Over indulgence

I may have overdone it. Its just, well, chocolate goes really well with red wine. And turkey is so moreish. And Roses. And ice cream is a really good digestivo. But I trained hard over the holiday. It wasn't 'til the New Year that I could smell bacon when I sweated, with a hint of berries and tannins from the Rioja. And then Christmas day's turkey crown had to leave my system but it was breach. Diet pills, laxatives. They aren't worth a s**t. The best way to stop your swerve and get back onto the straight and narrow is to train harder and jettison the bad stuff. We are all nice people. We fill our houses with more temptations than a harem for friends and families and wayward visitors. But when half of the stuff is still left because your Aunty Nuala is lactose intolerant, Uncle Ignatious is diabetic, in fact it seems as if Christ in the crib will grow to be coeliac, we are all in trouble. And we don't like waste, do we? All that nasty stuff in January can't be given away, so it wends it's way through our alimentary canals and barges it's way out in time for the tough stuff training of January. I have no intention of racing in 2017, and judging by the calories I consumed over this Christmas, I'll be Elvis, dead on a toilet seat by this time next year. In the meantime, I have to work on the cellulite that's on my cellulite. *************************************************************************************************************************************** Training is going well and the reps are coming good when you can taste the iron tang of blood in the back of your throat. But It has been followed by the bilious after taste of quality street. Some work still to go. However, I have saved a fortune on chamois cream now that I'm secreting turkey fat at such a level that the harder I train the more comfortable my ass gets. Bonus! My pores are working overtime, letting out the produce of a small corner of Bordeaux. A lot has come out. Mer-lot. Coffee is good. Ups the heart-rate, promotes the burn. Along with snatched flat whites when the wife ain't watching, my sister bought me some Nespresso pods that were obviously roasted in Chernobyl. Campag may go to eleven, as the amps in Spinal Tap did, but these pods go to strength guide 12! Twelve for god's sake! So I have the shakes. And I don't sleep much. And if I wake in the early hours I go through endless crazy crap in my head. And Tabata sessions. And then I drift into the arms of Morpheus just before the alarm buzzes and I think I'm Richard Virenque waking to get my heart-rate up after another fleche of EPO. But really I'm just Joe Rossiter and I haven't slept coz I'm strung out on Caffeine and stress.****************************************************************************************************************************** And I hit the fruit and salads. Love bananas. But beetroot juice feels like the taste you get when you have crashed in the opening kilometre of the Des Hanlon [circa 2001] because a junior slipped his gears in front of you and you cop a mouthful of earth from the verge. It may raise your Nitric Oxide levels but it takes some getting used to. The fact that it looks like bottled blood in your fridge DOES give it an uber-cool factor though! Lettuce is not for human consumption. Onions empty a room. Eight kilos of salad is the equivalent in filling you up as two dry crackers. And how can you avoid cheese? Cheese is proof even to atheists that god loves us! A lock on the fridge {with a picture of David Gest to make it tamper proof} is the only answer. Awe hell, lets just get out there and leave the trans-fat trail for others to follow.