The place where pizza comes to be written about


Yes, it HAS been a long time, hasn’t it? Months and months and months. I guess I just fell out of love with pizza blogging, not that I in any way fell out of love with pizzas themselves – indeed, while I’ve been gone, Pizza Hut have bestowed the Meat Machine on the world, a pizza which is just meat, meat, meat and then some more meat on top of the meat and it’s BLOODY AMAZING. But I guess I’d just said everything that I had to say about pizzas. There’s only so many ways you can say “there’s some cheese in the crust, right, and it’s dead nice.”
The source of my downfall

The source of my downfall

Anyway, with great amounts of pizza comes great personal growth, and I ain’t talking about some voyage of self-discovery type flah here. Nope, what I am saying in my high-falutin’ way is that this blog, however neglected it hasx been in recent times, and the matter of its subject, has taken its toll on my physique. I have become, as they say in the nutritional trade, a big fat bastard.
“Peter, no!” I hear you chorus. “You have merely become a jolly, Falstaffian figure, a personage of heft and bearing as befits your age and standing!” But I know that you are just being kind, bless you. The figures speak for themselves. At the time of the recommencement of this blog, I weigh 17 stones and 12 pounds in old money. With a height of a touch over six feet and three inches, this means that my Body Mass Index is 30.8 and, if you’ll all open your textbooks to the chapter entitled You Fat Bastard, you’ll notice that this means I nestle snugly in the “obese” bracket. It means I have to lose eight pounds just to be considered overweight, and another 38(!!!!!!!!!!) if I want to be considered normal. Which is surely the aim of any modern citizen.
I’m not going to lose 46 pounds. That’s just silly. Why, I’d have wasted away to nothing! But I am going to lose two stone by the end of April. Yeah, you heard me, and by now are probably aware that 12 Inch Pete Treat, previously the blog home of gluttony and overfeeding and very much a one-stop shop for lovers of pizza and gratuitous brown-nosing of Adam Richman, is about to execute an ungainly, wheezing volte-face and become one of those “I am fat but I am going to get thin” blogs that are so popular nowadays. Sorry. I’ll try to make it interesting, but if it’s gushing tributes to Dominos and their magnificent jalapeno stuffed crust that you’re after, then you need to keep on truckin’, my friend. No pizzas will be harmed in the making of this blog from this point on. From here on in, joylessness, abstention and the occasional photograph of my shrinking belly – and it needs to shrink, because as it stands, I can’t see my penis when I look down without thinking about Nigella Lawson for twenty minutes beforehand – will be the order of the day. And it will be a small-portion order. Because that’s how I now do.
The sexiest woman on Earth

The sexiest woman on Earth

So basically, I have to lose 28 pounds in 92 days. I reckon I can do that. My colleague Nick Soldinger, who does krav maga and circuit training and boxing and weights and all sorts, will be my advisor and Bundini-style cornerman, shouting, “Skip, fatty! Skip faster! Skip until you weep!” at me by way of encouragement. Also, I’ve actually done it before. About five or six years ago, I was a Rubenesque 18 stone and 5 pounds, and in four months of reasonably intense, but by no means absurd, exercise and dieting, I lost two and a half stone. I am enclosing pictures for your delight, of the before and after – it was meant to be in a magazine piece but it never quite happened. See that one where I am waving, looking lean and content? That’s where I want to end up. See that one of me looking six months pregnant, rocking quiffy moobs and the despondent air of a punched cow? Take off half a stone and that’s what I look like right now. Only half a decade older, half a decade more defeated, half a decade nearer to my inevitably lonely and unnoticed death. Relax, ladies, I’m single!
A massive fat unhappy fucker

A massive fat unhappy fucker

Screen shot 2013-01-30 at 08.58.46
That’s where I want to be. So here’s the plan. In the morning, I will awaken, early. For breakfast, I shall “enjoy” a bowl of porridge with fruit – actually, those quote marks are a bit facetious, I really don’t mind fruity porridge. Once fuelled, I will cycle to work – EVERY DAY. I’ll then tootle into my work gym and row for half an hour – nothing too strenuous, just a leisurely jaunt along imagined rivers while my iPod blasts motivational hip-hop. You’ll be surprised how excited I get when Doug E. Fresh And The Get Fresh Crew’s The Show comes on.
That should account for a pre-work burning off of 300 calories plus however much I get through on the cycle in. Mid-morning snack of some fruit, lots of lovely delicious water, and then back to the gym in my lunch hour, either for forty minutes of varied-resistance cross-training or the fiendishly unpleasant programme of weights, lunges and dips that Mr Soldinger has dreamed up for me, the sadistic swine. All being as it should, that should account for another 550-600 calories and engender within me what I believe is technically known as “the burn”. Lunch will almost inevitably be sushi, unless I feel the need to push the rowing machine out and have a wrap of some kind. More water, and then I cycle home again at the end of play, gazing wistfully and in floods of tears at every last pub that I go past (although thankfully, I cycle through Peckham, where the pubs are somehow less enviable than in other bits of London). Dinner will be chicken or fish or soup with rice or wholemeal pasta or salad – why, there are a whole nine possible permutations right there – and then I can settle down for what is fancifully known as “rest”, which in my case means lounging around on my back playing Lexulous.
I reckon that if I can stick this out for three months, not go pizza and wine bonkers at weekends, and refrain from hurling myself from Blackfriars Bridge after the first week, then I will be okay. The bottom line is, I can’t allow myself to get any fatter than I am now, it’s just not good enough. I look like a sentient scrotum with eyes. And so I am doing something about it, and boring you with the progress reports. All that remains is for me to report my first readings…
WEIGHT: 17 stone 12 pounds
BMI: 31.8
…and hope that they start dropping. Tune in next week.

Filed under: Now I'm on a health kick, Uncategorized