No Pain, No Gain

On Friday afternoon I met a man called Dave, and within half an hour of his company he'd made me feel physically sick. Not because he's a pervert, or a despotic overlord, or even worse, an Arsenal fan. No, Dave is my new personal trainer.


I've decided to lead a healthier lifestyle, and my self-discipline, or rather lack of it, means I need someone like Dave to keep me motivated. Left to my own devices, I just don't drag myself to the gym often enough. So, Dave gets a considerable percentage of my monthly wages, and I get fitter and healthier. But, my God it hurts.

What made it worse was the apocalyptic hangover I had that day. It was well earned at a friend's art exhibition the evening before, where the champagne was free, and free flowing. But those last few glasses seemed like such a bad idea once Dave began the session. Or his 'diabolical reign of terror', as I prefer to call it.

I'd already come clean about the hangover. Honesty is the best policy after all. Plus, I thought (incorrectly as it turned out) it might mean I'd get a slightly easier time of it. I couldn't help but think that Dave was getting an inaccurate picture of my lifestyle. As far as he was concerned, I was a drunkard. A sub-human, who's only reason to roll out of bed each afternoon is to stuff last night's pizza in to his face while shooting virtual zombies, before finding his next fix of booze. I was determined to show him that he was only half right, by apologising whenever I could draw breath, and assuring him that I wasn't always this bad.

The text I received from Domino's pizza half way through the session did little to help my cause.

I've had three days to mull this over, and I still can't think of how on earth they got hold of my mobile number. I have never had a text from Domino's before. I've never had a text from any food outlet before. Not even a group email. Why now? When I'm desperately trying to prove I'm not the next Shane McGowan to a perfect stranger I've paid to hurt me? Of all the times.

There can only be two possibilities. The first is that I truly am a disgusting slob, and on one of my many drunken trips to the pizza house, decided it would be a good idea to sign up to their text alert service, and then woke up the next day without remembering a thing. But that can't be right. That wouldn't do at all. I mean, what if Dave's reading this? (Hi, Dave).

No, the much more likely reason for this untimely text is that The Devil himself was trying to tempt me when I was at my weakest. He doesn't want me to get healthy. He wants me to remain amongst the hoardes of the lethargic and slightly overweight, forever damned to a life of not being overly confident about taking my shirt off on the beach. The bastard. Well, get thee behind me Satan, for I shall not be tempted. You can take your admittedly very reasonable offer of 'Any Pizza, Any Size £9.99 - Delivered', and you can shove it right up your bright red arse. I'm going to do this. I could murder a Chicken Feast though. And some potato wedges. And those cookies they do are amazing.

This isn't going to be easy.