The Bearded Belly Chronicles-Chapter Six : The Week I Told My Doughnut Devil to Do One!
In the Numbers
Starting weight: 159.7kg
Weight last Friday: 148.5kg
Weight today: 146.1kg (down 2.4kg this week, 13.6kg YTD)
This week, I fasted for 133 hours and 34 minutes. In that time, I could have heroically face planted off that bucking bull 80,140 times, which is enough for:
- The machine to file for a restraining order
- The bar to rename a drink after me ("The Flying Ian" best served with a side of regret)
I also drank 32.1 litres of water. If I had swapped that for Guinness, I would have downed 56.5 pints. Let’s just take a moment to appreciate what that actually means:
- Some Irish grandma would shake her head then pour me another out of sheer respect
- I would have attempted Riverdance, failed spectacularly, and blamed the floor
- There is a real chance I would have woken up in a field hugging a sheep and questioning my life choices
Instead, all I got was a very confused bladder and the ability to say “I am definitely hydrated” with the confidence of a man who now spends half his day in the toilet.
It does make me wonder why drinking 56.5 pints of Guinness sounds like a legendary night out, but drinking the same in water just makes people call you sensible.
The Soccer Saturday Challenge
I woke up on Saturday morning with trepidation.
The Soccer Saturday challenge awaited. The rules are simple. Head to the pub, watch the football, and wherever the first goal is scored, that is where we are going for a night out. This was our fourth time doing it, and while the buzz of not knowing where we would end up was still there, this time it was not just excitement I was feeling.
It was worry.
Not about the destination. That unpredictability is half the fun. But about food, alcohol, and how I would feel afterwards. My stomach was not just flipping from anticipation; it was doing full on loop the loops because I knew how much of a battle this was going to be.
The Build Up
As you have probably figured out by now, self control is not my strong suit when it comes to food. And when I drink? Same story.
So far in 2025, I had only had one drinking session, not because of dieting, but because of the mental impact it usually has on me. It is never just about the hangover. It is the way I struggle the whole week after, making bad decisions, feeling like crap, and battling to get back on track.
I needed a plan.
I spent the morning keeping myself busy, making sure I was not just sitting there, staring at the clock, winding myself up. By the time I got in the shower, I was 30 minutes away from picking people up. No time left to overthink. No time to spiral. Just time to get my arse in gear.
I rushed around the house like Road Runner, frantically throwing my stuff together and getting myself sorted.
Throughout the day, I made sure to drink plenty of water, knowing full well that alcohol was on the horizon. The dehydration hangover was lurking, and I was doing everything I could to keep it at bay.
By the time I was heading into town, I had already downed four litres. On the drive to our final destination, I knocked back another.
Food? Also sorted.
I broke my fast early, sitting down with the family for some lovely chicken salad wraps that Jess had kindly made. A solid start. A bit of normality before the inevitable chaos.
Kickoff – Let the Chaos Begin
We got to the pub. Soccer Saturday was on the screen. Nerves were high.
Ten seconds in, Ipswich scored. That was it, we thought. Bags packed, off we go.
But VAR had other plans.
Disallowed. The room groaned.
It did not take long though. Up popped Doncaster on the vidiprinter. And that was that.
Pints were downed, the hotel was booked, and we hit the motorway like intrepid explorers on a great adventure.
Destination: Doncaster.
The Night Unfolds
The pubs were hit, the beer was flowing, and somehow I was surprisingly relaxed about it all.
I am not sure how much we put away, and honestly I do not think I want to know.
But the night was brilliant.
A terrible six second attempt on a bucking bull.
A pulled hamstring.
A big drunken singalong to some anthems.
And finally, it was time to head back to the hotel.
But first, food.
A mixed meat kebab, stuffed with salad and drowning in hot chili sauce. Absolute perfection.
Then, recovery mode kicked in.
Two bottles of water while eating. A stumble and a trip during the plod back to the hotel, a mile long walk that felt like a bloody marathon.
Back in the room, it was time for damage control.
Paracetamol, ibuprofen, Dioralyte (the hangover’s nemesis), and another litre of water.
Bed at 2 AM.
Not a perfect strategy, but miles better than some of my past performances.
Sunday – The Aftermath
Morning came, and I faced the decision.
To eat or not to eat?
For one day and one day only, fasting took a back seat. But this was not about gorging myself. This was about having control.
I went down to breakfast.
Did I overindulge slightly? Yes.
Did I eat two small plates of a full English? Yes.
Did I drink loads of water to balance it out? Absolutely. Most importnanly do I regret it! NO!
Then, on the drive home, an idea hit me.
I wanted to take the family out for an early dinner. But where?
Then I realised. This was my opportunity.
An opportunity to face a demon that had made me anxious just weeks before.
It was off to Cosmo, all you can eat.
As soon as I walked in, I felt that doughnut shaped devil growing on my shoulder.
But this time, I shut him down.
One small plate.
A pause.
A second, reasonable portion.
One final selection. And I was done.
No out of control bingeing. No guilt.
To some, it might still sound like a lot.
But for me, it felt like I had just swung through the final obstacle on The Eliminator.
Monday – The Unexpected Win
Monday after a heavy weekend is usually a write off.
Lethargy. Brain fog. Bad decisions. Woe is me.
But not this time.
Even with Tommy up all night being sick, even with broken sleep, I still woke up and thought, I have got this.
Every screen I own has my personal mantra staring back at me.
"Be better today than you were yesterday."
And I made sure I lived by it.
I got in the car, downed more water and tablets, and headed to a big meeting in Liverpool with a CEO.
And I smashed it out of the park.
This was probably the best Day Two after drinking I have ever had
Reflections & The Week Ahead
Something really struck me this week.
The open and honest conversations I have had.
My mate, the one I mentioned in a previous blog, is finally owning his journey. He had his first counselling session and opened up to his wife for the first time.
That for me is huge. It made me swell with pride for him.
And it made me realise something.
There is no comparison between where I was six months ago and where I am now.
On Thursday evening, I sent a message to a friend who is jumping his own hurdles at the moment.
"The number on the scale this week does not define your journey. The fact that you made changes and are living a healthier lifestyle allows you to have these blowouts every now and again without them really meaning anything. One pound of fat is three and a half thousand calories. You will not have overindulged by that much over a week to really make that amount of difference. If you are slightly heavier, it could be your hydration. It could be your sleep. It could be a number of things. So do not just get caught up on that number."
These are things I have written and said for a while now. And if I am honest, I think sometimes I was just trying to convince myself to believe them.
But when I messaged him, there was a pause afterwards. And in that moment, I actually believed it.
It was not just words. It came from my heart.
I have also spoken to a few others who had a rough week last week, during my binge week, and they helped me more than they know.
This path can too often feel lonely. We see and hear about other people's successes because we all love to talk about winning.
But we do not always talk about the bad weeks.
The weeks when we struggle.
The weeks when we break.
But to me, that is part of the journey.
I am on the rollercoaster.
And if a rollercoaster was just smooth sailing, no one would scream, no one would laugh, and no one would remember the ride.
Only by embracing the full ride will my healing be complete.
Only then will I truly become a healthier, better version of myself.
The Challenge Ahead – The Pool Battle
I spoke in an earlier blog about swimming, and this week, I have two opportunities to face that demon head on.
The first? Today.
As you are reading this, I will be celebrating 14 years since I asked Jess out. She foolishly said yes, and the rest is history. We are off to a hotel with a spa, and I have packed my trunks.
Now, here is the thing. I am absolutely bricking it.
This is hands down the most sick and anxious I have felt about any hurdle I have had to overcome so far.
I keep telling myself, "I have shared pictures of myself online to friends, family, and a bunch of strangers. Surely, I can walk past a few strangers at a hotel I will never see again?"
But knowing it and believing it are two different things.
The second opportunity? Our Yes Day.
I know the kids would love to go swimming, and I know Jess will read this and want to make it happen.
And honestly?
I want to be able to push myself to do it.
But I suppose, like everyone else reading this… only time will tell.
And as for the doughnut shaped devil?
This week, I faced him head on.
I told the little fucker I am not afraid of him.
And just like Pennywise, he is shrinking and fading away.
I know he will be back.
But for now?
He is small and insignificant to me
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