’d done my homework, and that I was now approaching my condition in a studious and scholarly manner. Secondly (and perhaps subconsciously) I was exposing my vulnerability; I’d become deeply worried about my deteriorating health, and I needed him to realise exactly how eager I was to find a solution.
Dr Nazeer responded to my missive with characteristic kindness. Other GPs might have felt rather affronted that I was effectively questioning their advice, and exploring other options, but with him this wasn’t the case. Indeed, he even invited me over to his surgery for a chat, where we had a mature conversation about my potential choices and considerations.
He took care to reiterate public health dietary guidelines–as an NHS GP, it was incumbent on him to do so–but at the same time he pledged his continued support. I inferred from our conversation that, if I ever succeeded in my quest to lose weight, get healthy and ditch my medication (even via unconventional means), Dr Nazeer would be thrilled for me. ‘Thank you so much for listening,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘It means a lot.’
My voracious–nay, obsessive–reading continued apace during the autumn and winter of 2016, despite a huge increase in my parliamentary workload. That October, following a reshuffle, I’d been appointed Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport.
I was thrilled to bits to take on this role. The brief was right up my street, and I relished getting my teeth into issues such as the planned Sky takeover by Fox, the proposed closures of grassroots music venues and fairer ticketing for football fans.
‘You? Shadow secretary for sport?’ texted one of my old rugby teammates once he’d heard the news. ‘They mustn’t have seen you in action on the pitch, Tom…’
I did manage to fit in some extra-curricular reading, though, much of it prompted by the extensive footnotes and references in The 8-Week Blood Sugar Diet. Dr Mosley’s own bibliography had helpfully pointed me to other books, articles and scientific studies and, slowly but surely, I began to gain a much broader understanding of diabetes-related health and nutrition.
I was also inspired to research old-school diabetes and dietary advice (once a nerd, always a nerd) and spent much of my spare time trawling through various charity shops and second-hand booksellers, and placing late-night eBay bids for rare and obscure titles.
As time went by, I amassed a decent collection of vintage cookery books, social histories and medical directories. Their contents made fascinating reading; I was particularly interested to learn how increased prosperity in Victorian Britain had led to workers eating a low carb diet that was rich in protein and high in fat, including plenty of lard, oysters, haddock and herrings as well as succulent Sunday joints.
Breakfasting on bacon and eggs or cold meats and cheese wasn’t unusual, either, although that was before Dr Kellogg had begun his campaign for the world to eat corn flakes.
I also managed to lay my hands on a slightly gnarled edition of The Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle. He is known as the ‘father of Western philosophy’, and his words of wisdom had provided me with a great deal of solace and guidance ever since my university days.
I remember taking this old book back to my flat, and being particularly drawn to a quote that pretty much encapsulated my past, present and future challenges.
First then this must be noted, that it is the nature of such things to be spoiled by defect and excess; as we see in the case of health and strength (since for the illustration of things which cannot be seen we must use those that can), for excessive training impairs the strength as well as deficient: meat and drink, in like manner, in too great or too small quantities, impair the health: while in due proportion they cause, increase, and preserve it.
I celebrated my fiftieth birthday on 8 January 2017, and marked this milestone by throwing a huge knees-up for friends and colleagues at the Rivoli Ballroom in south-east London. The only authentic 1950s ballroom still standing in the city, it had retained all its original vintage decor–velvet chairs, flock wallpaper, glitterballs–and, to me, seemed the ideal party venue.
I booked a brilliant covers band to entertain us all, Rockaoke, whose repertoire of seventies and eighties classics, like Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of ’69’, got the dancefloor bouncing (quite literally, in fact, since it was one of those fabulous sprung versions).
I laid on a free bar for the first hour or so to get the party started and to get my guests well oiled–this went down as well as expected–and also put on a giant buffet comprising my favourite sweet and savoury treats.
The centrepiece, however, was an enormous cake, fashioned in the shape of a large grey robot sporting my signature black-framed glasses. It was a mickey-take of my geeky nature, reflecting my love of gaming and my admiration for automatons and artificial intelligence.
In attendance that night were many former schoolmates from Kidderminster, as well as a few Hull University pals. Comedian Steve Coogan came along, as did ex-Undertones frontman Feargal Sharkey, both of whom I’d known for some years.
Westminster colleagues on the invitation list included fellow MPs Rachel Reeves and Lucy Powell, as well as one of my favourite Labour Party couples, Yvette Cooper and Ed Balls. Ed had not long been voted off Strictly Come Dancing and, having been badgered by all and sundry, was persuaded (albeit reluctantly) to re-enact his infamous ‘Gangnam Style’ dance. Footage of him busting his moves, alongside a laughing Steph, was plastered all over social media the following day.
I got predictably hammered–I’d hit the Guinness with abandon, it being my birthday–and toward the end of the night I ended up clambering on stage with the band to belt out a couple of classics. Nothing, however, had prepared me for Feargal Sharkey grabbing the mic to duet with me on ‘Teenage Kicks’, his band’s biggest hit, and legendary DJ John Peel’s all-time favourite record. It was totally and utterly surreal.
Had I keeled over with a heart attack at that precise moment (quite likely, considering the state of my health) I’d have left this world a happy man. Now that would have been one hell of a cool exit, I thought to myself once I’d returned to my seat at the bar, got my breath back and grabbed myself another drink.
The following morning, I woke up in my London flat, nursing the mother of all hangovers, and padded downstairs to the kitchen. I fixed myself a glass of water, popped in an Alka-Seltzer and drew up a chair at the table.
As I watched the white pill froth to the surface, my mind began to spool through the previous evening’s events. Half of me felt elated because the party had gone so well (everyone had a blast, it seemed) but the other half felt distinctly sad and solemn. My night, unfortunately, had culminated in a silly and childish row with Steph in which regrettable things had been said.
On top of that, the reality of my midlife milestone had finally started to sink in. While it had been great to see so many of my fifty-something contemporaries at the party–some of whom I’d known since childhood–their presence had made me feel a little melancholic.
All of them, to a man and a woman, looked fitter, slimmer and younger than me. Every selfie and photo depicted me bursting out of my custom-made blue and black checked suit, my arm draped around friends who were a similar age, but who were half my size.
FIFTY AND FAB! proclaimed one of the many birthday cards that I’d received that night, its huge silver lettering superimposed over an exploding bottle of champagne. FIFTY AND FAT, more like, I’d thought to myself as I glumly opened it.
In many ways, though, my five decades so far had given me much to be thankful for. Two beautiful children, whom I loved with every fibre of my body. A close network of family and friends, from Westminster to the West Midlands, whose support and guidance I had always relied on. A fulfilling career in high-echelon politics, the sort that I’d dreamed of since childhood, that had provided me with the opportunity to visit a wealth of interesting places and meet an array of inspirational people. The only thing missing from a truly rewarding life, of course, was the luxury of good health.
And, as I sipped the dregs of my fizzy water, my thoughts drifted to one of my political idols, John Smith, who died of a heart attack in 1994, aged just 55. His family, and the Labour Party movement, had been left utterly bereft by our leader’s untimely passing.
‘He held conviction without obsession; his principles were for application, not for decoration, and his superb intelligence was for practical use, not for adornment,’ said Neil Kinnock in the House of Commons on the day after John’s death.
It was while contemplating this most tragic of losses that a voice seemed to float up from my subconscious. A voice that, whenever it had echoed previously, had been swiftly blocked and muted. I don’t want to die. I really don’t want to die.
At well over 22 stone (140 kilos)–the heaviest I’d ever been–perhaps premature death was an inevitability, though. Surely the odds were stacked in favour of Tommy Two-Dinners becoming the next MP to be sent to an early grave.
Morbid thoughts began to swirl around my head–the prospect of leaving my beloved kids fatherless; being unable to see Malachy and Saoirse grow up; never meeting my grandchildren–and, much to my surprise, I felt my eyes brimming with tears.
It’s time, Tom, continued the voice. Enough is enough. If you don’t address your weight soon, you are actually going to die…
I removed my specs and blotted my damp cheeks with my pyjama sleeve. I had not felt so emotional and vulnerable in a long time, yet somehow it felt like I’d crossed my personal Rubicon. By confronting my own mortality, and by allowing that deep, dark inner voice to break out, I’d finally found the impetus to reclaim my health and save my life.
At last, I’d engaged in an existential discussion with myself that had been submerged, avoided and denied for more than two decades. One burning question remained, however: just when was I going to commence my big plan, and put all the theory into practice?
I reached for my mobile phone, scrolled through its calendar and hovered over the date of 20 July 2017. The start of the House of Commons’ annual summer recess. A fallow period, in parliamentary terms, wherein there’d be no early-morning interviews on the Today programme, no late-night votes in the chamber and no working groups or committee meetings in between. A timeframe in which, notwithstanding my ongoing constituency work, I could potentially find some private space in which to get fitter and slimmer.
I took a deep breath, and reached across the kitchen table for a notebook and pen. I turned over a new page, upon which I wrote three words: Project Weight Loss.
In June 2017, I found myself paying a return visit to the Glastonbury Festival, a fortnight after Theresa May had gained her narrow majority in the general election. This time, though, I was travelling down with my good friend David Wild, since Steph and I had parted company six months previously.
Along with a group of fellow music-lovers, my pal and I would be spending the weekend in one of the more sedate areas of Glasto (suitable for old folks like us), but it still promised to be a memorable few days. Nevertheless, as our train rattled through the North Wessex Downs, I made a pledge to be on my best behaviour.
‘I can’t have a repeat of last year, David,’ I said, explaining that–in order to keep out of the tabloids–I’d be keeping a low profile, steering clear of the Silent Disco tent and disabling my Snapchat.
‘But you’ll still be having a drink with the lads, won’t you?’ asked my friend. ‘Yeah, of course,’ I replied.
David wasn’t to know, of course, that I’d pencilled in Glasto ’17 as my final fling before the commencement of Project Weight Loss. It would, in effect, be the last hurrah before implementing what I hoped would be a transformational lifestyle plan.
I made damned sure that I bid farewell to the ‘Old Tom’ in style, though. I parked any notions of decorum at the Worthy Farm entrance, whereupon I embarked on a three-day, cider-fuelled bender, with some carb-heavy binge-eating in between.
Amid the alcohol haze I managed to catch all three headliners–Radiohead on the Friday, Foo Fighters on the Saturday and Ed Sheeran on the Sunday–although my favourite performances came courtesy of singer Nadine Shah and soul man Craig David, whose brilliant, crowd-pleasing set really entertained the masses. Jarvis Cocker’s late-night set of cheesy dance tracks was pretty special, too.
In fact, the whole festival atmosphere was in stark contrast to the previous year’s, which had been somewhat subdued following the referendum result, and which had been marred by torrential rainfall. In 2017, however, Glasto-goers were treated to a glorious, sun-baked weekend, and, while the Labour Party had not gained power, it had been a perception-changing election, leaving the mostly left-leaning crowd in good spirits.
Indeed, I’d never seen anything like the reception Jeremy Corbyn received before his speech on the Pyramid Stage that Saturday afternoon. The whole place was rammed, and so lengthy were the queues that I was only able to watch him from afar, at the rear of the field. There, I joined in the mass rendition of ‘Ooooh, Jeremy Corbyn’ that reverberated around Worthy Farm. It would have been rude not to.
Despite my efforts to avoid any controversy that year, I still managed to make the headlines that weekend. I was ‘papped’ as I tramped through a field while sporting a polo shirt and cut-off trousers combo, topped off with a blue canvas ‘newsboy’ cap. It wasn’t my finest look, to be perfectly honest, and the resulting photographs were unflattering to say the least.
‘Deputy Leader Tom Watson is back at Glastonbury and is looking as stylish as ever,’ mocked one article. ‘He wore espadrilles without any socks while mingling with other festival-goers,’ sniped another, as if I’d committed some heinous fashion sin.
David didn’t exactly help matters, either. ‘You look like the Pillsbury Doughboy,’ he chuckled, having spotted the offending photograph in one of the red-tops. I deflected his teasing with a shrug and a grin, as was my wont. The summer recess couldn’t come soon enough.