The Sugar-Blood Diaries: The Tallywhacker Effect

According to my latest weigh in, i’m nearly a stone lighter. Also, my blood sugar has dropped to 4.6. I’m winning!

It’s great to know that the changes which I have made are getting this sugaritis of mine under control. Especially as I have recently become aware of some of the complications which can arise from diabetes.

You see, dear reader, it turns out that having cake in your veins can cause or exacerbate all sorts of other delightful conditions and health issues, some of which are quite unpleasant. Here’s a few of the things i’m hoping won’t happen to this wreck of a thing that I call Host Body.

1) Shitty eyes.

Everyone in my family wears glasses. Shitty eyes are, it seems, a genetic trait of the McLellan clan. The weird thing is, I somehow avoided it. I’ve spent years telling people that my eyes are about the only part that works.

I really like them, too. Not aesthetically speaking, although I have been told they’re mighty purdy, but because they allow me to indulge in my three favourite pastimes. Reading, gaming and watching my expansive DVD collection. I am a very visual person.

So, the prospect of diabetes wrecking my peepers has me a tad nervous, but it’s something to watch out for. Diabetic eye disease is a collective term for an assortment of conditions which can effect we sugar-blooded folk, including cataract and glaucoma.

I have my first diabetic retinopathy screening coming up at the end of May and i’m dreading the results, but i’m also keen to get it done and dusted and see whether there’s a problem and what can be done about it.

In fact, here’s a spot of unsolicited advice, folks. We, as a race, are bloody stupid. We will put off seeking medical advice because we don’t want to be told there’s something wrong with us. Well, this may shock you but just because you don’t know there’s a carnivorous brain-weevil chewing it’s way through your cerebral cortex, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Get to the doctors, get it diagnosed, get it dealt with. Don’t put it off!

2) Crappy nerves

When I went for my first appointment with the diabetes nurse, she mentioned that she would need to check my feet for nerve damage. We’ve put it off for now.

Don’t you look at me in the way i’m imagining you’d look at me if you were looking at me, you arse. I know that goes against my advice from above, but allow me to explain.

My feet are a bloody mess of dead spots, tingly bits, scar tissue and odd, bumpy things. If you don’t know why, you can read this if you’re arsed. The point is, if my feet need checking, i’ll get them checked, but I reckon i’ll just confuse the hell out of the medical world with the results. The nurse and I agreed that they’ll need checking sometime soon, but it’s not going to hurt to wait for a while. So, to revise my position from the previous segment, it’s SOMETIMES ok to put things off, if you do so after seeking the advice of a medical professional. Can we continue? Thank you.

The reason my feet need checking is because of the damage that diabetes can do to your nerves. Peripheral neuropathy can cause pain, burning sensations or loss of feeling in the feet, as well as other body parts. Such fun!

That’s not even the worst of it. There’s a thing called autonomic neuropathy, which is both an EXCELLENT name for a band and a term which describes damage to the nerves which control your internal organs. This can cause all sorts of lovely things, like dizziness, fainting spells, digestive problems, even issues with your gentlemen’s area. Oh, speaking of which…

3) Broken tallywhacker

Yes folks, there’s a chance that my shaft could be shafted. Not that you asked, but i’m pleased to report that thus far it seems to be in reasonable condition. Some wear and tear and light foxing, but still functioning within acceptable parameters. Diabetes has other ideas, though.

Two issues which can effect a diabetic dong are erectile dysfunction and retrograde ejaculation. The first one speaks for itself, the second sounds like an even better band name but other than that i’d no clue until I looked it up. Want to hear about it? It’s kinda gross…

See when you…y’know when you’re with…when you’re having…oh lawks, it’s a tender subject. Setting aside my charming befuddlement, it’s a condition which causes semen to flow into the bladder at the point of ejaculation. Presumably it then leaves the bladder at the point of urination. This revelation led me to the point of self-immolation.

Summing up, I could wind up with a fubared phallus which probably won’t rise to the occasion and misfires when it does, none of which i’ll be able to see because my eyes will be shot to shit by that point. That’s if i’m not too busy writhing in agony as my nerves burn like the fire of a thousand suns and my stomach bubbles and boils trying to melt the lettuce I had for lunch.

Rum do, hey? Well, no. For one thing, it could be one hell of a lot worse. For another, these are just possible side effects of uncontrolled diabetes. I’m not trying to give anyone the fear by relating these things, i’m trying to explain how vital it is to take good care of yourself when you’ve got a vascular system which is full of sherbet. I’ve not had any issues with any of this and as I got a gold star at my most recent check up i’m not anticipating any.

We could all do with looking after ourselves a little better. Christ knows i’m no expert, but the one piece of advice I can offer is go and find someone who can offer better advice. Doctor, nurse, dietician, particularly knowledgeable taxi driver. Find someone who knows their shit and have them help you sort your shit out. You’ll thank me when we’re all 180 years old and still playing laser-tag.

If you want some advice which isn’t crap, try NHS Choices.

The Sugar-Blood Diaries: The Unfattening

Everyone has to find their own way when it comes to weight loss. Whatever works for you, so long as it’s not detrimental to your health, is fantastic.

At the time of writing this, i’ve managed to slough off nearly a full stone of excess blubber. I’m not sure what that is in metric measurements, but to give some perspective it’s roughly the weight of Liam Neeson’s legendary genitalia.

There’s no hard  and fast rule for weight loss, but there’s a whole world of hints, tips, diet plans and utter bullshit available to those who wish to drop a couple of pounds. I’m not, for one minute, suggesting that I can offer any more helpful advice than anyone else, but i’m more than willing to throw my  metaphorical two penn’orth into the proverbial hat. So, here’s a run down of my rough daily eating plan.

9:00am – Having fed, watered and on a week day, waved goodbye to the child units, I hungrily devour my breakfast. This usually consists of a bowl of bran flakes or a slice of wholegrain toast with the merest suggestion of a low fat, olive oil based butter alternative and an amount of no added sugar jam which is, in fairness, more like the idea of jam. Jam scented toast.

10:30am – I usually find myself a little peckish around this time. In the bad old days, i’d reach for a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate, maybe a bag of donuts, all sugary and delicious…
Uh…yeah. That was totally the old me. Now, I tend to just drink plenty of water. Often, when you feel like you’re a little peckish, you’re really just thirsty. A glass of water isn’t quite as satisfying as a slab of cake the size of Piers Morgan’s ego, but it usually does the job.

12:00 noon – Lunch time! After screaming “THANK CHRIST!” I rush to the kitchen as fast as my worthless legs will carry me to whip up a sumptious, yet incredibly healthy repast. If it was bran flakes for breakfast, I usually opt for a sandwich. If I had toast, rather than fill up on bread, i’ll grab a wholewheat tortilla. Bread or round, flat bread which i’ve convinced myself isn’t ACTUALLY bread because it doesn’t look like bread. Either way, i’ll fill it with mixed leaves, sliced peppers, tomato, cucumber and some sort of fish or perhaps sliced meat. The key is to pack as much flavour as possible into the fewest number of calories, while also balancing the level of sugars and trying to include your “five a day” and all the necessary vitamins and whatnot. It’s a balancing act akin to juggling live weasels while riding a unicycle through a minefield, having just drank six litres of Red Bull and injected a large quantity of methamphetamines into your penis. Probably.

3:00pm – Around 3ish, I usually feel the munchies creeping up on me once again. It’s during the afternoon hunger pangs that I generally stare at the cupboards, muttering a selection of curse  words as I spot delicious things which I know that I shouldn’t eat. I fully agree with the idea that you shouldn’t completely cut anything out, as that only makes you want it more. That being said, i’m doing my best to resist the unhealthy options as much as humanly possible. I want to get a little further down the weight loss road before I start to let myself off on the odd occasion, because right now I think a single slice of delicious fruit cake would lead to a three day eating binge in which I would devour all of the food in the cupboards, the cupboards themselves and any passers by who’d had bacon in the last twelve hours. I might, at this time of day, have a small apple.

5:00pm – Time for the evening meal. One of my favourite, healthy meals at the moment is a hot crab noodle salad. I’ll give you the recipe, seeing as the BBC aren’t bothering their arse with that anymore.

INGREDIENTS:

1 packet of straight-to-wok noodles
1 spring onion
1 tin of crab/tuna
A pepper
Olive oil
Soy sauce
Pepper

METHOD:

Chuck all that shit in the pan. NOT THE FISH, YOU PRICK!
All that shit EXCEPT THE FISH goes in a pan or wok.
Cooked? Bung the fish in.
Chuck it on top of some salad.
ON A PLATE. Arsehole.

Hunger makes me tetchy

8:30pm – Marital Unit returns from work and often grabs herself something to eat. This usually begins a rage spiral in which I loathe her for eating in front of me, myself for uncharitable thoughts, the purveyors of oven chips for laying temptation at my feet and everything else in the world for being….well, for being.
Seriously, it’s amazing how irritable you can get when you’re hungry, so it’s good to find some sensible snackage. I like dutch crispbakes with just a scraping of butter. I also like fuck off slabs of lardy cake and long cold glasses of fizzy beverages loaded with enough sugar to render me unconscious at twenty paces, but arse to it, crispbakes will do.

11:00pm – Everyone is asleep. The temptation, at this point, to hoover a bag of Wispa bites in less time than it takes to say  “SHIT, THE WIFE’S AWAKE!” is considerable. Don’t do it, folks. Don’t give in to temptation and sneak a snack. It’s easy to think “I’ll make up for it tomorrow” but you won’t. You’ll eat an entire bar of Galaxy, three packets of prawn cocktail crisps and sob yourself to sleep. Maybe. You might not. The important thing  is to stay strong and if you do have a bit of an off day, try to do some damage limitation. I was gagging for something sweet a couple of days ago, so I grabbed a biscuit. One biscuit. Took the edge off and I didn’t hate myself for doing it.

3:00am – Pass out. This one is just me, I loathe sleep. I used to spend half that time snacking but now I pump myself full of water, both still and sparkling, while watching copious quantities of absolute shite on Netflix and occasionally molesting myself to images of…too much sharing? Too much sharing.

That’s all the advice I have. It’s largely worthless, but it does me good to spill my digital guts once in a while and you never know, amongst this shit shower of unwanted tips, you might find something useful. Even if it’s just the knowledge that you’d best avoid my house in the wee small hours, unless you want to see something that cannot be unseen.

T’was the run up to Christmas

Bad Santa
T’was the run up to Christmas and, lo and behold,
thousands of folks trudging out in the cold.
Their hands and feet frozen, the wind in their eyes.
they scrambled to get to the last few Mince Pies

The slow and infirm were trampled in the scuffle
to get to the last box of cheap Belgian truffles
While countless poor souls were lost in the fight
for a bottle of wine, to toast Christmas night.

Suddenly, the crowd spun around with a yell
and charged all at once, like a pack out of Hell.
They bashed and they battered, they pushed and they shoved
For word had got out, “M&S!” “Sale on gloves!”

“My granny would love them”,”Forget her, their mine!”
“LET ME THROUGH, LET ME THROUGH!”,”OI! Back of the line!”
From my vantage point, by a display of ties,
I witnessed the horror with my very own eyes

As each shopper vied for a place in the queue
A little old lady hobbled into view.
I cried out a warning but alas, she heard not
and was trampled to naught but a small, greasy spot

Now dashing and darting, now punching and kicking
Biting and gouging, eye poking, ear flicking
I saw one woman wield a small boy, like a club
and I watched as the poor lad started to blub

So, twas a mercy, when she swung with such might
that he slipped from her hands and flew out of sight
(He was found, safe and sound, some thirteen days later
in a display of cardigans, near the escalator)

Without her weapon, she was soon overcome
By a tag teaming granny and stay-at-home mum
With a zimmer frame shot to the side of the head
and a kick to the ribs, they left her for dead

They fought tooth and nail over jackets and sweaters
to answer the wishes of loved ones Christmas letters
While, in the background, the Christmas muzak plays
the same track repeated for twenty-odd days.

Son against daughter, father against mother
they beat seven Jingle bells out of each other
charging through the store like stampeding cattle
soon, the shop Santa was drawn into the battle.

He leapt from his stage, with a blood curdling yell
and upon the crowd of naughty shopgoers he fell.
He had such broad shoulders, with arms like two trees
and a right hook which would bring a Clydesdale to it’s knees

A fearsome sight in his suit of bright red
he hoisted one old dear right over his head
and with a dark chuckle, brought her down through a stack
of cut price DVD’s, snapping her back.

At the sickening crunch, the shoppers took pause
such was the wrath of this store Santa Claus.
“YOU’VE ALL BEEN NAUGHTY AND NOW YOU’RE ON MY LIST!”
They could tell without doubt, Kris Kringle was pissed…

And so, boys and girls, the moral of our story
is to be kind to others, or face an ending most gory.
And I heard Santa roar, as I ran for my life
SOD IT, NEXT YEAR I’LL STAY HOME WITH THE WIFE

Merry Christmas everyone.

…I am losing my patience…