FOCUS YOUR YANG.
PUSH THE BUCKET.
I've just rejoined a gym, with all the lifting and grunting and sweating and such.
And it's great. I've just come back from my first session in many, many years.
But it's three minutes walks from my flat.
Just an hour every other day, plus cycling to work and swimming, and minus beer, pringles and anything else fun, and I will shift this bastard flab that's encased me like a really fit and attractive young man covered in a kilometre of butter.
You see, I've got a wedding to be Best Man at in 3 months, plus I'm ageing hideously and I'm so single, my family are beginning to suspect Broadway musicals figure heavily in my life.
Plus lots of cock.
SO! No more sullen introspection for me. No way. This is the new and improved whinging bastard. I'll get myself a string of hideously awkward dates and blog about them in painful detail. I'll meet someone I really, really like and care for and blog about her in awful, precise detail.
Then she'll read it and I'll get dumped.
But most of all, my pain will be shared right here with ALL THREE OF YOU!!! Shared like a dirty vial of crack. Shared, as I lose weight, gain confidence, and finally dig myself out of the quicksand of life.
Look, today's glorious stats! Bask in the glory of their greatness:
MILES CYCLED: 8
LENGTHS SWAM: 6 quick ones
DUMBELLS LIFTED: Loads
BACK KILLING ME: Yes
FAGS SMOKED: None
SNEAKY TOT OF WHISKEY CHEERFULLY WALLOPED BACK AS I TYPE: 2