Last October, I decided to have another shot at eradicating my beer belly. It is a belly that has been with me my whole life, long before the first beer ever crossed my lips. Even when relatively thin, there has always been a protuberance in my midriff. Always a barrel, never a six-pack.
With nine months before my 40th birthday I saw this as a kind of reverse pregnancy. In three quarters of a year my fecund bump would diminish and then disappear. My baby made of crisps and cakes who refused to leave the man-womb because of the constant topping up with chocolate and booze, would wither and die. And I would be a new man.
Because I believe I am defined by my belly. It means I am cuddly and unthreatening. Not that I necessarily want to be threatening, but I wouldn’t mind if people just thought I might be dangerous, just for a second. But because of my stomach I am just a bear, a clown no challenge to the Alpha Male, never the kind of man who would drive women into a frenzy, by whipping off my top and repairing a lift, while they drank diet pop. Not that a belly precludes success with the opposite sex. There seem to be plenty of women who like a paunch – one ex-girlfriend pleaded with me not to lose weight, saying my stomach was the best thing about me – it must surely be because it stands for safety and comfort. They’ve got themselves a crying, talking, farting, walking, living teddy bear.
After four months, I had lost two stone. My face was thin, my muscles defined, but my belly, whilst a mole-hill rather than a mountain, was still there. It refused to go how ever little fuel I gave it and whatever physical exertions I put it through. But I persisted and slowly and steadily the battle was being won. I was going to be a new man. Then came the break up of a relationship and a two month tour, with the temptations of garage-bought pasties and after-show Guinness and all the hard work was undone.
My stomach returned to its former proportions and now, less than a month from the start of my fifth decade I have had to either concede defeat or just pay a surgeon to Hoover out my insides or tie my intestines in a knot.
And I realise that the person who gets the most security from my belly is in fact me. When I get close to not having it around me, a literal comfort zone, I panic and crack open the Monster Munch. Like all the best things in the world I love and hate it in equal measure.
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