When Diets Stop Making Sense

Around 1984 Talking Heads released a movie of a concert called Stop Making Sense. It is even today one of the greatest music videos ever.

A centerpiece of this concept was the ‘big suit’, which got larger and larger with the passing of each song being performed by David Byrne and his band mates.

Eventually, it all but drowns him.

That’s pretty much the stage I’m reaching now with my own clobber.

And now there’s nothing else for it.

I’ll have to get a new suit.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like buying new clothes.

But this is a particular task I’d hoped to put off for a while yet given that whatever my next purchase is, it’ll be pretty much disposable, as long as I keep losing the weight properly as is planned.

The risk of a wardrobe malfunction bound to cause red faces, most likely mine, is growing more and more inevitable.

My trousers could end up inadvertently around my ankles. It’s likely I’ll either be left embarrassed, slapped around the coupon or in jail.

Maybe even all three.

For the past few weeks I’ve made do with the baggy look, put an extra notch or two in my belt, and even tolerated the friendly barbs of fun poked at me by mates laughing at my now oversized overcoat.

However while good natured banter is for laughing, it’s proving increasingly difficult to get away with in a professional capacity.

Take the Scottish Parliament. I’m a fairly frequent flyer there in my role as a journalist.

Among the various security checks you undergo before being admitted entry is going through a scanner.

In order to do this successfully, you need to lose various items as if an airport – such as your watch, mobile phone and yes, belt.

Ordinarily this isn’t much of an issue.

Except when it’s the only thing keeping your dignity in place.

But rules are rules so once, even twice a week in recent times off I’ve marched, clutching my waistband for all it’s worth, praying that they don’t ask to frisk me at the same time.

The security team know what’s going on now and crack a good humoured smile.

I’m pretty sure they may even be running a book with odds on what day the fat bloke will flash the nation’s politicians.

Yet in forking out for a new suit or two? While it may save on short term blushes, I know I’m only going to have to go through the same process again soon after.

Perhaps Slaters, Crombie or Boss will take pity on us and invite the Two Fat Laddies in for a fitting at their Edinburgh stores – their bit for the cause.

Most likely I’ll hand over a few hundred quid for some clobber I know will slip away from me again soon enough.

But on the up side, it means I’m literally inching my way towards the final target.

So, suits you sir? Aye, go on then.

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One Response to When Diets Stop Making Sense

  1. Charley says:

    What about going to a charity shop for the interim suit?

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