Not for the faint hearted
Now, of course, it's not enough to simply go to the gym. Even though, on my last visit, I gave myself a beasting, cranking up the treadmill and running for 15 sweaty, gruelling and nausea inducing minutes. No, now my diet is being targeted.
Breakfast, as we know, should be a leisurely affair. There are those that swear by the continental breakfast - possibly because a roll and a cuppa gives the average foreigner time to see his mistress between leaving his wife and getting to work. Then there are those that have a cup of coffee, fruit juice and a bagel. They are simply c***s.
No, there are only two types of breakfast that are acceptable (three if you count a stomach powder and a retreat to bed after a night on the toot). They are a) the full English/Scottish (the difference being the sausage, which is flat if you are in Scotland, and the cholesterol count, which is the cubed if you are in Scotland and b) breakfast at a country house. This is normally taken at a decent hour, maximising the time that one can spend later in the day during the hours of daylight laying waste to the local fauna with one's side by side. It normally involves bacon, sausage, egg, toast, kedigree, kippers, tea, toast, preserves, butlers, maids, pretending to meet for the first time that morning the person you spent half the night bonking silly and, depending on how lucky or unlucky you are, the discovery of a body in the library, all accompanied by a rather decent half bot of the '76.
Such pleasures are, like a full covering of hair on my crown, lost to me now. I have entered the world of muesli. It may be fit to serve to the winner of the 4:30 at Doncaster but it's no breakfast for a man. I've even tried to jazz it up a little - with dried fruit - a sausage being a little incongruous.
No doubt this is all doing me tremendous good but it is having the most astonishing of side effects. Maybe it's the oats, maybe it's the fruit or maybe it's cutting pork from my diet so drastically but now, when I enstool, any ker-plunk is heralded by an astonishing burst of wind.
It's otherworldly and, the first time it happened, a little distressing. I mean, as a chap with a varied and interesting diet, there has always been an element of chance in a trip to the lavvie but this is unprecedented. Without being too graphic, the sound following the rustle of the opening of the Tattler is like the Flying Scotsman locking breaks at 90mph and colliding with a steam calliope, in a cave.
With an announcement like that, two things are expected - royalty or a steam liner. I won't go into detail but suffice to say, with regular roughage comes regular motion and an end to the days of diet roulette that used to delight, amuse and terrify in equal measure and while often surprising or even worrying, were never dull.
Breakfast, as we know, should be a leisurely affair. There are those that swear by the continental breakfast - possibly because a roll and a cuppa gives the average foreigner time to see his mistress between leaving his wife and getting to work. Then there are those that have a cup of coffee, fruit juice and a bagel. They are simply c***s.
No, there are only two types of breakfast that are acceptable (three if you count a stomach powder and a retreat to bed after a night on the toot). They are a) the full English/Scottish (the difference being the sausage, which is flat if you are in Scotland, and the cholesterol count, which is the cubed if you are in Scotland and b) breakfast at a country house. This is normally taken at a decent hour, maximising the time that one can spend later in the day during the hours of daylight laying waste to the local fauna with one's side by side. It normally involves bacon, sausage, egg, toast, kedigree, kippers, tea, toast, preserves, butlers, maids, pretending to meet for the first time that morning the person you spent half the night bonking silly and, depending on how lucky or unlucky you are, the discovery of a body in the library, all accompanied by a rather decent half bot of the '76.
Such pleasures are, like a full covering of hair on my crown, lost to me now. I have entered the world of muesli. It may be fit to serve to the winner of the 4:30 at Doncaster but it's no breakfast for a man. I've even tried to jazz it up a little - with dried fruit - a sausage being a little incongruous.
No doubt this is all doing me tremendous good but it is having the most astonishing of side effects. Maybe it's the oats, maybe it's the fruit or maybe it's cutting pork from my diet so drastically but now, when I enstool, any ker-plunk is heralded by an astonishing burst of wind.
It's otherworldly and, the first time it happened, a little distressing. I mean, as a chap with a varied and interesting diet, there has always been an element of chance in a trip to the lavvie but this is unprecedented. Without being too graphic, the sound following the rustle of the opening of the Tattler is like the Flying Scotsman locking breaks at 90mph and colliding with a steam calliope, in a cave.
With an announcement like that, two things are expected - royalty or a steam liner. I won't go into detail but suffice to say, with regular roughage comes regular motion and an end to the days of diet roulette that used to delight, amuse and terrify in equal measure and while often surprising or even worrying, were never dull.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home