It seems fated that I am to remain a fat knacker. You see, dear reader, I have once again succumbed to the deadly man flu, and in my mind it's no coincidence that I've been struck down by it right at the start of national obesity week.

This coming after I fell off the wagon in spectacular fashion during my birthday celebrations, thanks in no small part, to my niece's home-made chocolate cake which seemed to contain a weeks worth of calorific content in each bite. I won't even detail the amount of ale I consumed or the fact that the return of the man-flu is probably of my own making having passed out on my mates couch with just a towel over me for warmth.

Like Rob's sofa there is little comfort to be taken from this weekend, particularly in being part of the 66% of the population that are classed as obese. For motivation I have now taken to carrying around in my wallet pictures of me as a super-slim 19 year old. The pictures have a dual purpose. Not only do they remind me of what I can aspire towards but they also prove useful in countering any jibes by showing any doubters that my favourite musical instrument at school wasn't actually the dinner bell.

So, back on the wagon I go, and there I intend to stay. The only thing from this weekend's shennanigans that I intend to carry on consuming is the guilt that I'd undone a lot of the hard work I've put in so far. I'll concede this week to Helen but like a good old fatty I'll be bouncing back. Only I aim to roll back the years as opposed to the flab.