I most definitely am not.
I have to lose weight.
It’s personal. It’s official. It’s shaggin medical…
Mrs Raheny suggested that I should consult a dietician.
As if I didn’t know only too well what large quantities of delicious tasting shite I am eating and drinking.
Spending good money that could buy a feast of fillet steak and sauteed potatoes in goose fat, with a bottle or two of fine Bordeaux, on a bastard in a white coat who would rattle out the list of boring, uninspiring, bland, healthy food in frighteningly small portions that I shall ingest from now on?
No shaggin way, Jose!
I gave out such stink that I think that I may have already lost the calorific equivalent of half a Moro bar, thanks mostly to my generous use of unflattering expletives.
I’m going to swear myself back to fitness.
Youze mark my shaggin’ word!