I Work Out.

The gym is now fully complete with... 600 DVDs to choose from. Fantastic. I had been waiting for the final touches to be complete like a flat screen tv and all the DVDs to be put into alphabetical order. But mostly I was waiting for the blinds to go up so that the weirdos from next door can't see me run like a heifer on the treadmill and inevitably fall off. But I will begrudgingly have to wait for the blinds. (I don't know why but I constantly seem to trip on the conveyor belt - put it down to a manufacturing fault and less my ability to run in an ordinary fashion). But I will begrudgingly have to wait for the blinds, will just have to brave it!

But now the question is what DVD to watch whilst exercising?! Which would give the most motivation? I have narrowed the choices down as I want to make sure that the first session back in the gym is a happy one and not a disastrous occasion whereby I avoid all further attempts of exercise. The options are as follows:

- The Bourne Identity - lots of running could be inspirational. Perhaps pretend I was once a Treadstone operative gone rogue. I'm not convived this would make me run more though. Perhaps if I imagine I was running towards a topless Matt Damon I might be even more inspired.

- Mean Girls - because now Lindsay Lohan is such a wreck 3 months in the gym and I'm bound to look better than she did during her blonde anorexic I love Sam Ronson phase.

- Coyote Ugly - Learn some dance moves to embarrass myself with at the same time, and its basically an all Leanne Rimmes soundtrack that only Emily Walker would appreciate as much as me.

- Taken - Because if I get hot and skinny it could happen to me (I'm not wishing that it does) but I might need to know what to do in such a situation. Although the first time I watched Taken was with BBB a week before I went travelling across America and his response at the end of the film was not how easily I could potentially be abducted into the sex trade and that I should be careful or just not go at all. No, no, no. It was 'Well if that happens to you, I'm not coming to America. Liam Neeson runs faster  than me. But on reflection I think the chances of someone trying to abduct you are slim to none.' Thanks Baz.

- Hairspray- Because the fatty gets the hotty. This however may not lead to much inspiration in the workout field. And will also give me highly unrealistic hopes that Zac Efron will come knocking. Door bell just rang and no joke for a split second I just thought 'could it be?!' Don't be so stupid it was Granddad over for dinner.

- Pride and Prejudice (the BBC version obviously). My reasoning behind this was that because its a 6 part series it will encourage me to go back for the next 5 hours. I also countt myself as an Indian Elizabeth Bennett, well kind of more due the fact that she ends up with someone on £10,000 a year than her witty intellect.  Annie is clearly Jane - pretty and obedient. And Ashwin is Kitty - an outrageous flirt/embarrassment to the family. Which either leaves me with piano playing Mary or dear Lizzie and since I am highly outspoken for a good Indian girl, loose my temper far too often and have dark curly hair I thought it was the most fitting.

Decisions. Decisions.

So, that was yesterday and this is now today and the gym has well and try been conquered. It did take a while to muster the strength to get out of bed and cross the garden to get to the gym but after catching up on MIC and faffing for an hour I managed it. In the end I went with Coyote Ugly. It was an excellent choice. However I think I got a little too carried away...It got to the cowboy dance on the bar scene and I thought to myself 'hey, if I can master the pussycat dolls routine, surely this will be easy.' So I headed over to the matts and got myself prepped to go along with the girls, it was NOT a success. Despite my best efforts to be a cowgirl, my line dancing just doesn't cut it and it ended in overhearing the builder's raucous laughter from next door.

With a failed dance routine in check I headed back to the cross trainer, but I was without a defeatist attitude. I was determined if anything to look at good at Lucy in MIC when she was at the gym and so I stupidly attempted the Coyote hair-flick whilst going full pace on the cross trainer. The result was that my hair flick was so ferocious that I almost winded myself when the cross trainer handle came flying back into my chest. Safe to say I won't ever cut it as a coyote, fat or thin.

I think tomorrow we might try Taken, far fewer dance moves.

I leave you with this parting image, me attempting this routine...

Fatty BB xxx

Time Management.

As you can tell from the way the posts have been progressively slowing down in their publication, time management is a bit of an issue for me. It is not my best asset, we have clearly established over the past couple of months my best assets are my eyebrows. So just for me, when you next see me comment on how bangin they are.

Time management seems to be that skill that people try and drill into you from a young age - teachers, parents, Annie, everyone tried to get me organised. Never happened. (Not BBB though he was too unorganised to organise me). I think it's a middle child thing, we are too laid back to care about time management - or at least this is my excuse. When told to do something my initial reaction is 'yeah ok, in a minute' and in fact if I do end up doing that particular task it will be done hours after initially requested. I don't even realise I am saying this, its like a reflex action, predominantly because I don't really register when people are telling me to do something as I am watching Gossip Girl or Revenge or reading Daily Mail online and frankly I'm not really paying attention to the clothes in the washing machine, or the gardener coming in an hour that I have to open to back gate for. But if someone reminds me to take the food out of the oven, I miraculously remember, so strange.

 So when I had to catch the school bus at 7.15am to get to Loughborough time management was a particular issue, especially when living with Miss Organised-Annie. She would be up early enough to look pristine for school, have breakfast and watch whatever rubbish was played on Trouble Channel at 7am. Me, on the other hand had to be rolled out of bed by Geeta, and I would proceed to roll myself back into bed for that crucial extra 5 minutes. Then attempt to dress myself in the allocated 3 minutes I had given myself, stumble down stairs skirt the wrong way round, shirt buttoned up incorrectly and odd socks on. Grab my now cold toast, because that was way more important than my blazer, fall into the car and be shouted at by Annie because apparently we were always so late we were going to miss the bus (we never once missed the bus). Make it on to the bus and fall straight back to sleep. No wonder I looked such a mess in my formative years - I'm so lucky I was loved enough not to be bullied...at least to my face.

The same kind of thing happened with my work if I was given a month to do a piece of coursework inevitably it was done the night before it was due. And due to my hideous time management nothing in my life seems to get done. Unless its something that I really want to do, like go for 3 hour leisurely lunches or watch back to back Harry Potters.

 If I'm not working, I'm sleeping or complaining that there is nothing to eat at home or TEFLing or job hunting for journalism internships and with all of this combined I am finding it hard to time manage my entire life. Under the presumption that an ipad would actually help my time management I persuaded BBB it was vital to life. In fact it is only vital in aiding my fruit ninja scores. So I need to work on time management so that I now spend the majority of my time IN THE GYM and not complaining that I don't have enough time, because that is what I have been doing lately, naughty Billie. If I cut back on my facebook stalking and watching shit programmes like Revenge there will definitely be time. The gym is now complete and actually looks pretty snazzy (could I expect anything less from BBB - although his input on the gym was the massive tv, leather sofa and 600 dvds, so for him I think its more of a virtual escapism that one fuelled by exercise).

The reality that France is looming is starting to hit home so I need to really crack the whip and sort my life out and start using my time wisely. Tomorrow is Diwali and I have to be a proper Indian for the day. Play the role of the doting daughter, not the disobedient lazy shit. Show all elders dutiful respect and attention which means I will have to hold back on insulting Annie for the day and most of all play nice so that I get a good present. Baz if you're reading...my blackberry is totally bust. Why not have some uniformity and order in my life by buying me and iphone to add to my apple goods?!

Likelihood is that I will sleep in until 11am get bollocked by Geeta for not being productive. Laze around the house write a cover letter (eat some meat because I will forget I am meant to be a veggie for the day) and then at 4:45pm run around the house and pretend like I have been doing things aaalllll day so that when Geeta arrives home at 5pm I will have stepped up to be that good little Indian daughter. Such a shame she can see right through me. The day after Diwali is technically Indian New Year - so here is my pledge: not to be a better Indian, because that really is a lost cause, but to step up the weight loss and MANAGE MY TIME. It will be done.

Fatty BB xxx

Working Girl

I have finally left the hideous engineering company I was working for and told Dragon Lady to kiss my oversized ass. I have got myself a new job which I actually LOVE. Who would have thought I would enjoy serving others?! That's right I am officially Leicester's clumsiest waitress and shittest pint pourer - you either get all froth or none at all, take your pick.

Initially I was concerned - was I not walking straight into the devil's lair by choosing to work at Leicester's finest restaurant (and this isn't just opinion this is actual fact). With homemade loaves being thrown out of the kitchen every few minutes on dinner service and twice cooked chips filling the kitchen with sweet chip aroma. Working for Entropy was going to be tough - not because I knock over most drinks and drop most food down myself but because temptation is quite literally coming at be from all directions. So I came up with a genius plan that I was to have a serious chat with our kitchen and give then strict instruction that they are to only serve me either salad or soup...this serious chat is yet to take place. But having worked there for two weeks now I have yet to spill food down a customer or steal one of their fresh loaves for myself. I have completely jinxed myself now, I'm bound to drop a latte on someone this week.

In fact work has been so good that I have actually forgotten to eat. I know it baffles me too. But when you are the only person on and you there are 20 cappuccinos to make you are focussing more on not setting off the fire alarm steaming the milk than thinking 'ohhhh I need to eat'. And considering it takes me about 5 minutes to make a cappuccino because I like to make nice patterns with the cocoa powder by the time I have finished the hunger has quite miraculously disappeared. But I have to confess there have been a couple of slip ups in the kitchen - but when you are offered next to Michelin starred food who is going to say no?! But these occasions are rare and I promise I do not encourage them, my aim is for people to think I'm basically wonder woman. Like 'omg Billie doesn't ever eat - she must just wear really unflattering clothes that make her look like she's being eating for a lifetime...' (pfftt never going to happen - if I know anything it's how to dress for the fat). However there is another flaw to my 'work so much you forget to eat' strategy my manager's best friend was the runner up in the Great British Bake Off and constantly comes in with baked treats. Life is just so unfair.

So loving life at the restaurant, the people are fab - so much better than Dragon Lady and Bible Boy and I have only managed to make a tit out of myself once so far. When the hot photographer came in to hang his pictures up I was told to take him upstairs to get him some screws to obviously hang the photos. Trying to act all sexy and clearly failing I blurt out, 'Do you want to follow me upstairs for a screw?' Well done Billie. Well done. I didn't take him upstairs, I couldn't even look him in the eye. And if we become Facebook friends I am deleting this post - because he is a babe. Restaurant work is going well for the naturally clumsy: humiliation has only occurred a handful of times, I have eaten shit a smaller handful of times, and I have had pervy middle aged men ask for my number by an even smaller handful of times - once you have been called 'beautiful' by 3 or 4 slurring, balding men the novelty soon wears off.

The gym is nearly done, the job is sweet. Project Rihanna has entered the Winter phase. Please don't let the carby winter warmers find me. Please.

Fatty BB xxx

I Had A Dream...

Not of the Martin Luther King variety, or the Ryan Gosling kind...

The other night I woke up in a cold sweat with tears streaming down my face. The only time this has happened to me recently was when I went cold turkey on carbs and had dreams about bread and then one other time...when I watched Insidious. I hate scary films, I cried in The Ring, can't handle The Others, I was even scared in Scary Movie - that guy had a weird hand. But India forced me to watch Insidious with her and despite cowering under my blanket for the majority of the film I am scarred for life by what I saw. This scarring was only made worse by Rupert being a little shit and scaring me even more. I was harmlessly coming home from a night of boozing and stumbled into the kitchen to attack the remains of my couscous when Rupert appears from the basement holding his laptop over his face with the hideous scarywoman from that stupid film on the screen, safe to say panic attack ensued and I didn't get to eat my couscous. Instead I collapsed against the fridge.

But anyway back to my present nightmare, I was in some kind of strange crystal maze environment being chased by this psychopath.  Long story short I couldn't run fast enough because I'm such a fatty that he caught up to be (he was like SUPER fast though), slit my throat and cut me up into little pieces. I am almost certain it was the 'dream sprinting' more than 100m that brought on the cold sweat but what if this happens in real life?!

I am well aware this is a huge dramatisation and the likelihood of anyone attempting to chase me is slim to none but just in case I need to learn how to run, and how to run fast. Now don't laugh you're meant to be a supportive audience not a judgemental one so no cackles when I tell you I'm not a natural athelete - not surprising really. How can I improve this? Especially when I don't really like running? I avoid the treadmill like the plague - mainly because I'm scared with my clumsy ability I will trip and fall and get an ugly treadmill burn on chin. And NO WAY am I running im public, I refuse to be the cause of any road traffic accidents - when people stop and stare at my incredible beauty and Bolt-like technique....

So my plan for the end of October is to learn how to run, in an efficient and moderately graceful manner. Despite being a heifer I have been told I run quite elegantly, but it was Baz who told me that so I don't know how much truth their was in that statement, he was probs mocking me. When previously running to the ice-cream van or trying to catch a train which I am inevitably late for I do run on the balls of my feet, and get a little spring. But then when I arrive at said ice-cream van or manage to lug myself onto the train it's not a pretty sight.

Thus, October - running will be mastered. I'm not going to lie, I'm not really looking forward to it. But I have further inspiration. Upon on my visit to London, Kate and I took a very (long) leisurely stroll down the river (I did ask which river it was - but we are going to overlook that because I was hungover and distracted by the Kensington Rowing Club). And there were all these gorgeous runners, just enjoying sunshine, getting fit, looking good. I want to one of those people, and then simultaneously pick up one of those people - like the stunner that ran past us twice and I tried to get a picture of his sweaty biceps, but couldn't get my camera to focus quick enough. Such a shame you guys would have really enjoyed it.

Thankfully BBB has come up with a solution to get us both running by building a gym in the back garden. I am actually really excited about this prospect as it will be finished by next week and this means I can attempt to run to my hearts content (quite literally) without anyone watching and laughing. It's like Field of Dreams 'Build it and he will come.' But instead 'Build it and Billie will be thin.' You know what I would love even more though - if James Earl Jones was my personal trainer - Mufassa telling you to run, you would not stop. So that's the plan.

I have also decided when I am ready to run in public I'm going to employ these guys to be my running posse...that way I look the best. Is that egotistical? Either way I don't care.

Fatty BB xxx

The Art of Friend Stealing

Since it has been kindly pointed out to me by more than just a couple of people that this blog tends not to focus so much on fitness but more on just... me, I thought I would continue on this more interesting theme for this particular post. So whilst a considerably smaller portion of the nation has been watching X Factor over the past few weeks I have got to thinking, what am I talented at? And as much as a try I don't think singing will ever be one of them. I can certainly list what talents I am lacking in - namely self-discipline and motivation to not eat carbs. But as far as actual useable talents I am limited. Then my talent hit me...I am a brilliant friend stealer. 

As such this post is dedicated to all those I have stolen, you have made my talent what it is today. (Toby Ross just to clarify this counts as your birthday blog). 

Now Shariat will argue that 'friend stealing' is a negative aspect and seeing as one of her best friends is now one of my best friends (that's you Alice) I get that (well not really but I don't want to be overtly mean). BUT I see it as a positive attribute it means that I have more of you lovely people reading my blog and helping me towards world domination. You might think, what is the success to my superb friend-stealing? I'll tell you...I'm about as threatening as a cuddly toy. Who would ever be intimated by the chubbs, curly haired girl with a clearly confused cultural identity?! 

The answer: absolutely no one. 

The result: The ability to befriend everyone. 

• Girlfriends of fit boyfriends love me because I am zero threat, the most threatening thing that will happen is that I can get by in a conversation about sport and they can't. 
• Boyfriends love me because lets face it I cook what the skinny girlfriends refuse to AND talk about sport.
•  Kids love me because I look like a stuffed animal. 
• Adults love me because I am the walking toy for their children. 

Basically I cannot lose at this game. Looking like the friendliest Hawaiian on the island does have some benefits, I may not bag the Storm model that has come to shoot the new Vilebrequin ad  but he will definitely want to be friends with me. This might sound big headed but when this is the only talent you have to work with, I gotta sell it. 

Plus how do you make new friends these days?! I work with six middle aged men, I don't particularly want to make friends with them. I exercise in my own house (not that I would ever make gym friends - the six packs do not want to be seen with the six rolls). I went ALL OUT at uni and exhausted all those avenues. So you make friends through other friends. It's natural (see Shariat). Gone are the days when  smashed in Mission I could walk up to someone and be like 'Heyyy I know who you are Hannah Yasmin Shariatmadari' (and I only know this through facebook and not real life) and get the reply 'Heyyy I know who you are Kiran Billie Bhatia' (and I only know this through facebook and not real life too) and then one week later be best friends. The last time that happened I ended up with Alice Willmott and she is a drain all my 'Pasta n Sauce' resources. 

Hence my thought that labelling my ability to make friends in a short space of time as 'friend stealing' is slightly harsh, in fact I could be the victim of some kind of secret game which is actually 'make Billie be my friend.' There are bonuses to this situation, I will cook for you and share my Vodka with you but most of all let you laugh at me. So in honour of those I have stolen and are now mine I shall be posting this on your facebook walls (for those I actually think would read this) - LOOK OUT. To those I miss...I am truly sorry, it doesn't mean I didn't enjoy stealing you it just means I can smell dinner being cooked and got distracted. 

Next week it will be back to how depressed I am with eating protein and how much I miss pasta bake. 

Fatty BB xxx

I Can, You Can, DUKAN.

After the disaster that has been Sad September who would have thought that it would be BBB who has re-inspired the whole family. Even Geeta, who in my opinion is practically anorexic with her 'no more than four chips' policy, has decided to join the get fit regime that has swept the Bhatia family. Since being housebound for 3 weeks with syatica and has been unable to go on her daily marches around Oadby, she now considers herself 'doughy'. If she is doughy...I am the entire sodding bakery.

BBB has managed to shed a stone in a week. Puts my 2 stone in 2 months to utter shame. I need to massively up my game. However, whilst I make a song and dance about pretty much everything I do - even writing this blog, BBB started his health kick on the sly - naughty Baz. It wasn't until Wednesday that I realised the fridge had no wine bottles ready and chilling and there were no empty bowls of peanuts by his throne in the lounge. Baz had gone cold turkey. It wasn't until I bravely entered the boy's toilet that I found the source of the inspiration: The Dukan Diet.

Now already labelling myself the carb queen, I am not overly fond of the pure protein. Apparently Nando's isn't pure protein if you get it in the pitta with the chips and perinaise on the side...who knew. In fact I really don't like meat, unless its Waitrose or M&S chicken. I know there is no difference between Waitrose chicken and Sainsbury's chicken except a £4 increase but I just can't do it. It has to be like that. As my housemates will know Geeta was a gem and constantly supplied me with M&S Oakham reared finest for four years, I know no different...it is a problem I need to overcome but whilst they are my local supermarkets I see no reason in changing a perfectly good habit. This chicken snobbery has had some benefits though! When often stumbling/rolling/crawling (despite my pathetic 3 inch heels) I often found myself propped up against the Jaldi Jaldi bar with India ordering everything on the menu and the rest of the girls hot on her heels. Thinking a chicken tikka masala is the best thing for me at 3am I wait until they have poured out my little container with rice and everything to then ask, 'Is this free range organic chicken?' When the Jaldi Jaldi man then looks at me with a face that says, 'who do you think you are?!' I decide the appropriate response is: 'I don't want it then.' A brat to the core, even my drunk food has to adhere to my spoilt ways...unless its battered, then I don't give a shit.

So I am now on Dukan day 4 and feeling thoroughly suicidal. I hate protein. I hate it. I'm trying I really am, I have an egg in the morning - I haven't eaten eggs since I was 4 (unless of course they are beautifully beaten into a cake or a pastry....mmm I want a pecan plait). So I have embraced eggs, I'm not going to lie I do have to have ketchup with it and the grimace across my face looks as though I'm in agony. So Dukan breakfast is very rapidly eaten as not to actually taste the egg. Then comes lunch and I am greeted by a chunk of chicken - fabulous. No salad, no veg (no carbs obvs) not even any Mayo - apparently my argument that Mayo is made of eggs and thus protein is invalid. Cold chicken by itself is grim. The only way I can eat is by cutting it up into the tiniest pieces so that my mind is preoccupied with the task of cutting it and concentrating less on how horrid it is. The whole protein thing does seem to be working I suppose as in 4 days I have lost 4lb, but I really don't know how much longer I can go without some salad and veg. What harm can it really doing having a few veggies?! As if I'm craving greens...who have I become?!

I just have to keep this image in my head and all will be worth it...

Bloody ruins it by saying face in hole. Or maybe its more that my face is pointing in the wrong direction. So ignoring the fact this looks more creepy than sexy...get in line boys ;) 

Fatty BB xxx 

Sad September

September has not been a good month for 'fat to fit', except for my excursion into the country for Fi's birthday, September has been pretty shit. But hasn't September always been shit...going back to school, end of summer sunshine (or lack of for this year), the days start to get darker and M&S have already got their mince pies out - so tragic because it is not near Christmas at all, which means there is still 2 months until I can watch Elf.  September has also been a lack of motivation as I have hit rejection after rejection after rejection. Ok, that's a slight exaggeration, I got one email from Vogue saying the following:

Dear Kiran,

Thank you for your letter regarding work experience at Vogue. I am afraid your application has not been successful.
I am sorry to give you a disappointing reply and good luck with your search elsewhere.

Yours sincerely,

Nina Godfrey
Editorial Coordinator

Cheerrrsss Vogue. Naaattt. I suppose it is something that I got a reply, and I knew it was a long shot but  I was still kind of gutted. I wasn't expecting to be Alexandra Shulman over night but was maybe hoping for some feedback as to why I didn't get the work experience. At the end of the day it was worth a shot and onwards and upwards. But sad September continued, maybe it should be shit September. Making shit September even shittier September...I found myself employed. Employment is so overrated. For the following reasons:

The job: Accountant/Purchaser/Sales/Everythingandanythingpossibleformemtodo for a company that had gone into administration (can totally see why, it's shit) and are trying to rebuild themselves. The company specialises in making engines, got the job cos I know sooo much about engines...
 Day 1: Ended the day feeling rather suicidal - a freezing cold office with three other middle aged men, one dragon woman and 2 hour drive home (thanks to some stellar traffic) to consider all the ways I could quit after one day.

Day 2: Crash my car on the way to work. Good one! Didn't even have the office number to call to say 'Really soz I'll be late I slammed into another car, my bad.' In real life it didn't go that smoothly. Although it was a small bump I was still hysterical, and found myself on the verge of tears at any given moment at work. Great impression.

Day 4:  Just get chucked bits of paper about engine parts and supposed to know what to do with them - because I am just that good.

The majority of my time is spent staring at my blackberry waiting for the little red light to flash , getting overly excited that I have got a fun text or someone has done something stupid and put it in the group whatsapp, but 9 times out of 10 it is 'Topshop Style Notes' or 'Groupon'. I don't even like Groupon they sold me a dodgy TEFL. Bastards.

So as you can see employment isn''t really working out for me, as currently I am sat at my desk typing this, and this is only adding to Sad/ Shit September. Now the food part. It's been bad. Miserable days at work have found me dragging my feet to the petrol station and buying some crisps or worse. Most evening I am writing up my articles or looking for other jobs/internships and when nothing is really coming together, finding anything is fridge seems a better option. It is not.

Yesterday I gave myself a metaphorical slap across the face, for being such a wet rag. I tried to drag myself out of the abyss by watching highlights of London Fashion Week and reminding myself of the goals. Think of all the desginer clothes that are going to be h-amazing on me, I have already got my eye on a couple of Stella's pieces (take note Baz, they are going on the Christmas list). In essence PITY PARTY OVER - BACK TO WORK BITCH.

Optimistic October begins NOW.

Fatty BB xxx

The Only Indian In Shropshire

Since the beginning of this blog people have been asking whether they can get a mention, or when I have mentioned other people the question as to why they weren't mentioned arises. The answer to this question is: I am a selfish being. Being your classic middle child and I am certainly the most independent but also the biggest attention seeker. I am by no means in denial about it, I fully accept it. It is necessary in my family to speak up or stay silent and despite avoiding confrontation in nearly every other scenario in life, at home its a different story - it is unlikely that there will be an argument whereby I don't have the last word. BBB has taught me well, so much so he now loses (or just gives up on my hopeless advocacy that turns into a less articulate structure... and more slamming of doors and under-the-breath swearing).

Having said that I have decided to share this post with the wonderful Miss Fiona Sedgley - feel very, very privilged. I share almost everything even my prized MAC lipsticks and although I may fall into the 'Joey doesn't share food' category when it comes to certain food types (mainly chips, chocolate and cake), blogs I can handle. So here it is.

This weekend I ventured into Shropshire for Miss Sedgley's 21st birthday bash. All I knew was that Fi lived the countryside and on a working farm. Considering I live on an A-road, I realised this would be a little different to what I was used to. However I didn't consider that I would be the only Indian in an entire county. Two hours of holding up my tomtom because I broke holder in my drive before I even set off I found myself driving at a steady 20mph around these tiny country lanes, quite frankly thinking: "where the fuck am I?" With now quite a hefty stream of traffic behind me who obviously were used to bombing it down the roads, panic set in and by sheer luck I stumbled across the farm. As I pulled into the drive I jokingly said to Fi, 'Hey look there is another Indian in Shropshire!' Looking both perplexed and mildly disgusted she was bemused as to how another Indian had landed in white-country. All was cleared up when I pointed out that with her 4-5 layers of tan she was actually darker than me....was going to be a looonnnnggg weekend of clearly not enough casual racism.

I was like a fish out of water initially, all the farmer chat had me stumped so as I put on my best posh accent I attempted to blend in. Fat and Indian doesn't bode so well for blending into middle class farmers but as expected I was welcomed with open arms by the entire family and the weekend was incredible from start to finish.

Now getting down to the food business. Like most aspects of my life and definitely my diet it started off really went and ended in a hideous disaster. Friday I was a good little egg - no complaints. I had even gymed in the morning so that I could travel sans guilt. Saturday morning also good, I needed sustenance to keep up with the list of party prepping. Lunch was just as good fresh scrambled eggs and a piece of bread - I was being gold star worthy. And all good things must come an end. I blame Fi. Normally I'm a vodka kinda girl, I don't really drink wine but if its there...who's going to say no?! Certainly not me. (I am without a shadow of a doubt my father's daughter). So the party kicked off and everyone look amazing,   and I even felt good having lost some weight my dress fit perfectly. In an attempt to be a better girl I decided on heels. These gorgeous wedges from Reiss, not gonna lie they aren't particularly high - but it was like an elephant in stilettos. The only way to break through the pain barrier....Champers, and lots of it. An hour later I was in flats and the Champagne waitresses knew me by first name. After heading into the marquee I felt like I was in Harry Potter, every time I looked at my wine glass it was full again - some secret little wizard was constantly topping up my glass, who was I to refuse?! So I kept drinking it. The chicken curry may have come and gone but the wine was certainly a permanent fixture on the table...as was the chocolate m&m covered tree centre pieces - you know where this is headed.

Whilst everyone else delicately managed to pick a couple of m&ms off the sweetie tree, I had managed to rather skilfully lift the entire slab of chocolate which held the m&ms in place, off the polystyrene tree without dropping a single sweet. Genius. Now I had essenitally an m&m stuffed chocolate slab in front of me, the 'Joey doesn't share food' scenario may have occurred, may have. Oh it gets worse. Around 3am whilst Fi was entertaining one of the DJs under the dining room table, I entertained the other DJ....by having a cake icing eating contest. Clearly my body was saturated with sugar from the sweet tree and the 3 bottles of wine, because as soon as tried to eat the icing I had to spit it all out into my hand rather unattractively . No idea why I don't have a boyfriend. No idea.

The next day I woke up still smashed, and upon looking in the mirror I noticed my face had actually swelled over night because I drank so much wine. The only saving grace to this story is that enduring the hungover, hot drive home when I stopped at the service station I chose a Waitrose wrap and fruit over the McDs that was definitely calling to me. Thank you Fi for an amazing weekend and for allowing me to royally screw up my hard work. Same again next weekend? Probably.

Fatty BB xxx

The Vogue Diet

Being at home on my own I get bored very, very easily so I am always on the look out for new inspiration in life, mainly because the last thing I want this blog to be is 'I had yoghurt and fruit for breakfast, water for lunch and air for dinner...totally vommed up the water - unnecessary calories.' Not my style. My latest inspiration has actually be around for a while now, I would say a good few years so its hardly 'latest' but I feel I need to give it a significant nod. That inspiration being: fashion. I love clothes. I love jewellery. I love shoes (even the ones I have no chance of walking in - I still appreciate them). I love bags. I love make-up. Fashion is art, and I want to live in it.

Lucky for me I have recently started an internship writing for a luxury online magazine called 'GC Prive' whereby I get to write about luxury goods - perfect. I have been able to write about so many things that I love from Tom Ford make-up to the Chanel pop-up boutique. It has been amazing but it is difficult in that I am not given a huge amount of direction, it really is a write whatever you want - so yesterday I wrote about macaroons namely Lanvin for Laduree. Writing all of these articles just makes me want to be in fashion and fashion journalism even more. One problem: I don't exactly look the part. It looks as though the macaroons definitely found me.

But with all this love I decided to go for the long shot and apply for work experience at Vogue. I am hardly your standard Vogue girl: I studied Classics and Law, I can't walk in heels unless they are 3inches or preferably lower and probably most importantly I am definitely not a size 6. Not even close. But what do I have to lose? If I don't try, I will never know. I'm being brave and putting myself out there, something I wasn't sure I was even able to do until I published this blog. In some strange way I think being bigger has almost acted as a shield, it has been the excuse for why I didn't do things and although shedding the pounds will allow me to do so much more (so many more shops to be hit) it is also unnerving as this is all I have ever known - fat. Instead of eating my emotions (typical fat girl chat) now I take my frustrations and anger out on the treadmill, but in honesty there is a still a part of me (a very small part) that is shit-scared that even if I do lose all this weight it might not make a difference. I think one of the reasons I had never really shifted the weight when I was younger was that I was never really bullied about my weight like some kids. I made friends easily and I was perpetually known as 'bubbly' - the new fat adjective that replaced 'jolly'. I guess I don't want to lose that, being thinner I still want to be the same person and I think I will be, just better dressed. This is all far too deep for this kind of blog...back to being Beyonce.

So last week I lost 5lbs and weigh in is tomorrow for this week, somehow I don't think we hit 5lbs this week. For starters on Friday I went to my favourite Chinese restaurant - why does everything have to be fried?! However I normally have to be  rolled out of the restaurant (you know like Violet in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), go home and lie upside on the sofa, but this time was all about portion control. And since I didn't feel uncomfortably full I think I actually managed the impossible I stopped eating when I was full and not when all the food had gone from my plate. It gets better. Saturday night I made Nandos for the troops and stuffed peppers - I left half a pepper and half of the chicken on my plate (Oh yes you did read that right). Geeta was shocked too. Especially when I said to her that I was FULL. This means one thing and one thing only kids, my stomach is shrinking. HELL YEAH. With all this jubilation I definitely went and ruined it on Sunday night. Mayville catch up with half the bitches (and Johnny) meant that we went for a curry. Why is it the curry always gets me?! Being Indian is a curse. I definitely over ate. I have hit the gym hard since, chicken tikka masala clearly gives me really bad anxiety and guilt. I have really tried to run off the extra naan bread so lets hope the scale tip in my favour tomorrow (not that I ever look, I shut my eyes really tight and beg Lewis Hamilton not to tell me). However I was more than a little bit excited when he told me I was not 100% body fat, which I previously thought I had been. Win.

So this weeks conclusion and words of wisdom: My covering letter to Vogue is ready I just have to man up and send it, I'm hoping for at least 4lb reduction and I vow to be as bubbly as I ever was even when I'm thin and Victoria Secret come a knocking.

Move over Anna Wintour, I'm coming for you.

Fatty BB xxx

Sibling Rivalry

Families that eat together...apparently are in competition to lose weight together. Well, I'm making it a competition.

Despite the chubs exterior I was once a sporty competitive person, that was a long, long, long, long time ago before I found drunk food, tequila shots and.... a social life. On my 11th birthday my treat was to be enrolled for squash lessons, I know what you're all thinking....lucky, lucky, lucky. (Luck was clearly on my side as my 17th birthday present from BBB was a new squash racquet - what else would a 17 year old want?!) Squash sparked my competitive side, I was still a fat child and I think deep down I just wanted to prove you didn't have to be skinny or in fact fit to be good at squash; with this mantra in mind I managed to win the U19 County Championship aged 13. Boom. And that's about as far as my squash career went. I have been trying to get back into the mind set of that 13 year old, the one that twisted her ankle first set (when I fell, I fell hard - I have hideously scarred knees to prive that) and still managed to win. To your surprise and shock I was even picked for the athletics team...solid thrower. It was a great set up, I got to go with all the fit people in the years above me to athletic conferences and watch the boys sweat it out on the track, and all I had to do was swan over to 'rounders ball throwing' casually toss the ball and sit back down again. Message to all fat kids: learn how to throw and hit a ball - the rest is easy.

Ok back to sibling rivalry.

These are the stats thus far:
Ashwin....miles ahead.
Billie...making good head way.
Annie........

Ashwin in all fairness has done really well, shedding a considerable amount since January, I am constantly interrupted in my day to day life by 'Look how big my shoulder muscles are', 'Look at my biceps,' 'I could be a model'. Snoooooreee. I hate losing (unless its weight), and at the minute Ashwin is miles ahead. Even Annie has kick started her previous anorexic career, so the pressure is on. I WILL WIN.

Evening bants has soon become, 'what have you eaten today?' and has gone so far as being: 'all I have had is water and air!' When sitting down for dinner, its now a competition for how much food you can leave on your plate rather than how much you can eat (BBB is still winning that competition). Ashwin really isn't involved in that side of the competition as the kid could eat about 20 chickens and still not think he has had enough protein...LAD. But for Annie and I it is certainly a case of less is more in this silly game. It seems to working though - since my brutal work out with my PT last week I have been in the gym everyday and I'm starting to see a difference. Woopa. And I think being spurred on by Annie and Ashwin has certainly helped. Although upon asking Ashwin to help train me it ended in a screaming match over the cross trainer and ended up in me having a small diva moment by throwing my bottle of water at him - he got over it when I gave him money to go and buy a chicken, we're all good now. I have even taken BBB to the gym, believe it or not. I was happily peddling away on the bike when I realised all he had done was stand on the power plate for 10 minutes, upon alerting him to this I was consequently booted off the bike and made to listen to Bruce Springstein as I sulked on the cross trainer. 5 minutes on the bike and he was back on the power plate, at least I won that round.

Annie and I have deliberately avoided the gym at the same time to avoid fits of giggles at each other or the inevitable argument as to who has burnt more calories. In our defence we have tried exercising together before, Geeta used to drag us to zumba and it ended up being a 'Beyonce off'. In time maybe we will be able to go on a run together (when we can both manage more than 5 minutes without an asthma attack or a coronary).

So with sibling rivalry in tact we are heading from this...

TO THIS....

I'm obvs Khloe she has way more personality than Kim, and of course she is still kind of the chubs one. Ashwin is already embarking on his new Rob Kardashian lifestyle of lounging around a not doing very much with his life - much to the dismay of his hardworking sisters. Planning his tattoo sleeve is a constructive day. MTV/ E! come at me - we're ready for you. 

Fatty BB xxx

Newcastle ruined me.

I needed some inspiration, some new motivation a week doing no exercise in Leeds left me feeling groggy and shitty, as much as I try to deny it - exercise does actually make you feel better. However I didn't help myself any further though by heading from Leeds straight up to see Miss Newcastle (for those of you who are unaware of her celeb status I am of course talking about Shariat) for a wild Red Bull fuelled weekend. Having arrived at 9.30pm I was given half an hour to be ready and get on it, my life was already spiralling out of control because I had forgotten my lashes. Getting from leggings and a jumper to a skirt and a reasonable looking fro in half an hour is HARD. This was made even worse by the fact Shariat's room was on average 100 degrees. Once I had applied my makeup I pretty much  had to start all over again because I had sweated it off. However inspiration hit me - this was a work out. You try scuttling around a room filled with 4 other people's excessive amount of stuff for one weekend (of course my stuff was the most excessive), whilst trying to apply lashing of mascara - wish I just had my bloody lashes. Finally 10pm arrived and shockingly I nearly resembled ready. As health factors the night started so well - sugar free red-bull and vodka to hand (healthier option), Beyonce dancing (burning those cals), booting the snotty looking girls out of our booth with rapid hand gestures (burning those cals), running around Madam Coos trying to find everyone (burning those cals), after too many red bulls running around Madam Coos trying to find the toilets (burning those cals), attempting to get us a taxi home by jogging up and down the road (burning those cals). But I think you know what's coming. Getting home everyone declaring they are famished led to Shariat firing up 'just-eat'....sinking into a chicken burger (adding those cals straight back on). I regretted it as soon as I finished all of it. But at the time it was the best thing that had ever happened. Ever.

Feeling surprisingly fresh on Saturday morning we dragged our asses into Newc and helped our hangovers with helpings of Guiseppe and Italian food. Suitably watered and fed we hit the beach. The image of spritely youngsters geared up in sexy swimwear playing in the water is not an accurate summary of our beach trip. Still not quite back on form from the previous night's antics we trudged across the sand in jeans and found a sand bank to perch, far far away from the icey waters but close enough to see the Daniel Craig wannabes. A couple of hours after soaking up the healing sunshine we discussed the topic of the day -"what shall we have for dinner?" Why does life centre around food?! Deciding our hideous binge from the night before should not be repeated we attempted healthy dinner - our concerns were more that we knew we had to eat something if we wanted to make it out, but we almost wanted to be that smashed - so we settled with quiche. Classy.

Saturday night was in essence a repeat of Friday night - but even better and way more glam. This time I was allocated more than 30mins to get ready but of course I was still the last one dressed (too bad Kirstie wasn't there to make me look like I have time management). However 6 girls getting ready in one room - mission. We also soon realised we were all wearing black (probably to slim us down from the late night pizza and all day Italian). So looking like a girl band I was inevitably the odd one out opting from cream and black instead of just black - the Aretha of the group I self-labelled myself the lead singer. I was the Beyonce to my Destiny's Child. With this thought in mind I felt invincible. A litre of vodka later I was stumbling into a club and dutifully lead to the VIP section where yet more bottles of vodka of obvs red bull awaited. I could easily get used to this lifestyle - if only they knew the truth: graduated uni, jobless, living at home, home is in Leicester...the pity party goes on. No one was going to see the pity party tonight we were all on full form. Frequenting the smoking area so that we could actually breathe there were a whole host of Geordie hotties up for grabs, including Ricki the local celeb. The hotties soon became less hot when they opened their mouths and it was all, 'I own this club', 'I'm a footballer and I earn £36,000 a week', and even less hot when we realised that the men had more cleavage on show than we did. Having been told repeatedly I was 'a breath of fresh air' for not being stick thin and interested in their money (little did they know it was because I couldn't actually string a sentence) we decided to go head home...and of course get food. Bad Billie, bad bad bad bad.

So after a hideous 4 hour hungover sweaty drive home I needed to get back on the fitness horse. It has been salads and gymming since (I am aware it is only Wednesday) and the looming personal trainer session this evening is only kicking my arse into gear further. Lesson to be learnt: stop everyone from letting you eat when you drink...just go home, safely store you lashes away and go to sleep. NO MORE DRUNK FOOD.

Here is our girl brand - think we have a bright future ahead of us.

Fatty BB xxx

Revision Munchies

Sorry I have been mildly pre-occupied this week and so my blogging has been on the back burner, too much Olympics to watch, and unfortunately revision (although as you will see little of that has been done.) Despite hoping and wishing I wouldn't have to re-sit any of my law exams I was destined to of course fail one. Again it isn't really my fault (once again the blame has been passed) - my Land Law tutorials were 4pm on a Friday afternoon - not very many were attended and even fewer were prepared for so I was asking for it really. Although the majority of my tutor group also didn't attend these classes they are a lot lot smarter than I am and all the ones that have training contracts actually seemingly have an interest in law, or at least enough to have passed the exam. Vogue, Grazia and Look hardly counts for background reading but it was much more entertaining than mortgages. To be honest I was quite shocked I had managed to pass everything... but land went down as an epic, epic fail.

I'm not very good at focussing on work when I am at home I get really distracted...by the fridge. Why does revision make you eat so much?! To attempt restraining myself from boredom binges I went on Facebook every 5 seconds and seeing if someone I'm really not interested in has updated their status. This then got progressively worse to checking twitter every 2 minutes to check for Olympic updates (because now I can scroll on my phone in all directions awoooo). This then got even worse to checking Daily Mail online every hour to see if there were new 'breaking stories' - I knew things were bad when I found myself reading the article (pfft...what articles its all pictures) on Courtney Stodden. Bad, bad times. Things got even worse after taking my 4 hours to listen to one lecture, the lure of the fridge was calling to me. I really didn't want to, but boredom was at its peak. I started off well - snacking on a couple of grapes and a bit of chicken. But like the rest of my life things went from bad to worse (I wont even start on my emotional break down last week...it wasn't pretty). Without even realising I found myself making a rather elaborate stir-fry, sitting in front of the tv watching the Olympics taking an apparently well deserved two hour break. Two hour break from doing  jack shit. Come 4pm I decided I actually needed to learn something if I was going to pass this exam, so inevitably I went swimming for 2 more hours for even further procrastination. I need to sort my life out.

Then mid swim I realised my problem: at uni no one really surfaced before 11am and no one really did much with their day. You strolled into uni went straight to Terrace to see which fitties were around and inevitably found the rest of my housemates drinking then dragged yourself to a deliberately chosen afternoon lecture/seminar that you had probably prepped for at 2am the previous night after watching TOWIE or MIC and realising come 11pm you should really do some work. My body clock was way off beat. Shockingly my stomach seems to be active 24/7. The next couple of days seemed to go much the same - watching any kind of Olympic event over revision and then when hearing the door go and the subsequent heavy plods of BBB, actually running back to my desk and pretending that I had had a really long hard day and now he was back home we should have a cup of tea and catch up on the Olympics. He never seemed to notice that I knew everything that had happened that day of the Games and seemingly still knew nothing about land law. Geeta however noticed that the fridge was getting more and more depleted. Not that there is anything that fun in there... except for an entire draw of cheese - I have requested that there be a keypad lock on the cheese draw it is far too tempting. From the now lack of food in the fridge Geeta knew I had done fuck all during the week. My bad.

I probably did not make things any better for myself by going out on Saturday - but hey I deserved it, working really hard and everything all week, my excuse was that I had been cooped up in the house all week needed to get out. I'm a bad person. It was worth it though. Forgetting my key at 4am and trying to break into my own house was not the highlight of the evening. BUT as of 8pm last night I worked really really hard, rewarding myself today not with food but with a shopping trip for all my hard endeavours. Good little egg.

However, I have new motivation in life, since I actually went to the law school library today I was shocked to find amidst the 4 other people in the desolated place there was a Zac Efron look alike. A ZAC EFRON LOOK ALIKE. A whole year I pretend to work in the library and no Zac Efrons, not even close. And what did I look like?! A mess. Hair in a disgraceful pineapple on top of my head, a t-shirt that I soon noticed was covered in crap and leggings...probably a hole somewhere. Great. I don't have a chance. I am now putting off revision for this evening by prepping so I look my version of amazing tomorrow (that's probably your mediocre).

Bring on revision - for once, I cannot wait.


P.S. Since the last 'aesthetically pleasing' went down so well I thought I would treat you to some more.

Fatty BB xx

To be a Disney Princess

So on Friday night whilst my little brother was out getting pissed coincidentally with MY friends and booking taxis to come home at 6am (Geeta was not impressed, BBB was), I was sat in the lounge watching...Shrek. I need to work on my Friday evenings not being so lame, but I had just worked a 20 hour week so I can cut myself a little slack. I was really enjoying it, laughing a lot... on my own: "I like your boulder, that's a nice boulder", when quite abruptly my enjoyment was snatched away from me. Geeta said I was Princess Fiona...in ogre form. Whilst most girls endeavour to be Cameron Diaz, I however was not so impressed to be her green, huge alter ego. Although I would have a fantastic bird-bursting singing range and capable of taking on Robin Hood and his band of merry men, I was also just likened to essentially a monster.

This is not the first time, I have had my Disney Princess dream shattered (and don't even think about commenting and saying Shrek isn't Disney, for all intents and purposes of this post please just go with me.) The dream of being Ariel, Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Belle were all dashed from a young age, not because they were skinny and I was chubs...but because they were white. But then PC order came into reign and the likes of Pocahontas and Jasmine were adorned on my screen and I thought - YES! I can be a princess too! I was all too quickly reminded - no, no you can't.

Disney has always been a huge part of my childhood, like most kids as I imagine (although less so the kids of today, my four year old cousin has an ipad and his favourite film is the Dark Knight). And as a family it was always a game to liken the characters of the film to members of the family. So here is how I was cast:

101 Dalmations - I was Rolly...the fat dalmation.
Cinderella - GusGus...the fat mouse (you know the one thats tries to stack up all the corn)
Sleeping Beauty - the fat fairy...that makes cake.
The Jungle Book - the little fat elephant. (Inevitably BBB was Baloo and Annie of course was Mogli)
Tarzan  - the little fat elephant, that turned into the big fat elephant.
The Little Mermaid - Flounder, the fat sidekick fish.

Are you seeing the trend? No princess in sight. Just the little fat character in every bloody film! I was young and hideously naive to the fact I was being bullied by my family, I was simply grateful just to get a part. Of course Annie was Belle, the little annoying organised mouse in Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and Jane. (The issue of brown never seemed to crop up for Annie).


Pocahontas was my first chance of being a Princess. She was brown! (Despite the rest of the Red Indians being well...red. Pocahontas managed that much desired caramel complexion). This was my moment to step out of the 'little fat' rut and find my inner princess. My dreams were quickly dashed.  I was labelled Niko...the fat racoon, that steals biscuits. No guesses as to who was Pocahontas. I'm not going to lie, when a gust of wind catches my hair and it gets all swept up, for a nano second I feel like Pocahontas.

Then I realise she has cheek bones, she sprints through the woods, she has a hotty like John Smith who totes adores her, and my hair is not quite as sleek as hers. The reality: when it does get caught up in a gust of wind it normally ends in me having to brush out my hair resembling now a fro and leaving me with severe arm cramp. Oh when will my life become glamorous.

Jasmine was just as quickly out the window, she constantly had her toned abs on show. Even at the age of 8 a bikini gave me an anxiety attack. I much preferred my crochet yellow one piece, whilst Annie tottered around in her polka dot bikini. It's fine though, she can't swim for shit, I felt better about that.

Then along came Hercules. Probably my favourite Disney film, so much so it inspired my degree - although I learnt nothing about Zeus in my degree...what a load of shit that was. The songs, the pecs, the witty one liners - the film had it all. It also had an array of beautiful (dark sinned!!) muses who sang all the great songs (which of course I still know all the words to), but alas there had to be one fatty in the film, who of course in the game of who's who...was me.

Undoubtedly she had the best voice, and the best personality but she also had thunder thighs and a jelly belly. My thinspiration is the middle Muse. She has no waist and seemingly no knees. All my other friends were the sexier Muses and of course Meg was off limits - too white, way too skinny (she was deffs ano), so like or not if I wanted a part... I was the chunkier Muse.

Although Disney has been a source of much happiness in my life, it has also perhaps without ever realising until it has been written down...scarred me for life. The next Disney film, better be about an Indian princess (who looks like Adriana Lima) who marries Jonny Wilkinson (or now Michael Phelps), has four Ralph Lauren looking children, has a holiday home in Malibu and of course....lives happily ever after.

Until then I fear I will be forever cast as the little fat one.

Fatty BB xxx

Olympic Inspiration.

The healthy life is going well, I am pleased with my progress - however seeing all the adonises at the Olympics I think I need to step it up a gear if I'm going to pretend to be Phelps in the pool (my 25m time is actually identical to his 200m time - I know what are chances?!) The Olympics has been rather inspiring actually and although I have faced up to the fact that I will never be selected, as eating is not an Olympic sport ( so should be - Carb Queen would definitely win a medal), I have found that the athletes who have trained every day for the past for years to make their dreams come true a welcome inspiration...who am I kidding?! Jumping off my high horse the real reason I watch the Olympics because I get to see Phelps, Lochte, Le Clos, Daley (he's 18 its totally legal)and many many other hotties in teeennnnyyy tiinnnyyyy speedos. HELLO!

So back to my transformation from 'fat to fit' as I am reminded by Annie I seemed to have lost focus on the blog front, I'm just too easily distracted. I had my first personal trainer session last week, his name...Lewis Hamilton. That shit cray. Totally makes me Nicole Sherzinfgvefbweuifberuibf. Lewis is lovely, and despite my previous hopes that it would be a Jonny Wilkinson look a like and he would fall in love with my awesome personality and in a decade's time my Victoria Secret bod; I was actually very grateful that I did not fancy Lewis in the slightest. I could look like a beast on the treadmill and I didn't care. It was an hour sesh and it was the hardest hour of my life. I have not sprinted in a very, very long time. In fact it is hard to recall a time when I actually ran. At school I played a lot of sport where you are meant to run but somehow I managed not to.
Netball - Goal Shooter. Very limited movement needed. Stand in 1/3 of the court, catch the ball, shoot. Game over.
Hockey - Goal Keeper. I was pretty much as wide as the goal in padding so again limited running. Look like the terminator. Game over.
Squash - Hard hitter. Hit the ball harder than most girls. Hit it in the opposite place to where they are standing. Serve so they can't return. Game over.
Rounders - Bowler. Stand in a box. People bring the ball to you. Hit the ball so hard you have time to walk round. Game over.

On top of this I managed to escape the 1500m year after year, you gotta know which teachers to get in with - or if that fails you hide in the changing rooms for 2 hours whilst everyone else is subjected to torture in the rain. I'm not a runner, me and Usain would never work out. I am 'hand to eye' ball sport kinda girl, practiced frequently by playing against myself at Swing Ball...always win. This is why I am more suited to the Roddicks of the world, or Nadal he likes a good tan too. It's a mystery why they haven't come knocking yet.

I know my strengths, and it is certainly not running. So it came as a HUGE shock when I had to do interval training on the treadmill and he made me sprint. He kept saying "you're surprisingly fit!" - I'm not convinced this was a compliment. Yes, yes I am surprisingly fit for an Asian whale (coincidentally I am also very flexible for my size, I revel in touching my toes with ease when slimmer people can't!) The next day it was fair to say I ached from head to toe. BUT it put my gym fears to bed, and it motivated me further. But now I want a personal trainer everyday (so if you're a PT reading this...hit me up). My requirements are that you are friendly, you don't shout at me unless I'm being a lazy shit, you're hot but attainable and you don't make me go on the rower. Oh, and fall in love with me. I don't think I am asking too much.

My body is kind of in shock I think, it has never received this few a carbs, it gets breakfast although my smoothies haven't quite worked out well yet I need to work on my yoghurt to milk ratio and it's getting daily exercise. I have always really liked swimming, probably because that also does not involve running and because you are like a million times lighter in the pool, I can do handstands and tumble turns...it's a revelation! Can't do either on land though, bummer. However, I am starting to see a few problems with swimming that I am going to need to overcome:

1) The pool is disgusting. They don't have Molton Brown in the showers like my Leeds gym, I would even take Bayliss and Harding. I'm not asking for much here.
2) I prune an abnormal amount. I was swimming for nearly 3 hours but still my pruning compared to everyone else was extreme.
3) I am actually blind. Trying to swim one length without kicking someone or smacking a small child in the face is a rarity.
4) I keep cramping - someone enlighten me. Why do you cramp?
5) Chlorine burns my eyes like a biatch. I'm going to be one of those gimps with Zoggs goggles. As if I don't look cool enough as Shamu in the water already let's add some goggles so I entirely resemble a killer whale.

Oh well, suck it up Billie. If this is what has to be done to bag Michael Phelps I am on my way back to the pool now. Even if swimming does make me hungry and for some reason always makes me burp (god, I am painting such an attractive picture) it seems to be working, I am touching my toes way quicker than normal.

I shall continue my endeavours to turn Shamu into Flipper. One day.

Fatty BB xxx

P.S. Enjoy this little aesthetically pleasing treat.

Coconuts.

Currently topping up my tan in the garden with my trusty SPF 2 carrot oil, I can't help but think I'm not a very good Indian. As previously mentioned, most Indians I know revel in being fair skinned. Traditionally fair skinned = wealth. You were desirable because you didn't have to work in the sun, you were rich enough to just stay indoors and look pretty. I, on the other hand revel in the fact I am now using MAV NC50 foundation and dramatic leap up from my normal NC42 - it means I have well and truly tanned.This is the first nod towards 'Coconutism'. Despite my desire to permanently be a bronzed goddess and continually wear a watch during tanning hours to demonstrate to people that Indians really do tan, I feel this isn't exactly normal. Mainly because BBB constantly refers to me as having gone 'that dirty shitty colour' - I don't care I need vitamin D as much as the next person.

I have been labelled a coconut from a very young age, but my life as a coconut was highlighted last weekend whilst attending a family wedding. Indian weddings are hardly a low-key affair and absolutely terrible for the healthy eating, they are essentially and eating and drinking competition that spans over 5 days. Of course the good Indian girls don't drink, a small glass of champagne (most likely cava at these events) in a nod to the heavily adorned bride and groom is as far as it normally goes. This is why at these occasions I prefer to sit on BBB's table - guaranteed the heavier stuff. Friday night was the pre-wedding party. In my opinion a totally unnecessary aspect to an Indian wedding, but it gives the ladies and opportunity to wear the latest season saris and decorate themselves like a christmas tree, and the men further opportunity to cement the fact that all Punjabi men are alcoholics. Of course being a coconut my Indian ensembles are few and far between, I'm more of an 'asos' fan than a 'saree mandir' fan. Thus my Indian outfits are actually english dresses made Indian by my trusty tailor - Geeta. More resembling a confused Asian (pretty apt) than a Christmas tree I swanned into the party basking in my post Dubai glow- that was about the only thing going for me. I was greeted by some elder of the family who all know who I am and still insist on grabbing my cheeks (this does not make for a happy Billie - if I just spent the last 20 minutes bufferring layers of foundation into my skin I do not now want finger marks  ruining my supposedly flawless complexion - so inconsiderate). Then they try to talk to me in punjabi and in my pathetic attempt to be gracious I smile and nod not understanding a word and then suddenly they can speak English but the only words they know is "You should learn to speak Punjabi."  And the humiliation of being a coconut sets it. The only cure heavy doses of grey goose.

It's really not my fault that I am like this - BBB and Geeta this is kinda your fault too. We have an AGA, everyone in the family owns at least one Barbour, we read the Daily Mail, we shop at M & S, I am neither a doctor, lawyer, dentist or pharmacist. My dad calls himself Baz when his actual name is Balraj. If the above doesn't scream white middle-class suburbia I don't know what does. This is by no means saying that all Indian people are the opposite but I just feel like I'm lacking in something that makes me Indian. In fact here is a prime example: the house next to ours has been bought and demolished by an Indian family and it is currently the bane of my life, scaffolding is not a pretty tanning sight (neither am I to all the prying builder but I genuinely don't give a shit). The Indian owner of the house hates us, there are constant arguments between him and BBB, but shockingly (or perhaps not so shockingly at all) the owner has become best mates with the more traditional Indian family on the other side of the property. Haters.

Perhaps my coconutisms are down to the fact that I hate the movies, the music, the stereotypical way I am supposed be reserved and polite and all that bullshit  - when I'm loud, argumentative (only with BBB) and drink like a fish. But at this wedding I felt like the fish out of water. So I thought I need to at least and  take a leap into the Indian pool. When it comes to Indian food, I have absolutely no problems we are very well acquainted and having to say no to paneer was probably the hardest thing I did all weekend. 

But even punjabi dancing doesn't come easily to me, it's like every bone is my body does not want to conform. I desperately take to the dance floor hoping to simply blend into the crowd and drag my 3 year old cousin with me so I don't look like such a twat (my excuse being I'm taking him for a dance not in fact using him as a toddler sized shield for my terrible Indian dancing...) For everyone else the dancing seems so easy, but for me... not so much. Tripping over my own feet and attempting a half clap half arms in the air move, I find myself exasperated. Just play some bloody Beyonce - I'm good with that. Even on night's out at uni when for some unknown reason Gatecrasher would play Punjabi MC amidst the latest dance tracks everyone would look to me for inspiration on how to dance, and I would quickly throws my arms in the air and run to take cover at the bar. I'm just not a natural Indian.


Here is my attempt at being an Indian poser, photobooth is a dangerous game and yes my hair is now ginger/blonde my hairdress has now rectified the situation her words, 'Dubai got the better of the dip-dye'.

I can honestly say I attempted to rectify this situation this weekend - I even wore a bindi and it wasn't fancy dress. But it seems the only Indian in me is the ability to eat like and Indian and drink like a bloke. Sorry Indian ancestors....I will be bringing home a white boy, having a Babour and Ralphy clad family with 2 golden labs - but don't worry the kids will love a good curry, it's in their British heritage.

I will continue on in my coconut ways, take it or leave it (of course leaving the paneer - sob.)

Fatty BB xxx

Disaster in Dubai Part 2

Not had enough entertainment from the previous post? Well here is some more.


The three of us were being brats. Annie, Ashwin and myself headed to breakfast positively distraught from leaving the villa but my disposition was very much cheered up by the thought of breakfast. It isn't just your regular buffet breakfast at Jumeirah no, no no. The pastry counter rivals Harrods' entire bakery department and they also have a 4 tier chocolate fountain. I managed to resist - even for me, chocolate fountain is a little too much in the morning. There is Indian breakfast, Arabic breakfast, Malaysian breakfast, dim sum, chefs making you any and every kind of omelette that you like. 50 different types of cereal, 8 different types of juice and of course...full english. Every white person at the hotel, of course myself included head straight to the devil's corner - 'the pork station' to make up their full English. I'm hoping this needs no explanation since Dubai is a Muslim state...but if you're lost, be ashamed and google it. This is what I said to Ashwin when he didn't understand why the sausages and bacon were away from everything else. Lost cause.


I won't indulge what I ate for breakfast...let's just say I sampled many different cuisines including hash browns. Sorry. (IT'S MY HOLIDAY AND YES I'M USING SHOUTY CAPITALS.)
I felt much better after breakfast, all was rightly restored in the world as I was nice and full. But anguish     and heartache was not far behind my new found happiness. Geeta and BBB were no where to be seen at breakfast we presumed they had already gone to the pool. They hadn't gone to the pool, they had been extra sneaky and gone to the exclusive breakfast which was available to villa members (sob we weren't villa members anymore.) 'Why didn't you come to breakfast with us - the muffins were amazing.' Kill me, kill me now. I despair. No one bloody told us - that's why. Not impressed, everyone likes a blueberry muffin in the morning. After a long scalding look, I got over it as today I had a whole day of sunbathing - nothing but uninterrupted tanning. 


Trotting off to the pool, I scored a sun bed in direct 42 degree heat, no shade in site and right next to the pool. I managed about 4 minutes of the heat before I had to throw myself in the pool - about 2 hours later I had cooled down, and lost a contact lens...great start. But another dark cloud was looming, not a 'we will tempt you with this villa and then take it away from you' cloud or 'we just had the world's best muffins cloud', much, much worse. I was coming to the end of the 50 shades trilogy...WHAT THE HELL WAS I GOING TO DO NEXT?! 


By lunch time I had finished '50 Shades Freed'. I had read all three books in the space of 6 days. I am embarrassed and ashamed that I read them quicker than I read Harry Potter. With no more villa and no more Christian Grey life was surely not worth living. (Some people say I'm a drama queen, I think I'm a realist.) But luckily my ailment was quite quickly cured by making some pool friends. I love to be one of those people on holidays that makes friends, since I am a social butterfly (or at least I am in my own head, it seems natural). I am constantly mocked for this by my family though, just because of this one time. (I probably shouldn't divulge but since I lost all dignity in the first post what else do I have to lose?) 


I was about 7 and we were on a family holiday in Portugal with some family friends and of course I had made a friend...but my new friend just happened to be the waitress at the local indian restaurant, which of course BBB made us frequent on a daily basis. She was my friend because she brought me over extra ice-cream the first time we went there; she did this because I was the cutest chubbiest kid ever. See I have been doomed to be fat by all the people I have ever met. She proceeded to always give me extra food (god knows I didn't need it) and so I boldly proclaimed to my entire family and friends that she was my best friend forever. I even had a photo of me and her that sat proudly in my room for about 4 years...I don't even remember her name anymore. This time however food was not the binding force of the friendship, it was good old 50 Shades. If you haven't read it, read it. Trust me it doesn't take long (depending on how many cold showers you need). Suitably cheered up because I could now talk out loud about my love for CG, I decided to put 50 Shades to rest and started another book, 'Jemima J'. The plot was a harrowing mirror of my own life. 


Here is the plot synopsis: "Jemima Jones is overweight. About seven stone overweight.

Treated like a slave by her thin and bitchy flatmates, lorded over at the Kilburn Herald by the beautiful Geraldine (less talented, better paid), her only consolation is food. That and a passion for her charming, sexy colleague Ben. Her life needs to change and soon.

But can Jemima reinvent herself? And should she?" 

Ok I don't have evil flatmates, they are fab and I don't actually have a job but writing this blog = journalist, and I don't have a 'Ben' in my life. (I know it seems like actually the only comparison is both of us being overweight, but trust me it was like reading pages of my own diary.) So I was further motivated by Jemima J, then I got to thinking maybe I could email the author and say - fancy doing a sequel to your novel, 'Billie B'. What do you think? Times Best Seller? But then I also got to thinking without a hot guy in the midst it's going to be a pretty shitty book, and since no one is living up to my Christian Grey expectations, perhaps the book will have to be put on hold. 


I need to stop going off in tangets, sorry. Back to Doobs. The rest of the holiday went as any Bhatia occassion would. There were arguments, there were awkward silences over breakfast as we are a family of stubborn hot headed people, there was BBB getting inappropriately drunk on the way home - sat by himself three rows away from everyone else, there was Ashwin spending the entire holiday in his room watching 'Keeping Up with the Kardashian' and sauntering around in his dressing gown pretending he was Scott Disick and then was me moping in the pool, that no one would come and play catch with me so I could pretend I was Free Willy crashing the barrier as I lept up and splashed back into the water. Suitably sunned up to the point where I was referred to as turning that 'dirty dark colour' I packed up my shit and headed home. Laters Dubai. And DEFINITELY laters family holiday. 


Real world beckons, tan on and personal trainer sessions booked....I'm ready to be a grown up. 


Fatty BB xxx

Disaster in Dubai Part 1

It was always going to be a 'fighting temptations' week - and I'm going to be perfectly honest with you - I didn't put up much of a fight. After all it is a HOLIDAY, and my rules for healthy living/ eating just weren't transferable across continent. Plus is was just too hot to not eat ice cream, like it would have been dangerous for my health if I didn't - combustion was on the cards at one point, so I had  to cool my body down some how and the pool was at least 30 metres away at that point.

So we landed in Dubai, excitement didn't quite come close, I was giddy. So excited to be reunited with Jumeirah luxury and genuinely throw myself into the pool (hold back that little chortle, everyone loves a wave pool.) However, nothing runs smoothly on a Bhatia family holiday and nothing ever goes to plan. Last year I went to Dubai with Geeta, Annie and my aunty and 2 cousins - best. holiday. ever. Flight was a delight (minus the hands swelling as casual nosebleed - such a gracious flyer), zoomed through passport control and when we arrived at the hotel we were upgraded to an incredible 3 bed suite with a balcony that was the size of half a football pitch. It was actual perfection. This year did not as smoothly.

Passport control was the first disaster. We joined the queue of what happened to be the slowest moving man ever. I think there was a competition between the security to see who could take the longest to get through the people and piss as many of us off as possible. He was an arrogant twat, to put it mildly. One thing that you must note is that in his old age BBB (Big Bad Baz) absolutely has to have things his way and his tolerance level is none existant. His 'tuts' were getting louder and louder and he constantly eviled the security man at the front. By this point I was genuinely concerned we were going to get deported and I was going to have no tan at all. An hour later we finally got to the front of the queue, I had to stifle my tears that I was missing valuable tanning time plus the fact I was grouchy as I was yet to have breakfast. I quietly went through security and gave my best 'I'm lasering the shit out of you' eye squint. But it was Annie that took it to another level.

Now you have to remember despite Dubai being a playground for the rich, or simply the destination of choice for the Bhatia family year after year, it is also a very strict country - it does not condone such frivolous rubbish as '50 Shades of Grey'. So what does little old Annie do, trot up to the counter which she can barely see over and slams her copy of the book on it. I thought she was going to get shot. Luckily the arrogant idiot seemed perfectly illiterate. She then proceeded to mouth off to the ARMED GUARD - good one Annie, good one. Kicking and screaming we dragged her away otherwisde holiday was over before it had even started.

Despite the slowed down start I was still optimistic that this holiday was going to be epic. Silly Billie.

We got to the hotel and BBB tried to wheel and deal himself the same upgrade we had last year but it was not going to plan; by this point I just wanted to eat and get in pool, what's a girl got to go through to get a bloody tan!! (I am aware that this is novel for most Indians who actually attempt to stay fair - no idea why they do this. Tanning is by far my favourite past time.) It would seem that my fortune was about to change I could hear BBB closing the deal on one of the hotel villas, my ears pricked up when I heard '24 hour butler service', 'complimentary high tea' and 'happy hour cocktails'. SCORE. Just the news I needed.

So here is a picture of the villa...

Yup amazing right? Don't get too used to it.
I made that mistake.
Revelling in how gorgeous the villa was... it was all too quickly snatched from beneath my feet. BBB thoroughly enjoyed happy hour - perhaps a little too much. In his inebriated state he thought actually he was paying too much extra for the villa and decided he wanted to move back to the hotel.
I know, I gasped just as loud as you too, in fact I did a little more I may have got a little verbal. I'n not helping my bratty image.
Imagine how I felt. No more 24 hour butler (which meant no midnight twirl, or no more 8 cups of hot chocolate for Ashwin). It was a sad day. I only got one sleep in the glorious villa - thank god it was Annie on the shit bed - I got that beauty.

The following morning dragging our feet we slumped back to the hotel, I deserve a slap really, the hotel is amazing and I am very luck to have stayed there, but sometimes it is fun to play the brat.

The rest of the holiday I was very well behaved - that is until Part 2. Stay tuned kids.

Fatty BB xxx

How to holiday with the Bhatias.

I actually attempted to blog on holiday, I wrote a draft on the plane but then got preoccupied with 40 degree heat. Tanning was far more important than blogging - although I think, as always, I took it a tad too far perhaps the SPF 2 oil spray wasn't really needed as now I'm as dark as the night sky.

But I shall attempt to give you an account of what a Bhatia family holiday is like. By the end of this post I'm sure there will be a queue of people wanting to go on the next family holiday....

"This is currently being written on the plane and it is quite miraculous that I am able to write at all since my hands have inevitably swollen to the size of baseball mitts. I hardly have slender hands, fingers, or in fact thinking about it I hardly have slender anything. I think the most slender paart of my body are my eyebrows (my eyebrows are my pride and joy, they are my one redeeming facial feature.) So anyway my even fatter than normal cumberland fingers at the ready here is how a Bhatia family holiday rolls. Everyone in my family knows I HAVE to have the window seat. It's tradition, I will genuinely fight you for it now and throw the biggest tantrum if I don't get the window seat. Now I don't think I'm a brat (Shariat does) but there is no budging when it comes to the window seat - I will full on be a brat. Much to my dismay there were no window seats available on the flight! I wiped my tears and in my head bitch slapped the lady that was sat by the window on my row of seats, if I could I would have thrown myself to the ground and protested that she moved - but I don't do that anymore, not in the last few months at least.

I was lucky though, very lucky in my flight companion - I got Geeta. Without a doubt the best flight buddy out of the family.
This is why:
Big Bad Baz - two fatties together = a very uncomfortable flight and a persistent fight over the arm rest. Not only is that, but he is incompetent when it comes to working any kind of technology. So every 10 seconds its, "Umm Billie how do you get the films on?" "Ummm Billie where is the volume?" "Ummm Billie I don't like this film, put another on." "Ummm Billie I'm out of wine, get me some more". Get the idea? Nightmare. 
Annie - if you dare even touch her (and completely by accident), slightly brush against her you will get nail marks in your arm and constant evils throughout the journey.
Ashwin - I guess he isn't that bad, but he complains A LOT that he has no leg room and again fall asleep on his side and you will receive a sharp elbow to the ribs. However on this flight his 2 main concerns were watching 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians' and flirting with the Emirates staff.
So safe to say, I did well. Geeta doesn't complain, she let's me fall asleep on her side without any damage to my arms or ribs (not that she would be able to elbow far enough to reach my ribs) AND she brings the drinks and sweets.

The food has arrived. Eurgh. You might be surprised to hear that I actually hate aeroplane food. I know me hate food? Who would have thought. It's gross. It's not even real. The only good bit is the cheese and crackers. So there I was happy as could be, crackers in hand and watching 'Tarzan', occasionally forgetting that it wasn't socially acceptable to know all the words to the Phil Collins songs and sing out loud. Thinking this is going to be a GREAT family holiday - everyone in good spirits and huge amounts of sunshine waiting on the other side."

I must have got too carried away with the Disney Classics on the inflight entertainment and my cheese and crackers to blog anymore.
So until the next episode which I'm thinking should be aptly named 'Disaster in Dubai'.

Who wants to come on a family holiday now?!

Fatty BB xxx