Should I go to fat class?

I am fat. I’ve been fat for as long as I can remember. Do I like being fat? No, and I’m not sure when or how it happened.

I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to gorge myself on sweets and cake. I’ve just always been a big lad.

When we are young it is almost something to be proud of, we’ve all heard mothers haven’t we, gleefully boasting about their hungry offspring.

“Oh, our Johnny is a good eater,” “Our Bob likes his food”. Maybe the health police should jump out on them and scream at them not to reward their kids with a slice of cake if they manage one last potato.

Maybe these days they do. But when we are adults we have to worry about things. There are obvious major things, like heart disease and attracting a mate, but then there are the things which might not seem so major for thin folk. Things like cutting your toe nails or buying new clothes.

I’m up to 21 inch shirt collar now and have long since given up on the high street. Thank god for the internet, or I’d never find anything to wear for work.

But its time to do something about it; and not just because I’m sick of paying top dollar for shapeless shirts in awful designs and pretending I like them.

A mate of mine suggested joining a fat club. You know the kind of organisation I mean; someone weighs you, tells you your fat and then everyone sits round and tells each other how it’s the world's fault. Parents loved you too much or not enough, you retain water, you have big bones. Sorry brothers and sisters, you are clutching at straws (and using them to drink chocolate milk).

I’m dead against the idea of a support group for fatties – I don’t need someone to take five quid a week off me to tell me I need to lose weight and they aren’t going to have some kind of magic answer.

I know what to do if I want to lose it – stop eating chips and curry and stop drinking upwards of 20 pints of beer a week. But everything tastes better when you squash it between two thick cut slices of butter smothered bread and I can’t convince myself that it doesn’t.

Exercise would also help. But I know the way to the gym and some stuck up woman in a fat class isn’t going to programme my sat-nav to take me there instead of the pub.

But my mate – who isn’t actually quite as fat as me – is desperate to go. He thinks it’ll “help he on his journey” (pass me the sick bucket) and he lacks the confidence to go alone.

So I’m going to go with him as any good mate would. And to make it worth my while I’m going to write about it on here – I might as well see some benefit.The first class is in a couple of days time, it’ll be a waste of time but I’ll let you know how I get on.