If I’m Still Alive Tomorrow, I’m Going on a Serious Health Kick

The problem with time is uncertainty, and the problem with food is it fucks you up

Put the two together, and what have you got?

Probable death.

Or, at the very least, some kind of diabetes or similar.

It creeps up on ya, doesn’t it?

Look, I know if you’re an everyday gym kind of person, you are shaking your head right now while ya skull yer vanilla smoothie and do a few more kettlebell lifts with your testicles (or equivalent).

I’m not like that. Nor do I want to be. But I do want to live, and I don’t want to feel like a fat bastard.

I know what you are thinking:

You can't say that, Frank. It’s inappropriate to make fat jokes.

Well consider this:

Fuck you.

Anyhoo, I’m left wondering why our desire to stuff our pieholes with chocolate and Chinese food overrides the desire to be a healthy individual.

I’m a fast eater. Someone said it might be because when you have a few siblings, you learn to compete for food.

That sounds a bit over the top to me. I didn’t grow up as a Cheetah competing for the brown meat on the antelope. We had enough to eat.

It seems like we are always looking for a psychological answer to these things.

That’s what we do as humans. It’s like asking the question:

Why does it hurt when you get punched in the gonads?

I’m sure someone has done a thesis on it, but the truth is, it’s a fist — in thy gonads — it just fucking hurts okay?

Same with food. Why do we do it to ourselves?

Cos, that shit tastes good. It’s that simple. Nothing to do with emotional trauma or anything. It’s just god damn delicious.

• Sure, I know bacon contains nitrates that harden the arteries.

• I know that sugar freaks the insulin levels out.

• I know that too much caffeine makes my heart drop a beat like Carl Cox.

• I KNOW that I can’t drink beer because yeast to me is like Saddam Hussein to George Bush Jr — a decent enough scapegoat with a bad enough track record to blame everything on.

Still, we eat on because a moment on the lips is worth a lifetime of pericardial fat around the heart.

Or so, it would seem.

Anyway, I’ve decided to eat more fish.

Everyone rants on about fish nowadays don't they? Omega three, fish oil, Mediterranean crispy skin salmon, lemon up the arse barramundi and all that.

I’ve never been that into it personally. The major issue for me is that it smells like fish (bizarrely). But, what the hell, yeah, I’m in. If it’s good enough for the penguins, it’s good enough for me, I say.

Ya don’t see too many penguins down Seven Eleven at 2 am buying Gaviscon so they must be doing alright.

On the subject of Gaviscon, I was checking out walking canes the other day. I like the idea of a nice walking stick with a crocs head or something. My wife suggested I get one that I can keep booze in. I don't know why she said that. She knows whiskey turns my stomach into the Pit of Hades. I said I would probably just keep a stash of Gaviscon in there.

My wife also suggested I drink juice.

Not nice juice but shitty green juice with kale and ginger in it. It sounds like a pint of reflux to me, but I said I would give it a go anyway.

So here we go from tomorrow (If I’m still on this plane) — fish and juice.

I’ll probably eat other stuff too, like quinoa and sweet potato and Brazil nuts, that kind of crap.

I might even do some push-ups.

All because I don't wanna die. Pretty sad, really — death is the only real great adventure, right?

Wish me luck