It's okay not to be okay

It's a sinking feeling, for me, it always has been. It's different for everyone. I know people for whom it becomes hard to catch their breath, others where they get pain in their head or their neck. But me? It feel it right in the pit of my stomach.

Anxiety. It's a strange old beast. Webster's English dictionary tells me that it's "a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease about something with an uncertain outcome". Bollocks to you, Mr Webster. Have you ever experienced proper anxiety? Apparently not. There are plenty of sensations I dislike and things that make me uncomfortable. There are not many things in life I hate. I fucking hate anxiety. HATE the bastard. It has coloured my life in so many ugly ways. That pit in my stomach. It's overbearing, overpowering, overwhelming. It's a huge part of who I am. As age brings a vague sense of wisdom with it, I have begun to ponder if rather than battling against it, might I be better off embracing it? And if so, how?

The dramatic twists and turns of my youth no doubt brought about huge uncertainty, but it wasn't until I hit my late teens that I really remember intense anxiety first rearing it's head. My earliest memory of such was when I was about 15. A year or so had passed since the accident which fractured my Dad's skull. My Mum was out in town, said she'd be back about midnight. Midnight came and went. By two am I was positively crippled with it, doubled over. In retrospect I can empathise with my younger self because I was not knowledgeable enough at that age to even understand what was happening. I was mentally fearful that something tragic had happened to Michelle, a trait that has stayed with me ever since what happened to my Dad. At that age you don't know enough to block out those thoughts and you embrace them. The fear would feed the anxiety in my stomach. The anxiety in my stomach would feed the fear and worry in my brain. My thoughts would get more and more dramatic. The anxiety would get worse and worse. I remember lying in my bed with my heart thumping out of my chest, real fight or flight stuff, like I was about to go to war. 

So it went. Relationships and work were always worst. Relationships in particular. I have carried around a deep seated insecurity my whole life, a feeling of inadequacy that has filtered into all my relationships. A minor argument with a girl I was going out with and I would need endless reassurance that this was not going to be the end of our relationship. Of course, paradoxically, the more reassurance I sought, the rockier the ground on which the relationship stood. But the anxiety fed the worry and I had no choice. I was incapable of making cognizant decisions to act on these impulses or ignore them, the anxious feelings have always been so powerful that thought never got a chance to show its face before the impulse forced me to act. It worked both ways as well. When I wanted to end a relationship that I was unhappy in, once I did it a huuuuuge anxiety would creep in, fed by the feelings of inadequacy I mentioned earlier - have I made a mistake? Will anyone else have me? - and I could not stay the course long enough to bypass them. Before I knew it, I would take the girl back. Within a week or two I'd be cursing my decision making. 

And then there is the lengths to which I will go to avoid anxiety. In my teens and early 20's, it was alcohol. In later years it's been mostly food. Anything that will change my chemical make up and make me feel something else. If I am so full I could burst, well at least that feeling in my stomach isn't anxiety.

This has followed me around my whole life. There have been times when I manage in it better than others. Now is not one of them! But the only person who can change that is me. No one else is going to do it for me. I have to pull myself up by my bootstraps and tell myself it is ok not to be ok. Uncertainty is part and parcel of daily life. It is not to be avoided. It is to be embraced. 

The Long Goodbye

I have no idea where to start, but right now, I can't think of anywhere better than the end:

He opened his eyes one last time. Then they were shut. Two hard breaths later and he was gone. Quiet and dignified -  he lived as he died. That was Louis O'Connell. My grandad. 

Born April 12 1931, it is fair to say that as hard as it is to accept he is gone, Louis' was a life well lived. Louis was 53 before I came along. Everything I have heard indicates that the latter period of his life was the one in which he was most content. A father of 4 - his only boy Hayden, and his 3 beautiful girls Siobhan, Ingrid and Michelle, Louis was an extremely well read man, who did well for himself in his career. He was a bank manager in 60's Ireland which, as a friend of mine said, was not far off being a priest in terms of stature back then. In a sense, he was a trailblazer. Long before I ever knew him, he had addressed an issue he felt he had with alcohol by joining AA. As someone who has battled with alcohol problems myself, I can tell you that in 2007 or 2017, it is acceptable to acknowledge you have a problem and seek help. There is no taboo anymore. Doing this 40+ years ago took such courage. To be intelligent enough to see you have a problem is the first step. To be humble enough to admit you can't beat it on your own is another. And to be brave enough to get help is a third. He did all those things and I am confident in saying that doing so enabled him to be the wonderful man that I have always known. I admire him greatly for that. Louis marriage was not a happy one and in an age when couples just stayed together because it was frowned upon to go your separate ways, he wasn't afraid to get out and start fresh. As painful as I'm sure it was for his children at the time, I believe that the life he went on to lead thereafter justified his decision. I have heard about how tormented he had been beforehand, but I never saw that. 

Of course, there is only so much I can tell you about Louis life because the first three quarters of it took place before I got here or before I was ten. I can tell you about who he was to me. In childhood, Louis was always friendly but somewhat distant. By his own admission, he was 'not good with emotions', and he was not the most physically tactile nor affectionate. But I always liked him when I was a kid. He had a devilish grin and would always have something nice to say when he saw you. At birthdays and Christmases he was too cool for presents - he'd simply shake your hand and when he took his away there was a crisp bill in yours. We always liked that! My abiding memories of him from my childhood are with my cousin Ciara(well, she's more like a sister really!). Ciara lived with her mom and Louis for much of the first ten years of her life and was the apple of his eye. They were inseparable. Often times I would go out on an adventure with them. These are some of my happier childhood memories.

In retirement, Louis developed a big social life through three very distinct circles. As the years went by, AA went from being something in the shadows to a huge network in Dublin, with meetings nearby every day and Louis being so long around knew everyone. He became a fantastic artist later in life, a marvellous painter, and ran his own classes in Sutton and Howth for decades, passing on his knowledge. Golf was his other major passion and Clontarf Golf Club was his other major social circle. I always maintained a good albeit distant relationship with Louis to that point. But in 2007, things changed.

When I decided that it was time to address my own problems with alcohol in January 2007, I approached AA with trepidation and fear. I was welcomed with open arms, and I will never forget the people who went out of their way to offer help right from that first meeting in Sutton. Specifically I remember two people, who I won't name, but I know that the reason they approached me was because they knew who I was and more importantly who my Grandad was. They regaled me with tales of the help he'd given the when they were new. As time went on in AA, I heard countless more of these stories. I don't know that many people would be privy to that information but it's important to me that's known. He helped a lot of people. 

My friendship with Louis grew from that day. I bumped into him at a meeting and I suggested maybe we could go for a coffee some day soon. And we did. And so began our tradition. Every month or two on a Wednesday I would meet him in the Country Club in Portmarnock. He would ask about my life and my work. He always seemed happy that my brother and I worked in insurance, I guess because in his day it was a 'proper' profession, a bit like banking. He would tell me about his life and his friends. He always spoke with particular warmth about Jimmy Barrett(had to say his full name!) and Bart, and in more recent times Paula and Theo. (I hope I have all those names right). He would ask me to help him with things, electronics mostly, buying a printer for X or a TV for Y. I'd buy them for him and he'd pay me back. Or I'd fix his TV, his internet, his phone etc. He never smothered me in AA, preferring to keep a watchful eye from a safe distance, something I appreciated. Other members would tell me he'd been asking after me, but he would never ask me too much. I was even more impressed with his reaction when I left AA. Having spent 35+ years in 'the rooms' at that point, I was sure he would disapprove of my decision and the fact I'd come to the conclusion that alcohol had been a symptom for me rather than a problem in and of itself. But I was wrong. I was too fearful to broach the topic myself. One day he very casually asked me was I drinking again. I said I had the odd pint. He told me that it was a case of 'to each his own' and if I felt ok to do so, go ahead. AA would always be there if I needed it. Thankfully, I never did. I was 25 at this point and it meant a lot to me that he trusted my judgement like that. I never forgot it.

4 Generations of O'Connell's on Louis last birthday. 

In the past 4 or 5 years as my life has changed, our friendship has mostly been based around my children. As if to put an exclamation point on the incredibly full life he has led, Louis had 6 great grandchildren, 5 of them girls, in the past 4 years. It was just his lot in life to be surrounded by beautiful women I guess! He had so much love for Carra. He would always comment on her personality and that always gave me such joy. Carra is a demanding, independent, and boisterous child and I get the impression sometimes people, particularly older folk, don't always appreciate some of those characteristics. But he loved her character and said as much. In the past 2 or 3 years as I have finally seen him age (he looked 80 going on 65 for a great many years!) it occurred to me how valuable the time he spent with this newest generation was because, sadly, none of us lives forever.

The past 4 months have been sad ones, saccharine tinged moments aplenty. From the moment Louis was diagnosed with cancer early in September, whenever I would speak to him, I felt like, as they say, 'he knew'. Even when early prognosis was good and there were plans to try and cure him with surgery and chemotherapy, he never seemed to put any stock in those ideas. 'He knew'.

Breakfast in Howth

Louis, Carra and Oliver in September

There have been good times. Speaking personally, if nothing else positive comes of this, I have developed a wonderful friendship with my cousin Camille who has come to stay with us and visit him a few times. It's amazing how much you might have in common with someone and you never knew it! I will cherish the breakfast we had in Howth a couple months ago, before Louis was very ill, when he was still full of life. MT and I, along with Camille and her other half Steve took our kids out for a bite followed by a walk on the pier. Louis took such joy in his great grandkids and seeing the bond Carra and Oliver had seemed to really touch him.

When Ciara came home from the States in October we were able to put all 6 of his great grandchildren in one place at the same time with him, which I'm sure meant a lot to him. Then just this past Tuesday, which seems a lifetime ago, he specifically asked for me to bring Carra in to see him. You could see he was struggling to get about anymore. But he lit up when he saw her. She spent an hour playing Hide & Seek, and Eye Spy while he sat and watched. When it was time to go, he gave her a bearhug the likes of which I've never seen and a huge kiss on the cheek. He knew.

Louis and 5 of his 6 great grandchildren. He looked proud and happy that day.

Last night, even though it seemed he was stable and would have a few more days, I felt compelled to say my goodbyes. Maybe 'I knew' as well. Since it became apparent he was dying, I have had this weird recurring thought. At every family occasion I can remember, Louis always did the speech. And what a public speaker he was. I just kept thinking 'who's going to do your speech?'. I tried to imagine what I would say if it were me. And I decided that rather than wait until he's gone, I should tell him all these things. I tried my best, and I am so grateful he was conscious while I spoke. In truth, I struggled to get the words out as clearly as I'd have liked. These are the things I wanted to say to him:

From a young age, I can remember lots of turmoil and drama in our family. My parents were dramatic and that gene doesn't skip a generation, apparently. But I observed many years ago how unflappable Louis was. How level. His highs were not dizzying and his lows not despairing. And above all else, it was his dignity, his class. He carried himself how I believe a man should carry himself. I never heard him shout or yell. He was calm, measured, classy. That is the one trait I admired most and have attempted to emulate my entire adult life. That grounded nature and the dignity with which he carried himself. I have tried to be like him in that way. 

I remember his sadness and the feeling that just a small bit of the life was taken out of him when he lost his eldest daughter Siobhan in April 2010. He opined to me that he missed her all the time. Louis never said something unless he meant it and I knew the pain was excruciating for him, more than he'd let on. For years he cut a wounded figure, a proud old lion limping along through adversity. But his quiet dignity remained. Always.

Lastly, I wanted him to know that I don't quite know how our family moves forward without him. Louis was the patriarch of the O'Connell clan. He was the constant. Omnipresent, he was 81 when I got married and no longer liked to travel, but he was the only family member who made the trip to Florida to be there for me. That was Louis. No fuss, no song and dance, no drama. But he was there for you. The conscience of the family. In one way, this day was always going to come and I knew that. And in another way, I just felt he'd be there forever, hovering just out of view but always around. His presence has always loomed in the background of my life, quiet enough that you would not always actively notice, but not so quiet that you would ever forget he was there. I will miss that so much. I will miss Louis. 

For Christmas 2013, Louis painted a really beautiful picture of he and Carra which he framed and gave to me. He was working on the same this year before he got sick. I love these paintings and this is how I choose to remember him. 

Congratulations on a life well lived Louis. I love you and I will see you again one day. 

Louis and Carra

Louis and Bayley

Man On Wire

Phillippe Petit had to be nuts. There he was, a dull August morning in 1974, 1,350 feet above New York City balancing on a wire. By now you'll know the story, but if not - that summer, New York's famed twin towers were opening. Petit, a famed wire walker, saw an image of them being built in a French newspaper and felt a calling. He must walk between them. So he and his bandits blagged their way into the towers one night and over an arduous, dangerous, painstaking few hours they set the wire. Petit walked at dawn. 

But why? I've watched the excellent 'Man On Wire' documentary on this as well as Robert Zemeckis's enchanting 2015 take on it 'The Walk' starring Joseph Gordon Levitt and 4 hours of film later, the best answer I can give you is that's just who he was and what he wanted to do. 

Guess what? I'm just like Phillippe Petit. I mean, obviously, I'm not like him at all. I'm completely different. But work with me here, because I can find no better metaphor for the junction at which I currently find myself. I have a calling too. Unlike Petit, who's taste for women led to the dissolution of his relationship with one of his co-conspirators that fateful August morning, my calling centred around the people in my life. From my teenage years, I realized that what I wanted in my life was a family, a happy little unit, the kind that for one reason or another never quite panned out in the house where I grew up. Nothing more complex or crazy than that. Just a woman with whom I could bring some little people into the world and we would all live a happy, simple little life together. And I might not be 400 metres in the air pumped full of adrenaline wearing a turtleneck, but much like Phillippe I am achieving my dream and it brings me great joy. If I told you fully just how much happiness the 3 women in my life bring me, you would either get a little bit sick in your throat or you'd outright blow chunks everywhere. But fuck it, it's my blog and you'll puke if I want to. When Friday 5pm rocks around and I get to go home, lock the door in our little Murphy family coccoon, and we're on our own for the weekend, I am delerious. Our weekends are bookended by meals, whatever that may say about our diet. We have pizza on Friday night. Carra stands on her step and puts the pepperoni and toppings on her little pie while I cook for MT & I. Saturday is family adventure day, whether that be a petting zoo, the cinema, shopping, funky monkeys, extended family time or whatever. Sunday afternoon we park ourselves at the dinner table for a roast meal before we flick all the lights off, make Carra her giant bucket of popcorn and have movie night with a kids flick before bed on Sunday night. In this 48 hour span, I am the most contented man on planet earth. The smiles on Carra, Bayley & MT's faces and the giggles that escape from their mouths make me feel so warm and fuzzy inside even I am cringing at myself! They are my joy.

There's always a but, isn't there? You knew there was a but coming...

BUT. Where Phillippe (thankfully) managed to navigate that wire without ever losing his balance, the same cannot be said of my ability to navigate the waters of my life wearing the many hats that I do - father, husband, son, brother, employee, cousin...there's one more. Oh yeah. Kenny! I had a pretty reasonable routine going 6 months ago, but since Bayley arrived, I have struggled. Forget the past tense. I am struggling.

 
My priority is (and always will be) my kids. This is not a matter of choice as far as I am concerned. I believe if you are going to choose to bring little people into the world than you automatically owe it to them to make sure their wants and needs are catered to first. Next comes MT. We are partners in this whole family thing so I need to help her be in the nick she can possibly be in so this parenting gig goes well. Next? The issue is not so much who comes next, it's that there's not much left to go around. And that's a problem. A big problem.

In the 5 months since Bayley has come along, things at home have been going great. It's just everything else that's gone to shit. I'm exaggerating of course, but only a little. My candle has been burnt at both ends enough to where I just don't have much left for anyone a lot of the time. 

Relationships with family members have become strained. Ones who I'm close with and ones who I'm not. My friendships have been tested, in some cases severely. I just haven't been able to invest as much in the people in my life as I would like. Work has been - how do I put this? - a clusterfuck. Through an awkward confluence of circumstances, I've taken on a number of pretty admin heavy tasks over the last 6 - 9 months, just as my energy levels have been sinking and my head is feeling fried. The result has been messy, messy work. Which is tough for me. I've never been in a job and not felt confident, but I don't feel very confident at the moment. No matter how hard I try, I seem to fuck up left, right and centre. I have pride and I have a healthy ego and it's embarrassing realizing you've created yet another mess for your colleagues to clean up, in spite of your best efforts. And then there's me. I'm frazzled, goosed, baked, beat, cream-crackered, pooped, bushed. Get the jist? When I'm this tired, my decision making is poor and my self discipline is non existent. I eat badly - sugar & carbs to give me a boost, I inhale caffeine to keep me going, and I'm so tightly wound that I take any number of unhealthy shortcuts to get some quick relief. (Don't worry, I'm not doing lines of coke in the bathroom, if that's how you read that line).

The difficulty lies in how I'm wired. I am OCD, to an extent. Things have to be perfect. Come into my living room and take a look around, or check out my desk in work. Everything in its place. Ergo I struggle to relax until everything is done. And when I do happen to be super busy, the combination of the lengthy to do list and my frenzied DO-IT-ALL-AND-DO-IT-NOW thinking put me in a vicious circle. I am so scattered and frenetic. You could ask my colleagues in work and they could readily reel off examples where I've started to do one thing, been pulled away to do something else, and never finished the original task. But here's a real world story from just this morning that best encapsulates the issue: I was running around about 8:45 trying to get Carra dressed and ready for school, feed Bayley, prepare Carra's lunchbag, get some coffee & food into myself, and get dressed. In amongst it, I put a capsule in the coffee machine, stuck my AJ Styles mug underneath and fired it up. The coffee poured into the mug. Five minutes later after making Carra's lunch and feeding Bayley, I went to grab my coffee. Except it wasn't there. I looked back at the table. Not there either. What the fuck? Where's my coffee? Then I spotted my AJ Styles mug in the sink, filled with water, having been rinsed out. I had legitimately NO IDEA if I drank the coffee and rinsed the mug, or just lost track of what I was doing and rinsed the mug out while it was still full of coffee. Not only that, I still don't know. I made another cup and went on my merry way.

It was that moment, combined with feeling flashes of a familiar illness over the past few days, that I was inspired to write. At the point that mugs of coffee are literally vanishing, it's probably fair to say I am overstretched and my balance is out of wack. No más, no más!

There are little things I can do to redress the balance. I can talk about it, whether here or to the people in my life. Awareness is half the battle. I can sleep more. I went to bed early the last couple of nights and it genuinely helped, even if I was up half of the night with Bayley last night anyway. I can pause and take a deep breath once in a while. And I may just have to start learning how to be ok with everything in the world not being done. It's anathema to me to go to bed with a dish not washed or to leave the office on my lunch with an email not read, but perhaps it wouldn't actually be the end of the world? I say that mostly facetiously...but there is at least a part of me that wonders if somehow leaving a half eaten plate of chips on the kitchen table and going to bed would, in fact, be the end of all mankind. Only one way to find out...

Of course, what you have read is the struggle and the consequences. Would you like to know the best bit? Because I want to tell you. I am a good Dad and I have happy, contented kids. My eldest is a strong willed, determined, hard-nosed, stubborn child - a parenting challenge! The kind with whom it would be very easy to have an adversarial, confrontational relationship with. She wants to fight you on EVERYTHING you ever ask her to do. She wants to do things her way. She does not understand the idea that she isn't the boss. She didn't when she was Bayley's age, for flips sake. But we have a good relationship. I negotiate with her. It takes the patience of a bloody saint but I communicate politely and clearly with her often enough that we don't fight and she mostly does what I ask. And she loves me to bits. And she's developing so much. I can see the confidence buregeoning in her and I believe this is at least partly because she has a settled, safe and loving home environment. There's not a lot of conflict here and I think that's how a kid should be raised. She's a Billie Barry Kid now (all caps, folks). The ease with which she arrives at that building and wanders off into the hall without me (parents are banned) gives me great pride. She is not afraid to be on her own in the world. She's confident in herself. And my youngest...she's a little dote. Bayley is so dissimilar to Carra at the same age it can feel like a trick of the mind that they are sisters. When she has a sore tooth or a cold she will let you know she is suffering, but on an average day - today, for example - she is just so pleasant and relaxed, so docile and content. I mopped and hoovered the entire house while she lay on her mat for an hour this morning, googoo gaga-ing away to herself. Now if only she'd start sleeping all night! I do believe it's the extra time and energy I put into my girls that leaves me short everywhere else, but at least I know it's not all for naught.

So that is me, my life, my struggle. But...back to Phillippe, standing on the precipice, gazing out into the abyss. Put yourself, your life in the metaphor. 120 storeys above the people of New York City, ready to take that first big, terrifying step...how's your balance?

 

Fixed.

"It's over now, and I can't see you. Some things are better left unsaid..."

And just like that, mirroring a lyric from their million selling second album, Charlie Simpson had busted Busted. January 14th 2005, London's Soho Hotel. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Simpson was at pains to stress he was never embarrassed to be in the power-chord playing pseudo-boyband, but admitted he had decided to walk away. Beside him, his clearly crestfallen bandmates echoed the message - good of them, considering Charlie had in a sense just rung the neck of their golden goose. Truthfully in the decade since, none of the parties ever really spoke ill of each other and stories of infighting never emerged. One thing that did emerge however, was nail after nail in the Busted coffin, hammered by Simpson himself:

2006: "I was in a music career, which was amazing, and I hated it because it wasn't fulfilling me in any sense of the word. I kept thinking, imagine if this was a band I really loved, I'd be loving it. It was like torture."

2009: "I read that I was going to be part of a Busted reunion, but that won't happen in a million years. The other two might do something, but I'm not involved."

2012: "I wish Matt and James all the best with their future projects but I want to make it unequivocally clear that I have no interest whatsoever in rejoining Busted and I never will"

Let me make no bones about this - I fucking love Busted. I love Busted more in 2015 than I did when they split in 2005. I am passionate about music, and honestly, genuinely, I really mean this - I don't know there's a band I love more than Busted. 

It's funny how your taste evolves. When I was 11, I loved Oasis. They were my favourites until I was 15. Then came Foo Fighters. Around 18 it was Stone Roses. At 19, it was Busted. And at 21 it was Fightstar, who've sort of ruled the roost ever since, although their crown rather slipped in the 6 years between 2009's 'Be Human' and 2015's 'Behind The Devils Back'. 

In 2015, aged 31, when I put my headphones in while I'm doing the cleaning when the wife and baby are asleep, I'm not listening to the Stone Roses. I rarely put on Oasis. I listen to Foo Fighters once a year. And Fightstar get the odd run out, but ultimately, my go to album is the subtly titled Christmas 2003 release "A Present For Everyone", the last record Busted made. Why? Why, why, why? Trust me, it surprises me more than you.

It is because, put simply, Busted were unique. There are plenty of earnest boybands writing nice ballads out there. There's lot of men in their twenties writing chugging tunes loaded with power chords and emotion. But there aren't many doing both, and there aren't any doing it with such a strong sense of humour, tongue planted firmly in cheek. And there are none who just write such fucking kick ass music!

I've experienced a bunch in life - who hasn't? - a lot of it quite serious. My parents break up was about as ugly as you can get, my Dad's accident was tragic, and his death 3 years later raised the bar. Then there was the 5 years spent drinking my inheritance. Point being it wasn't all a bed of roses. My greatest weapon to fight back against life's trials and tribulations and get to grips with that first quarter century of my life in the past few years has been the ability to diffuse the seriousness and inject a sense of levity and humour, a tool with which I now meet all of life's challenges. I am (unfortunately) hardwired to be melodramatic - if you knew my parents, you'd understand why - but I am aware that it really does no one any favours to tackle life on such serious terms. Ergo I do my best to come at things with a smile and a chuckle. This is why Busted & me are a good fit. 

What most people know of the band are, naturally, the singles, where the silliness is turned up to 11. Air Hostess, Year 3000, Crashed The Wedding - these are good songs, great pop tunes worthy of their places at the top of the charts. But truthfully it's the ability to fuse the tongue in cheek numbers with the hand on heart, lighter in the air ballads in the same album - or even in the same song at times - that makes Busted so uniquely, erm, well, BUSTED! Personal favourites include the album track "Fake" about the fear that your lady may be putting on a show in the bedroom if you're coming up short:
"What am I gonna do now? The games up.
 I can't get her off, that's kinda rough.
 So baby tell me now do I need to measure?
 Cos' I'm feeling under pressure
 Don't wanna be a 'fake' " 

Then you have the more sombre numbers, love songs along the lines of chart hits '3am' and 'Sleeping With The Light On'. Second album tracks 'Why?' and 'It's Over Now' are some of the best break up songs I've ever heard & have been friends in dark times. Above all else, Simpson and Bourne are both phenomenal songwriters and wrote some phenomenal melodies. The combination of Charlie's melancholy drenched vocals with Bourne's insanely catchy tunes & Willis' massive energy hits a note with me that nothing else does. Perhaps the most surprising part of this is how the songs have not only sustained over the years, but how I've actually grown more fond of them, not less, as the years go by. My passion for Oasis, Stone Roses, Foo Fighters and even Fightstar now is not quite what it once was. But I still bloody love Busted. And I did even before this weeks news.

Which brings us full circle. This weeks news. It is safe to say that I am an optimist and I tend to believe all things are possible. It takes a lot - A LOT - to surprise me. But, hand on heart, until the news broke confirming the reunion, I genuinely never, ever, ever, ever thought that this would happen. It was not just Charlie's words, it was his actions. 

I saw Busted live, in November 2004. My buddy Dave came with me (I paid for his ticket - need to tell you that just to make sure the innocent are protected). The gig was good but not great, and I noted to Dave at the time that James and Matt seemed to really enjoy interacting with the crowd and putting on a show. Charlie, meanwhile, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. A harbinger of things to come, it turned out. I also saw him in January 2005 playing with Fightstar suppoting Taking Back Sunday and he was the antithesis - loving every second, even if the audiene wanted to dismiss him. In addition to all the quotes above, everytime he was asked about Busted he visibly clammed up. He would talk about how when the band formed in 2002 he was enjoying it but as his musical tastes progressed and changed, James' and Matt's didn't. Given it was always James' band first and foremost(Charlie joined later) and the record company weren't about to start putting out death metal Busted records, leaving was the right choice for all involved. Having worked so hard and so long to establish himself as a 'serious' and 'credible' musician, why would he ever go back? 

When I first heard the rumours, I dismissed it. I thought 'given how he's talked about Busted for a decade, the only possible reason he'd go back was for the money'. But that in itself made no sense - having turned down the millions to be made with McBusted 18 months earlier, and walked away from the millions Busted would have made him in 2005, why would the money suddenly appeal to him now? 

In retrospect however, clearly I wasn't paying enough attention. There were clues in the last couple of years. In 2013, a year after saying he 'unequivocally' would 'never' have any interest in rejoining Busted, came this quote about McBusted:

"Busted was a lifetime ago. But I'm really happy that they're doing it, and they look they're enjoying it - now it just wouldn't be right for me to do"

In the space of 12 months, never had become 'now'. Then on 'This Morning' in 2014, all the awkwardness and angst talking about Busted had been replaced with talk about what a fun time that was in his life and how fondly he looked back on those times. He even mentioned how he'd been rebuilding his relationships with Matt and James. Doors were opening...

Still, I must admit, even had I been paying attention, I couldn't have foreseen this. But the various videos and interviews they've done since pieces the puzzle together - friendships rebuilt, the trio went to Philadelphia to see was there any musical common ground to be found. They came away after 4 days of jamming with 3 new songs and a decision that they were putting the band back together: "We went to Philadelphia a few months ago, we wanted to go somewhere where we wouldn’t be seen and we just started working and came up with something which I think all of us were super happy with. We didn’t expect to come away with something so perfect.". It gives me genuine pleasure and joy to see these 3 dudes who created this music I've loved so much getting on so well after a decade of weirdness.

So, roll on the new record! I would have been pleased with a tour but it's the prospect of a new album that has me really excited. I never, ever thought I'd be lucky enough to have another batch of Busted tunes to process and enjoy and I can't believe it's happening! I'm confidently predicting I'm the most excited heterosexual male on earth who's not actually in the band when it comes to this album. Given the fact that the last one kept me going 12 years, hopefully even if they never do another, this one should keep me bopping away with a grin on my face for the rest of my days, reminding me never to take life too serious. 

Oh and then there's the gig: May 31, 2016, 3Arena. Meet You There... 

Déjà view

The Premier League is coming back but haven't we seen it all before?

Pre season. An exciting time. Wrought with possibility. You haven't yet seen your side play a competitive game so however unlikely it is, there's always the chance that suddenly they're world beaters. All those new signings might settle quickly. They could all hit form at once. The manager might have found a system that works. And then the first whistle blows...

I used to love this time of year. I have vivid memories of Ajax's back to back Amsterdam cup comeback wins over Barcelona in the early 00's. I would consume the Emirates cup every summer. And Liverpool's friendlies...I'd devour them, every second. Even if I couldn't see them live and they involved two different sets of 11 players in each half, I'd sit and watch. In fact, just 12 months ago I was analyzing what 11 started not just for Liverpool but for each PL club in preparation of another long hard year of fantasy football.

And this summer? A better writer could probably come up with a more scholarly sentence to sum it up, but I can't: This summer I just couldn't give a fuck. I cannot quite put my apathy into words. In fact it's not just apathy, it's borderline contempt. Every time I see and ad on Sky or BT I genuinely feel as though I'm watching the hysterical 2005 David Mitchell Skit where he lampooned the self important bubble in which football and its media exists.  “THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF HOURS OF FOOTBALL, EACH MORE CLIMACTIC THAN THE LAST, EVERY KICK OF IT MATTERING MASSIVELY TO SOMEONE SOMEWHERE” sounds more like something I'd expect to hear on a Sky football ad than a comedy skit in 2015. I had a nagging feeling last season, an inescapable disinterest in the premier league but I chalked it up to a hangover from Liverpools nearly year but rather than feeling refreshed after a summer without premier league hyperbole, I feel substantially less interested now than I did in May. Football is a huge passion of mine and Liverpool are a part of who I am so this new found apathy is a curious thing and I thought it wise to explore the reasons...

Of course Liverpool are my rooting interest in English and European football so it seems sensible to start at home. After going so close to winning the league in 2014, 2015 brought another finish in the Europa league places along with two losing semi final appearances in cup competitions. Whilst last summer brought with it the naivety and optimism that only comes with preseason, truthfully by the turn of the year I'd come to accept that challenging for fourth and contending for a trophy represented a decent return for a club of our resources, but never was this hammered home then when I read an article in the Guardian in February. I won't bore you with a huge amount of detail – a lot of this stuff is covered in the excellent Soccernomics book – but the key fact was just how substantial the correlation between the size of a clubs wage bill and where that side finished was. Between the years 2003 & 2013:

The club with the highest wage bill each year finished, on average, 1^st.

The club with the 2^nd highest wage bill each year finished, on average, 2^nd.

The club with the 3^rd highest wage bill each year finished, on average...can you guess? That's right – 3^rd.

This went on and on as far as tenth. TENTH. Think about that. In one sense this shouldn't be surprising but yet having lived and breathed hundreds of games each one of those 10 seasons, boy did I feel silly. More than at any point in the past, football in 2015 is dictated by money. The teams who can offer the biggest paypackets can buy the best players. They then lock up the top positions. It really is no more complex than that. This is why even when clubs outside the top 4 spend big, they can't hold on to a place inside it as Liverpool and Spurs found out in recent seasons. Perhaps this is best evidenced by Liverpool losing their top 4 spot to Manchester City. The first season that Manchester City finished inside the top 4 was also the first season their wage bill eclipsed that of Liverpool. In the 5 years since, they have maintained either the highest or second highest wage bill in the league, and have finished 3^rd, 1^st, 2^nd, 1^st, 2^nd. Meanwhile Liverpool have only cracked the top 4 once. Funny how that works.

Indeed in the past ten years of premier league football, only twice has a team outside the top 4 wage bills in the league qualified for the following seasons champions league. Even the most basic of maths will tell you that with 4 CL spots a year over 10 years, that means 2 spots out of 40. And those spots were taken by Liverpool and Spurs the sides with the fifth and sixth highest wage bills. What this means is that stiatistically speaking Liverpool and Spurs have a 5% chance of breaking into that top four. Anyone beneath them...just don't bother. Suddenly THE MOST EXCITING LEAGUE IN THE WORLD doesn't sound quite so exciting, does it?

Of course, that in a sense is almost footballs appeal. The desire to see your team do the impossible. Spurs did it in 2010 and Liverpool in 2014. There is perhaps no victory sweeter than the one you did not expect and tales of victorious underdogs live forever. I will be wearing LFC red on August 9^th at 4pm crossing my fingers that the miracle is possible with the same fervor as years gone by, but at least now I'll do so in the knowledge that the chances are very slim.

Of course this has always been the way to an extent but never has it been more prevalent. The rich get the richer and the wealthy buy all the gold. This season, Barcelona will win La Liga at a canter, Bayern Munich won't break a sweat in claming the Bundesliga, PSG will stroll Ligue 1, and Celtic...well ok, that one's just too easy. And the premier league? My hunch is that Chelsea will win it with some ease like I predicated and they delivered last year but you'll pardon my indifference if I'm not quivering excitement that minnows Man City or underdogs United might buy another tin pot for themselves. I saw that one last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And the...well, you get my point.

Mind you I would rather be quivering with excitement than experiencing the emotions some of the LFC fanbase has been this summer. In 2015 everyone has a voice, for better or for worse. That's what the internet has done. When it comes to football, it's definitely for worse. The world as a whole feels the need to jump to conclusions these days but nowhere is that more prevalent than in football. Arsene Wenger recently floated the idea that a managers job nowadays is to manage a crisis because you can have one, basically, every three days. The hyperbole with which the game is presented and commentated upon has fully transferred itself to the fanbase, and I myself have fallen prey to this, spouting silly overly important garbage. I have a core group of 6 – 8 friends with whom I discuss Liverpool. These are intelligent people. Some even quite sensible. Yet the absolute panic emanating from them after a bad result or two would have you in tears of laughter. Words like CRISIS and CHAOS and UNACCEPTABLE. A conclusion must be jumped to and it must be based off the most recent thing. The thing before that? Doesn't count. Simon Mignolet has played 94 games for Liverpool. He's played about 20 very well, about 25 not so much, 25 relatively poorly and on 25 occasions he's just handed the opposition goals. But because those 20 good games were mostly recent, fans will forget the rest. Brendan Rodgers is the opposite. He was a genius twelve months ago. Shorn of two phenomenal strikers who scored more than 50 goals, he struggled this past season. You'd think it makes sense to any reasonable, intelligent adult. Meanwhile you've grown men hiring a plane to fly a “RODGERS OUT” banner over Anfield. This is not unique to Liverpool though. Robin Van Persie has been discarded on the back of an injury hit season at Man United. Arsenal fans will tell you Arsene knows all summer long, but when they get knocked out of the league cup by, erm, Charlton in September after losing a league game three days earlier, they'll tell you his time is up. Remember Chelsea fans hounding Rafa Benitez as he won them a european trophy and secured champions league football? Leicester just ditched Nigel Pearson after his heroics keeping them up. Watford went one better, replacing the manager who got them promoted before a ball has even been kicked. Then there's Newcastle fans. I don't think I need to add anything to that one.

Of course, we're an easily led society so there must be a root to all this evil, and I'm blaming Jamie Redknapp. I mean, technically I am blaming Sky, but Sky is faceless where Jamie Redknapp is a handsome but also ludicrously smug looking fuck so he shall be the subject of my ire. Sky perpetuate the melodrama of football worse than anywhere else. BIG BEN & matching yellow ties and dresses on deadline day. A BREAKING NEWS ticker that actually breaks useless trivia (don't worry though, it matches the yellow ties and dresses). Words like CRUCIAL and VITAL. “I just feel it's vital QPR get summink today if they're gonna stay up, I really do Jeff” Jamie will say in spite of the fact that QPR are 11 points from safety with 12 to play for and everyone knows they're gone anyway. He told me a game between West Brom and Stoke was crucial last season too. I don't think either side played a crucial side all season, embedded safely in mid table. Thierry Henry knowing he has to say something but having nothing to say so pretending to say something except not really saying anything because it's just words coming out of his mouth. Phil Thompson looking at a side in the bottom three and sternly telling Jeff Stelling “If dee carry on in the form dat der in, dee could be in trouble come the end of the season”. 5 minute puff piece interviews with Garry Monk about Swansea 'pushing on' next season when we all know that 8^th place is the highest they're legally allowed finish (for all intents and purposes). Paul Merson. I don't think I need to add anything to that one either.

Of course none of this is new even if it has certainly gotten worse and worse to the point that it seems Mitchells parody is Sky's advertising blueprint, but it's just so irritating when you hear the same hyper dramatic bollocks from your friends. Lads, please. Calm down.

Oh, and I reserve the right to ignore anyone reminding me of this blog when I lose the run of myself after the first game of the season.

Bottle for the battle

As I sit here a couple days before embarking on a challenge to improve my health and well being through diet and exercise, I can feel a nervous energy that takes me back. About 8 and a half years back, to be exact. Boy, time flies. I've decided to tell the tale in the hopes of clearing up people's misconceptions and boosting my confidence - my bottle, if you will - for the battle ahead.

It's January 15th 2007. My years and years of heavy and consistent drinking have caught up on me big time and I have decided it is time to clean up my act. I am terrified that I won't be able to but excited about the possibility that I will. I started drinking alcohol at age 15. I can tell you the date and everything. February 25th, 2000. The wedding of my aunt/second mom Ingrid to her husband Tom. I blame them. Kidding! I had a few vodka and orange juices that night and I was enthralled by the effect. Soon enough it become an each weekend tradition. The naivety and innocence of it is still so fresh in my mind that even now I can understand why I fell for it so hard, so fast. Nights listening to Champagne Supernova and other Oasis classics with Paul Dalton in my Mum's living room, literally lying on the ground and watching the room spin. It was fun. But I don't do moderation, I only do excess. With that in mind, inside a year I was already hearing from people close to me - my Mum, Paul - that my drinking was problematic. I was undeterred though. There's little more stubborn headed in this world than a 16 year old when you're trying to tell him not to do something. 

June 29th 2001 my father took his last breath and passed into the next life. Truth be told it was a merciful end - his personality and his spirit left his body behind when he fell down that flight of stairs in 1998 - but I can't honestly tell you that it softened the blow. I was devastated. You know the feeling of sitting in the airport, at the gate, just twiddling your thumbs, waiting? That's kind of what those three years after Dessie's accident were like for me, in hindsight. I didn't want my Dad to die but he was gone once his head hit those marble steps and fractured his skull. I spent three years at the gate awaiting his funeral. Anyone who has lost someone after a long battle with ill health will speak of the trauma endured watching them suffer. I was left with almost no memories of my Dad before his accident, so powerful and traumatic were the images of who he became afterwards. 

So while there was never a conscious decision to start drinking like a fish upon his passing, it seems very clear to me that the discomfort and pain the alcohol masked was about him. And once I start down a road, it's very difficult to stop me. From the day of his funeral until the day I stopped drinking in January 2007, there were less than 10 days that I did not get drunk. It's not a statement I put out to be dramatic, it just is the truth and I think more than anything else, that bare fact highlights why I felt the need to take the drastic action I did. To give you the full context, that is 10 days out of 2,025 where I wasn't drunk. So I was drunk about 2,015 days over that period. That's a lot of days.

When I stopped drinking, I did so with the help of the AA. I was on the way to the pub and I blew a tyre, and they insisted on towing me home rather than the pub, you see. Ok, not that AA. Alcoholics Anonymous was a wonderful thing for me. I will be forever grateful for the positivity, the support, the love and above all else the understanding I got there. Those first 6 months when I got sober and my head got clear are genuinely the six best months of my entire life before I met my wife. I grew up more in that time than probably a decade prior. I purchased my first home, moved up the ladder in work, got in good physical shape and started meeting women, something I'd forever struggled to do. 

This is where the story gets complicated, and it's kind of why I decided to write this blog. I am nothing if not extroverted when it comes to expressing my personality. As such there was probably not a person I knew who didn't know I was an 'alcoholic'. The difficulty with that term and indeed the AA in general is that it allows your relationship with alcohol to define who you are. I found that after a certain period of time, living a life where my primary purpose was not to drink alcohol was almost as restrictive and problematic as living a life where my primary purpose was to drink alcohol. 

In 2007 I had started seeing a cognitive behavioural therapist, a wonderful woman named Tina who to this day probably doesn't fully understand how much she helped me get to grips with my life during a very, very foggy period. My thinking was cluttered and muddied, the work we did cleared it all up. In 2009, she was the person who broached the topic that had run through my mind for about the prior 6 months. What if I'm not an alcoholic? What if there's no such thing? What if excessive use of alcohol is a symptom of my personality, and it can be controlled? What if I don't have to define myself by what I do or don't do with this here liquid? I will say that when she mentioned it, I think the possibility of my drinking again was a distant possibility as opposed to something she thought I may do in the short term. But I had to know. I had to know can I drink alcohol and take it or leave it like some people, or do I have to drink every day of the week, once it starts?

I put six kopparberg mixed fruit down my gullet on May 24th 2009, celebrating my 25th birthday. 855 days had passed since I had last consumed alcohol. And guess what? The world kept spinning and my life kept going. Nothing really changed. Truth be told, the summer of 2009 is a terrific memory for me. It is the one and only period in my life where I drank pretty much like anyone else. I would go out on the weekend, get pissed, act silly, wake up feeling like garbage, but just crack on with my life. It was, after all that analysing, fretting, worrying and debating, really that simple. Once I stopped telling myself I was an alcoholic I was able to regain power over booze. And I had a blast that summer. Although at age 25 I think I was still the old man in Tamango most weekends.

Which brings me to now. I very, very, very rarely drink. I had half a kopparberg last night with dinner on our last night away. That's, I think, the only drink I've had since Lanzarote last October. I can tell people in my life often wonder why that is. I can also tell there are those who fear that maybe there's something dark behind it, related to the problems I had when I was younger. I'm here to tell you nothing could be further from the truth. When I met MT everything changed. First of all, it coincided with my hangovers getting substantially worse. I don't know if the fact I had so long on the dry impacted it or it was simply the aging process, but my ability to function the day after drinking just about evaporated over that 12 month period. MT didn't, and doesn't, drink alcohol - she just never has. When you're living with and married to someone who doesn't drink alcohol, and your hangovers are absolutely obscene, your motivation to get drunk is very, very low. I genuinely will get a hangover off a drink and a half. Bear in mind my well documented health problems of the past few years as well. The reality is I am a 31 year old man and my entire world revolves around the two beautiful girls who I live with. When I have a couple drinks I am no use to them the next day. I hate that. Really, genuinely loathe it. I feel like I've wasted a day of my life and there's too. I spent enough years of my life hammered and hungover. It just doesn't appeal to me that much anymore. I've nothing against it and definitely no problem with anyone else who loves it. But it's just not something I have much of an appetite for anymore.

The trouble with the curve(s)

There are few more universal struggles than the one about body shape. I use the term body shape because the word 'weight' doesn't really tell the story. People have insecurities about their bodies in every which way - too skinny, too fat, big hips, big thighs, small shoulders, small breasts, big tummy, soft tummy, big bum, small bum. A hairdresser once told me that everyone who came in and had naturally curly hair wished it was straight, while everyone with naturally straight hair wished they had curls. We are never happy. It's the human condition. It is armed with the knowledge that I, just like anyone else, am never going to be 100% happy with my appearance (I mean, have you seen my nose?) that I try and take a gentle approach to body shape and not obsess over it which is easy to do, particularly in modern society where Heat & Closer loom from magazine shelves telling women what to look like, and leading men have herculean physiques like that of Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson. The message is simple folks - if you don't look like them, you're not up to scratch. 

Well fuck that. Look, this is my blog so let me tell you one thing to start - I am never going to look like a movie star. James Corden maybe, I suppose. But not a leading man anyway. I'm fine with this. Truthfully it's not massively important to me. My body shape has yo yo'd a lot in the past decade but I feel at a crossroads right now. Food is a funny topic for me. It's never a problem until it is. Growing up, I remember comfort eating from a very very young age. Even at age ten I vividly remember stopping on my way home to pick up 2 packs of sherbert cola for 10p each. Note - 2 packs, not one. Nothing in moderation except moderation, that's me. I was heavy throughout my teens - I don't know a figure because I never stopped on a weighing scales until I was 18 - and I always remember my Dad telling me 'if you keep eating the way you are, you'll never meet a girl'. Put bluntly he was right! Ironically it was in the aftermath of his death, when I was 17, that I began to take control of my body shape. I joined the gym and launched myself into it, going multiple times a week. I got into really good shape. I think I was about 14 stone when I finished up there in the summer of 2002. Probably sounds heavy but to me it was a low figure. I'd been about 16 stone when I started. Shortly after finishing there I moved to England for 18 months in late 2002. Out went the gym and in came the heavy, heavy drinking. It is safe to say this was the first time I learned about just how quickly your body shape can change. I was there about 5 months when my friend Ian - who wasn't afraid to be blunt - told me I'd put on 'AT LEAST two stone since I moved over'. I wasn't having this. Still, I had no scales so who knew? I didn't weigh myself again until 4 or 5 months later. Safe to say I was shocked beyond belief when I saw the scales read 17 stone. Holy shit. 3 stone in 8 months. That was a shocker. And it got worse. I went as heavy as 17.5 stone before moving home from England. 

I hovered around that mark for a couple years before I got my job in Carole Nash in 2006. Having worked in petrol stations for the prior 3 years with food all around me all day, just being in an office environment and not having the easy access to heavy foods all day knocked a stone off me. When I gave up booze early in 2007, the weight came flying off and I got back down to 14 stone. It's crucial to note that I was not always working hard in these times, going to the gym or watching what I ate. It was partially diet and exercise, but partially circumstance. If I was busy, I tended to eat less and even minor exercise - football with the lads, for example - would keep the weight off. Over the next few years after getting into a toxic relationship all my comfort eating tendencies came back in droves. Before I knew it was was 16 and a half stone again. Then in 2010, I discovered subway. Never has something so random gotten me in such good shape. I would go to subway every day on my lunch in work. Because I was having an 'indulgent' meal for my lunch, I had no real desire to have other take aways. Suddenly the weight just started falling off me. And I was encouraged so I ran with it. I joined the gym and I played football with the lads and I went for sprints after Liverpool defeats, using the anger to fuel me. By the end of 2010 I was down to 13 stone 4 pounds. This was and is the lowest I've ever seen on a scales. 

I had been hovering around 13 - 14 stone for 3 years until Carra came along. After all the health issues I tackled in 2011 I had been unable to do regular exercise for a long time but I was diligent enough with my diet to keep in that ballpark. But the past 18 months, everything has just fallen apart. Going part time in work immensely helped my health - I feel much better these days - and crucially, most importantly, the time I spend with Carra is a truly wonderful thing, I have cherished every moment. But comfort eating be damned, I have gotten FAT! I am just north of the 15 and a half stone mark. In times gone by, this wouldn't really bother me, but I'm finding it really stressful. 

Firstly, since my health problems in 2011 I've experienced back problems on and off on a consistent basis. But in the past 6 months my lower back has been pretty constantly in agony. I find carrying Carra - I know she's only 35 pounds but she is awkward as all hell - puts immense pressure on it and it's in agony. Make no mistake though, that extra 25 pounds goes straight around my stomach which adds to the pressure on my back. This bothers me for four reasons. The first is the pain. As I said it's not constant, but it's consistent and it's worsening. I can't carry her for 5 minutes without feeling it. That's a very challenging thing when you're the father of a 2 year old who wants her Dad to hold her. Secondly, I'm fucking horrendously unfit. I have always been unfit to an extent, even when I was playing football every week and going to the gym regularly. But I mean it's embarrassing. This week we have been partaking in many activities - cycling, walking, climbing, football etc. I get blown up in SECONDS. I cannot overstate this. I have the fitness of an 80 year old! Thirdly, it's embarrassing and hurts my pride that sometimes when I'll be playing with Carra, I have to tap out because I'm too tired or my back is hurting. I am 31. I am not an old man. I have no reason not to be in substantially better physical condition. And lastly - my father died aged 45 and grandfather aged 66, both of massive heart attacks. I know I am not at the stage where that is a concern, but it's not responsible for me to have all this added pressure on my heart. 

The reason I decided to write all this was to lay it all out in cold hard facts and make it real, understand it, see it in black and white. And I figured sharing it with all of you may take some of the shame out of your own 'battle of the bulge' - I think it's something we all go through - but I also thought it might shame me into action. I really genuinely do want to make changes. 

Doing so is hard, but truthfully, if it's important to me I can do it. Any young parent will tell you it's not as easy to get time to go to the gym as it is when you're single. It's hard for me when MT gets in the door at 7:30 to say 'dinner is in the microwave, I'll be back at 9:30'. It kind of feels like a mean spirited thing to do. But I know I need to. Improving my physical health is paramount to my quality of life, my mood, and the impact I have on my family. 

So it's going to be a multi pronged attack. Exercise is most important to me. If I want to get in better shape it's not going to happen by sitting on the couch starving myself. I need to get to the gym. I need to move. I need to walk, to lift, to cycle. Gym it is. When it comes to food, I need routine. When I don't have that. I snack. When I snack, it's an ugly scene. The odd cheeky burger when I drive past McD's, a sneaky ice cream at bedtime, a pack of jellies on my lunch etc etc. I have never been good with moderation so the only way I know to achieve this is just to not have things around. 

I'm not setting weight targets because really and truthfully, this isn't about how I look. It's about how I feel. But I will be blogging and updating on my progress. So watch this space!