Fat Camp

Tonight, I started Fat Camp, or Bfit Bootcamp as they are touting themselves. 

Ok, so now you've picked yourself back up off the floor, there is a reason for this ridiculous, drastic course of action. Yesterday, I booked a holiday to an incredible swanky hotel on the romantic Greek Island of Skopelos (where they filmed Mamma Mia) with Lovely Ben. Lovely Ben plays football twice a week and goes to the gym, so is going to look as gorgeous as ever on the beach. I'm lucky if I stand up for longer than 10 minutes twice a week, so i'm going to look like a jellyfish that has escaped the surf. Something has to be done, something urgent, something severe and something that will have me looking like a supermodel in five weeks.

Firstly, I need to decide on an outfit. After putting a full face of make-up on, making sure my false eyelashes are tightly secured and pencilling in my eyebrows, I plump (no pun intended) for a little pair of pink and black shorts, a sports bra (which makes you look thin and sporty even without exercising) and a black sports-back vest. I don't feel quite the part so I team that with my over-the-knee socks scrunched down to add a little 80's glam. Lip gloss applied and i'm off.

45 minutes before I had to be there, it started to rain. As I danced around the lounge with glee, I called them to check it had been called off. Apparently not. Ridiculous. Surely there are health and safety rules that stop you running around on mud in the rain? I'll be googling that shortly. Anyway, I turned up half an hour early as I can no longer gauge how long it takes to walk to the seafront as I don't really walk. I had considered a taxi (especially given the rain) but couldn't think where to be dropped off without being caught. I walked down there and surprisingly, it only took me 5 minutes. Obviously I didn't want to look like the keen fat kid, so I reclined on a bench to regain my composure after the strenuous walk.

Around 15 minutes before kick-off, I went over and introduced myself. They seemed like very lovely people, but ridiculously fit (which I really hate in a person) and wearing bright orange. My plan to discreetly join a bootcamp was somewhat blown by the neon orange t-shirts and equipment. Great, as if it's not bad enough that I am a lard arse, they are drawing attention to us on Hove seafront. This is already torture and I haven't done anything yet.

Another girl, Toni, turns up and i'm relieved to hear that it's her first time too. The instructor says "Hey Girls, grab that football and have a kick-around to warm up". My face said it all. Football? Are you kidding me? This is getting more and more ludicrous. As IF I am going to run around on the seafront kicking a football??? Toni grabs the ball and kicks it to me so I feel pressured to join in. I shimmy around, leisurely kicking the ball as I flick my hair and try to look all "Check Me Out in the Sunshine just Chillin' with my Crew". 

After five minutes, I query how long we are expected to kick this ball around. He laughs and says just keep going until everyone arrives. I'm already rolling my eyes. This is utterly ludicrous.

The others turn up and we begin. 

I'd just like to dispel a few myths at this point:

Once you go, you will enjoy it. No, I fucking hated it. Every minute.

When you feel the burn, you will know it's working and you'll want to go back. No, the pain was so bad that I wretched and I am going back because I have NO choice.

After a few sessions, this will become addictive. Are you smoking crack? Don't be so bloody ridiculous, this is HELL.

The best things about Fat Camp:

- The end.

- The fact that when I am a supermodel I won't have to go any more.

- It's cheaper than diet tablets.

- It's delaying me having to swallow a tapeworm to lose weight (yes you can, yes it works and yes I would).

So, for one hour, we run, box, do press-ups, run again, do squats, do sit-ups, run again ad infinitum (google it). I say FUCK every 2 minutes. I swear at the other people, at the instructor, at anyone who will listen. I go purple, I can't breath and i'm wretching. In desperation, I pull the epilepsy card. I tell the instructor I have epilepsy and he says "Ok, if you have a fit, i'll put a jumper under your head". FUCK. I hate him.

The outcome: I didn't stop for the whole hour. I got through it. I hated it. My hands STINK from the disgusting sweaty boxing gloves and i'm appalled (which I told the instructor and suggested that he wears them on his feet at home to force us to buy our own in a marketing ploy). I don't feel better after. If you get addicted to this, you need to see a psycho-therapist. I'm going back tomorrow.

Greece, I'll see you when i'm thin. Or die trying. I will NOT be beaten.