How Scottish Labour can help you lose weight
Yesterday I rose relatively early in anticipation of a bumper day of sport. I had given myself just enough time to cook a couple of bacon/fried egg doublers for breakfast. I went to the fridge for some milk for my tea and noticed the carton was very light. So, using a technique handed down to me from my grandparents, I raised the carton close to my ear and shook it to ensure I had enough to enable me to stay in my pyjamas all day. I never really got a definitive answer from that movement, distracted as I was by the jiggling motion that it elicited from my midriff. I had inadvertently discovered that sometime between October and January I had become a fat bastard. But the bacon and eggs were done, the Morton’s rolls were sliced, buttered and doused in brown sauce, I had enough milk. Right I thought, after these bacon rolls it’s healthy living for me.
By the third set, just as Murray was imploding and demonstrating to his fiancée the proper usage of expletive language, I was comfort eating a grab bag of Walker’s Caramelised Onion and Balsamic Vinegar crisps. In the gap between the tennis and the football I found myself inexplicably peering into the fridge, eyes fixed on a half eaten box of profiteroles. And it would be wrong to watch the Old Firm without wetting and keeping wet one’s whistle. By the time the football had finished I had now officially melded with the sofa, like a cumbersome but comforting parasite I knew this was a symbiotic relationship that was going to last for the rest of the day. So I ordered pizza, and using one leg and a makeshift oar fashioned from the detritus of sloth, I edged the couch toward the front door in order to collect it.
Although disgusted in myself I am not surprised. Failing resolutions is second nature to me. By my estimation I have resolved to make, and not carried out, roughly 12,000 important changes in my life. Last night I had had enough of this constant failure and I took some drastic action. I hired as life coach the only man capable of turning me around: John McTernan.
I mean, he’s a genius, Scottish Labour are led by the man who fought most ferociously against Independence but who has recently, under McTernan, advised us that he is not a Unionist. Today, under the great man, Scottish Labour are announcing that they want to strengthen the proposed new devolved powers even though only weeks ago they were the party who submitted the weakest proposal to the Smith Commission. The guru himself recently wanted to cut the Scottish budget and is suddenly and wholeheartedly in support of greater devolution. That’s real meaningful, focused change I thought, I need some of that.
He was reluctant to take the job at first as my means are meagre compared to large political organisations. However, I promised him if he got me in shape, I would personally re-invade Iraq, boycott public libraries and commit to staging a mass twitter campaign against my colleagues. And with that, he was on board.
And it has worked, overnight I have already lost three stone, developed a six pack, and wooed and made love to Amy Adams.
Or at least that’s what I just read in the Daily Record.
The strange thing is I don’t really feel any different. You see, as I sat here writing about my new found physique I took the notion of going for a cup of tea. I rose from the couch, trod in an empty pizza box, past the container that once harboured a pyramid of profiteroles, over the empty beer cans strewn by the soiled inflatable Amy Adams and gazed once more into the fridge. And I made the mistake of jiggling the milk again.
Now, at first I thought I maybe had some form of lactose related body dysmorphia. I mean, I must be thin, I read about it in the papers. And McTernan wouldn’t lie to my face. But, I have now had a dog, the postman, the neighbour’s weans and two police officers watch me strip to the waist and shake a carton of milk. They all confirm that I’m still a fat bastard.
Now, it’s maybe for the best. For I have resolved for some time that I am destined to not quite achieve all of my ambitions. The underachiever is part of my personality. Quite frankly most of the time I just can’t be arsed. I just do what I need to do to get along. It’s my nature, and if I just try a wee bit harder, like making sure the milk is replenished and the mirrors are steamed up, I probably wouldn’t even notice my muffin top.
But my experience does make me wonder about Scottish Labour. I mean, some of their recent turnarounds have been exceptional.
I do suspect that if I was able to go back in time and hang around the gates of Damascus for the arrival of St Paul he would probably respond to my tales of Scottish Labour with an expletive ridden rant containing the words Euphrates, Boat, Banana, Bile and Heid.
Sadly I can’t do that, so I’m away out to buy some milk.
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