It isn’t. It is morbidly obese. I know that and I am still embarrassed I let my body get in this condition. But it is three pounds better than last week.

The workouts this week have been frequent and intense. In total I’ve been six times in the gym this week – four circuit training sessions at Lochend Amateur Boxing Club plus two weekend sessions at Virgin Active. If you are really fussed for seeing how anal I am about recording the full details you can view the full details of the workouts on my exercise tracker.

But despite all the workouts I was still hesitant to get on the scales this weekend. I made sure I squeezed two more gym sessions in before I stepped on, purely because I would have been majorly pissed off If I had stayed above 19 stone.

Taking a step back from it, three pounds is pretty good. That’s bigger than a bag of spuds, it’s half a baby….a decent sized trout. In a week. It’s..alright.

But the real victory is that when I input the new weight on the grid I’m (give or take half a pound) right back on track.

I knew I looked like a dick, but so what? I didn’t know any of these people, and what should I care if they giggled at a fat, middle-aged man in an outsize version of a boxer’s sweat suit puffing away on a cross trainer?

All I know is that it felt like the sweat suit worked, and I didn’t kill myself using it.

I confess that when I walked from the changing room at the Virgin Active gym, the polyester of my black shiny suit crinkling audibly as I went, there was a tiny voice at the back of my head that said, ‘what are you doing, you arse? look at the state of you!’

But gyms are a great leveller. Everybody, stick thin or gargantuan, loses whatever veneer they had when those first beads of sweat start to form.

After 70 minutes in the sweat suit I was drookit with perspiration and when I took it off…well, you really don’t need to know.

All in all it has been another pretty good week for me. I have been focused again on Two Fat Laddies, and I’ve even managed a rare proper weights session in among trips to Lochend Amateur Boxing Club and the regular cardiovascular training.

But more importantly my partner in crime Shaun seems to have rekindled his own weight loss quest with a real bang. Reading about bis efforts on our twitter account has spurred me on.

So while I am a little disappointed with today’s results I will take them all the same.

Two pounds off in the five days since I last weighed myself is not a bad return all told.

A Ricky Hatton sweat suit.

Sweaty mess: My sauna suit has arrived

The Amazon box was sitting on the sideboard when I got in from work last night and I fell upon the parcel like a kid at Christmas, immediately taking my new outfit to the bathroom to try it on.

I am now the owner of a Ricky Hatton sweat suit.

When I triumphantly showed the new look to my missus she bit her bottom lip. My six-year-old was less reticent.

“You look like a fat Spiderman,” she said.

Now you can laugh it up all you like, but it was Terry McCormack, the boss down at Lochend Amateur Boxing Club who suggested it (albeit maybe more as a joke than a real idea) as he watched me pech my way through another circuit training session.

The sweat suits do what they say on the tin, they are essentially bin bags with arms and legs – some folk actually use bin bags instead – and they massively increase the amount you sweat when you do a workout. They have elasticated cuffs which, I am reliably informed, bulge with the pools of accumulated sweat after half an hour of a good workout. Nice.

I have read up on them and yes, there is a fair amount of debate as to whether they cause more harm than good n the long term, given that the quick weight loss is mostly water rather than fat, and God alone knows Ricky Hatton himself hasn’t been without his problems when it comes to keeping the flab off.

The fighters down at Lochend regularly use sweat suits in the run up to fights to crash weight off quickly. There are stories of guys – really fit guys – losing four or five pounds in the space of a few days. Now, I am not a fighter, and I don’t want to crash any weight off at all, but the idea of raising my calorie burn while I workout – and crucially at the same time making sure I replace lost electrolytes and fluids – is one I quite like the sound of.

I know my diet is still my main weakness (the photos of everything I have eaten in May are here for all to see) but it is improving all the time, and I am happy with the effort I have been putting in recently. I just think the sweat suit will give the old weight loss a nudge in the right direction.

I have taken the plunge and taken Terry’s advice but I’m not so thick-skinned that i’ll be wearing it down the boxing club just yet. The first tryout is tonight, and I think I’ll confine that to my own bedroom…and the rowing machine at the end of the bed.

After all of last week’s efforts I was hoping for a much better return.

The chart doesn’t lie though. A measly pound off since I last weighed myself.

Now I am perfectly happy to admit that my diet is still a problem (as my food photos here make it pretty clear) but my workrate of late has been good. The seven sessions in the gym last week should have translated to a better result.

I had hoped for more.

But, after reading Shaun’s last post I suppose I should be more positive about things. He appears to be where I was at a few months/weeks ago. He has finally admitted to himself what I, and I suppose others, had noticed for a while, that he was getting bigger and bigger again.

So now I find myself in the highly unlikely position of being the half of the Two Fat Laddies giving encouragement and hope to the other.

I am not sure if Shaun has turned a corner, I hope so, but if I can plough on and get my own results, and if that helps him in any way, so much the better.

I have a feeling thing are about to improve for both of us.

It’s a long time since I have been able to say that.

The last week has been great for me.

Four circuit training sessions at Lochend Amateur Boxing Club on the bounce from Monday through to Thursday, an hour in the gym on Friday evening and a swim, back to the boxing club on Saturday, all rounded off by a good hour in the gym yesterday morning.

All told, a few thousand calories burned.

There have been other highlights – supportive comments of family, colleagues and neighbours; the fact that shirts and trousers which were out of bounds are (as long as I don’t do anything rash such as sitting down) fair game again; and a general sense of feeling better.

But mostly I reckon I am getting my Mojo from the boxing club.

It has been a while since Shaun and I first darkened the doors of Terry McCormack’s gym.

It can be a daunting environment for the newbie, especially a fat one…and the workouts are really really hard, even for anyone in great shape, but the positive energy you get from the slightest nod from a fellow sufferer or a roar of ‘come on’ from a training partner you’ve never met can make the difference.

Wednesday’s session at Lochend was as hard a 60-minute workout as I think I’ve endured this year, but when I knew I’d got through it, sodden with sweat, I felt fabulous. Light-headed and on the verge of vomiting, but fabulous nonetheless.

And It’s almost embarrassing to recount how chuffed I was when Trainer Terry looked me up n down and said ‘it’s fair comin off you’ as I peched my way though that workout. He suggested I invest in a sweat suit to keep the fat burning going, and I may just do that this week…if I can find one big enough.

But despite all the work i’m still genuinely afraid to get on the scales for fear they’ll show I’m still way off target.

It is irrational, it’s not the honesty I said I would display this year and I know I need to gauge progress against effort If I am going to fulfil the goals, but if I were to read, for example, that I’d put weight on since the last time I checked, I might be inclined to jack the whole gig in.

Of how I’m once again truly a Fat Laddie.

I could blame the knee injury, after all that’s when it began last November. I could blame pressures of work, struggle with time, how not getting a lift from Iain makes it hard – too hard – to get to boxing, of this constant cold.

The only thing I can truly blame is myself. My good old self indulgent lazy bastard self. And yes, I do feel a little vile and more than a little embarrassed.

But the difference between then and now is I didn’t care. I’ve enjoyed drinking red wine again, pints with my mates, the odd iced treat. The consequences are about three stone on.

The bulk of this has been booze. I know this because my food diet, as such, is still relatively healthy. I still choose fruit over fudge, fresh veg over fries, but recently began to hanker after a roll n bacon of a morning.

And that’s why I’m back on the wagon. Tonight I go out with two old friends from school for a few drinks and an Italian, and it will be my last hurrah for a month at least. Summertime is just around the corner, after all.

The good news for me is that I’m still in better nick that when we first started this challenge.. Two years ago when we said we’d tell you the good, the bad and the ugly. That is something, at least.

I’m still a collar size less than at the start, but one more at 17 than I’d reached. My general fitness remains higher. My gut needs all the tlc I can muster. I reckon three months of dedicated workouts.

And I’m looking forward to it. Which is the bizarre thing about this. All along these past few months I’ve gone for the odd session at Lochend, the wee cycle here and there, just ticking over if you will.

It’s as if I’ve been working up to this for some mad, bad reason.

What has been heartening has been seeing Iain get stuck in and the recent benefits you see in the way he looks. I’ll confess, I thought he might give up like he’s done so often in the past. I can’t help but be proud at his recent endeavours.

I hope he keeps it up, because it’s working for him. It might also mean we have a chance to find a way back to doing some challenges together.

That’s drifted off. I’m not sure why. I think lifestyles, time and living in different city’s don’t help, but we should do some plotting.

A day off yesterday and I went for a cycle. Not far but over a few good hills, all in all about 7.5k.

The journey took me to the local Hooked on Cycling bike shop. I’m looking at a touring bike, principally for this year’s freshnlo Pedal for Scotland, but also because I fancy heading off for the odd weekend with my tent.

I still fondly remember our ride around Harris. It was so beautiful words fail me. I know that when I watch the new BBC show Hebrides from Monday, the wanderlust will inspire me to get going on two wheels.

The cycle also took me to Bathgate’s Xcite leisure centre. It’s the other side of town to where I live, which has been my excuse for never going. It’s also run by West Lothian Council and in my view, seemed awfy pricey.

More fool me. It’s a modern purpose built thing of wonder. Well kitted out and spacious gym, studios with a host of classes, pool, sauna, steam room. It cost me less than a fiver to get in.

It was my first swim since having to give up my lessons. I’ll confess to being more than a little nervous. About how I’d do, about being half naked, of being laughed at and kicked out for my pathetic attempts.

But marvellously I picked up where I left off. I still need plenty practice but I was swimming. Half lengths, sure, but still progress. Even better I actually spent more time in the pool than the sauna.

Today I’m going to try for a run. Tomorrow, well that’s another day. But we’ve all got to start somewhere, right?

These last few weeks have been amazing.

The road trip home to Lewis for our school reunion was everything I hoped it would be and much more beside.

From the very beginning it played out more beautifully than I could have dreamed, the decision to take the long way home, cutting across the middle of Scotland and skirting up the Western edge, vindicated by stunning views, open roads and clear skies.

There are no words to adequately describe the breathtaking glory of the West Coast of Scotland on a clear Spring day. If you’ve driven the road, if you’ve sailed it’s sea lochs, if you’re lucky enough to live there, you’ll know, if you haven’t yet been, you really should.

In that weekend crammed with special little moments the one I think I’ll treasure most was sitting in the corner of McNeill’s bar in Stornoway in the middle of a Saturday afternoon just shooting the breeze with a handful of guys I went to school with more than 20 years ago. We were comfortable, content, and crying with laughter.

I came away from Lewis tired, emotional but happy.

That weekend bounced quickly into another happy time the next weekend, the wedding of our dear friend Joan and her man Ross.

Joan looked beautiful as she took to the dancefloor to celebrate, and I was surrounded by friends and my own family again.

The next weekend saw our little girl on stage singing in the Edinburgh Mod, and our little boy’s birthday party the next day. Both cockle-warming moments.

Not content with all that, last weekend was another epic road trip, this time to the mountains.

The journey with former Daily Record colleagues to the Arrochar Alps to climb Ben Narnain was stunningly good fun, and again I found myself crying with laughter in the company of people I really like.

Which brings us up to speed. This weekend my wife’s brother is here, saying goodbye before he heads home to Brazil, and his life there. The pews round the dining table have been full, like the glasses, and the air thick with conversation and the sound of children.

It has been a few weeks, a few months even, which have brought much much joy.

It’s not that I’ve been shirking Two Fat Laddies, but my eye has been off the ball.

I’m carrying too much beef, of course, still, but progress is still pretty good. I’m behind schedule but three sessions at the boxing club last week after the aching limbs of the mountain have got me mentally back on track at least.

So now the fun is over and the horizon now is clear of all ‘events’ to distract me from the goal of Two Fat Laddies.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage double gym sessions every day, but the plan is to squeeze in visits before work and get to boxing club in the evenings at least three times a week.

And now I’ve been bitten (again) with bagging a Munro I might get in to that too.

Happy days.

We do.

Not staring or anything, just a glance here or there.

I’ve been spending a fair amount of time of late in gyms – three gyms to be exact, one in Glasgow and two in Edinburgh. It is difficult not to check out human bodies when they are so…in your face.

The forms on show in all three changing rooms vary widely. There are lardies like me in all three, there are pumped up muscle men in Glasgow, slim Jim runners and beefier rugger buggers in Edinburgh, and lots of wiry whippet-like boxers in the boxing club.

I get waves of self-consciousness from time to time in all three, usually when I catch an unexpected sight of myself in a mirror next to one of these types, but the more time I spend in these joints not only does my body-shape improve, but I also realise more that everyone is doing their own thing, at their own pace, finding their own way. I am rarely now the lardiest lad in the room. And if I am, so what?

When I see the different body shapes in the changing rooms – fine specimens of men with Johnny Weissmuller bodies – it does make me wonder what I really want out of this year. A six pack? Out of the question. Massive guns? Not really bothered.

My goals (five stone aside) are pretty modest. A waist would be nice, and to lose the pot that still sticks out in front of me. Oh aye, and that sticky out vein that fit people have on their bicep? That would be nice, ta.

Anything else will be clover.

Real life got in the way of the quest to lose the full stone in the month before this weekend’s school reunion – but it is still coming off me. I am on track.

Since I last wrote I have been to Paris and Ireland for wildly different reasons, and tomorrow I’m driving home to Lewis for what I hope will be a memorable weekend.

The trips abroad – to Paris for rugby and to Ireland to scatter the ashes of my late mother-in-law’s husband – were blips in the schedule, I ate and drank way more than I should on both weekends but I always knew I would, and both were written off (the full horror is here in my food photo diary) before I set off. But by the same token neither were as crazy as I feared they might be. On both nights in Ireland I was in my bed by the back of 10pm. That is unheard of. I am getting too old for proper all night sessions.

The gym workouts have been getting better too, and I am really mixing up cardio with resistance workouts. In just two workouts this week I feel like I have made a measurable improvement in my body.

The supportive comments from friends and family have been great.

March then is nearly out the way. There are no obstacles, no diversions on the horizon now between now and the Summer to make me stray from the path. April will be about taking control of my diet properly. It is improving all the time but if I step it up the gains will be immediate.

I am driving home to Lewis tomorrow and I am taking my gym kit with me. Two good sessions in the excellent Isle of Lewis sports centre on Friday and Saturday will cap off another strong week. I may even take the (still tight) Fred Perry shirts as an incentive.

Bring on April.

The nights are lengthening, there are crocuses by the side of the road, a hint of warmth in the air. It will be Easter in no time at all.

It also means we need to get our arses properly in gear this month if we are to have any hope of shifting the blubber in 2013.

Despite the setback of a disappointing weigh in yesterday (I didn’t lose a pound on the previous week) I am still confident I am heading in the right direction. I look and feel better as every week passes, and while I might not have lost weight last week I can feel small changes in my body.

But this month has got two big milestones which have the potential, on the one hand, to be both incentives to lose a few pounds…and excuses for putting them back on.

This time in a fortnight I will be in Paris for the rugby. Who knows, if the cards fall properly and Scotland beat Wales between now and then, and if England somehow get a bloody nose on the last day of the Six Nations….well, I could be standing in the Stade de France watching Scotland play to win the tournament. Imagine that. And if not, who cares? I will be with family and friends again.

The Paris weekend with its groaning tables and full glasses has the potential to massively derail 2FL for me for at least a week if I let it. I’m not sure what my coping strategy should be if I’m honest.

The other milestone in March is our school reunion on the last weekend of the month. To say this is A Big Deal (to those who care) is to massively underestimate it.

The Isle of Lewis school reunion is a strange event. It is not actually a reunion for one school at all, but for anyone on the same school year from anywhere across the island. Lewis has an idiosyncratic system where areas of the island outside the town have their own secondary schools educating teenagers for the first two years of secondary school. After that, in my day, pupils could either go to Stornoway to the Nicolson Institute or the more vocationally-orientated Lewis Castle School to finish off.

The result of all of this is that small groups, especially those from outside of town, remained close right the way through school, and many of those friendships forged in villages and small local schools have lasted down the ages. If you sprinkle a bit of Facebook into this already strong social network then we all know everything about all our classmates.

Over the years the reunion has become a major social event in the island calendar bringing back all those who turn 40 for two nights of carousing and reminiscing.

People are coming from all corners of the world for our gathering, I know my mate Lanky is flying over from Houston for it, because there is an unspoken understanding that it is a one off, there won’t be another opportunity like it for us in our lifetime.

There will probably be somewhere approaching 200 attending, and the talk on the excitement on the forums has been building for months. A peripheral community on the edge of Europe like Lewis has long ago gotten used to losing its young. To see so may returning at the one time, and for happy reasons, is, I suppose, something to celebrate.

I had hoped to take the family up but my wife made it clear her idea of fun really isn’t watching me get dewey-eyed and pished and then being asked to drive me home at three in the morning.

There will be people there I haven’t seen in 20 years, and doubtless we have all changed one way or the other, but I think I must have put on around seven or eight stone since I was 18. There is no escaping it and, whether I like it or not, my weight will be the one big difference some folk notice in me.

The people you know and love, your ain folk, are usually the ones to tell you things straight so I fully expect a few ‘Jesus Christ man, look at the size of you’ comments.

I can live with any ribbing about size as long as I feel I have put in a good effort between now and then in the workout and diet department. If I’m honest I don’t feel like a 20 stone man at the moment, I am doing 5-6 big big workouts a week now which would tax most mates I know, I’m pushing harder and feeling better than many people half my weight.

The focus then, is to try to lose as close to a stone as I can before I get on the boat for home. Fourteen pounds in four weeks, with a rugby weekend plopped bang in the middle, is a pretty tall order, but it is worth aiming for now, still close to the beginning of the year.

If I can fit in to one of the snazzy Fred Perry shirts hanging unloved and unused in the wardrobe I may even bust a few celebratory moves along with all the other 40 year-olds rolling back the years.