Before we begin

These days, everyone thinks they're fat. Well, two things to keep in mind. Number one, in all probability, you're not as fat as you think you are, so shut the Hell up and enjoy your life.

And number two, you think you're fat, you gotta bring it on, cos I am 5 ft 6 and 290 pounds, alright, so let's talk. You're not that fat? Life is good, eat another piece of cake, go out, get laid, stop worrying. See point number one and lather, rinse, repeat.

Me? I'm really fat. I mean Santa Claus, Prince Regent, Henry VIII and then some fat. I'm talking medical emergency, slap a health warning on that ass fat. So fat, in fact, that the last time I saw my doctor, he said "Wow, I don't say this often, but man, you should really think about a gastric sleeve."

Now, either my doctor's on drugs, which, since he's an NHS doctor is not out of the question, or this name is very misleading. A gastric sleeve, according to my doc, isn't a sleeve at all. It's an operation where they basically cut away half your stomach, to stop you eating anywhere near what you're used to, and essentially forcing your weight down before your heart explodes, your lungs cave in, your joints turn to dust and you die.

All in all, it was a cheerful meeting.

I gave it some thought. Cutting away half your stomach is a pretty drastic measure, and it's not something you should consider unless there's a real medical danger to you if you don't do it. That's the stage I'm at.

And I was going to go through with it. I really was. But when it came to it, some...seed, some hard, bitter, stubborn-as-a-troll little seed in my nature just wouldn't let me do it just yet. Not until I was sure I'd tried every other thing I could try. Because here's the thing - I'm a Type 2 diabetic, and I have been for 16 years. And waaaay back at the start, the doctors told me that basically, if I lost a whole lot of weight, I could 'cure' myself of the condition. Now it's 16 years on, I'm heavier than ever, and the diabetes is really starting to play. It's given me some retinopathy in my left eye, it's tinkering with the idea of kicking me in the kidneys, and late last year, I had what evvverybody thought was a heart attack. As it turned out, it wasn't a heart attack, it was tachycardia, brought on by the diabetes, maintained by the weight. So there's a reality to the idea of me eating myself to death.

And that pisses me off. I hate that, because I take pride in my own rationality, and it's irrational to eat yourself to what, given my otherwise good state of health, it would be fair to call an early death.

So I'm embarking on a year-long quest of stubbornness, grueling effort and in all probability, hunger, to try and take myself out of the danger zone and escape the need to go under the knife. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I won't, and if I don't, I'll still have the option of going for the surgery. But at least then I'll know, in my heart of hearts, that it'll be medically necessary, and that I will have tried everything else first.

So why the blog? Honestly? Because it's what we do now. We chronicle our every waking thought like it's a work of genius, and we put it out there for the whole world to see, if the world can freaking find it of course. Time was, people used to write diaries to get them through things like this. They did the job, they were cathartic, but they were also private, and you could throw them on the fire at the end if you wanted to. Nowadays, we blog. Hence the blog. It's not really meant as a work of art, it's basically a diary of everything involved in this quest for non-surgical survival. Like it, don't like it, it doesn't really matter. If it helps other fat fucks at all, then that's a bonus.

So what else do you need to know. Well, I turn 40 this year, so that'll be fun. The height and weight you've got. My name's Tony, and I'm married to a beautiful American called Donna, who prefers to be known as d (yep, lower case), and who loves to cook (so no challenge there then!) and who has the temerity to have lost 35 pounds recently. I work as the editor at a vaguely scientific learned institute in London, England. I'm diabetic, and I'm going to start testing my blood again daily when this project really kicks in - which it does on March 1st, 2011.

I figure I can do it more precisely that way - 1st March-1st March. Doctors tell me that it's only really 'safe' to lose 2 pounds a week. 52 weeks, at 2 pounds a week, equals 104 pounds, or near-as-dammit 7.5 stone, for my fellow Brits. If I can lose that sort of weight in a year, according to the NHS, I'll still be classified as overweight, but I'll have come back from the brink of morbid obesity, traveled through ordinary, lardass obesity, and into 'just' overweight territory - I'll also be just around 28 pounds short of my alleged ideal weight for my age and height.

So come along if you want to, as I try to become the disappearing man. Who knows, we might all learn a little something as we go.