The Family Resemblance

I definitely, definitely pulled the short straw, or rather the fat straw on this one.

Wherever I go one of the first comments I get is: "You certainly take after your father don't you!"
This is perfectly acceptable to say to boys - broadly speaking, but less so for 22 year old girls when your dad look like this....

BIG BAD BAZ

So there he is - daddykins. Who I fondly refer to a 'Big Bad Baz'. (Not so fond when my phone is blaring on a Saturday morning after Fruity and I look at the screen and it says 'Big Bad Baz is calling' at which point I get to happily ignore him.)

Now I get some of the similarities which my father has to happily bestowed upon me: rather rotund frame, dark hair, both Indian. But REALLY?! I do think when people say 'spitting image' they are just out to deliberately make me cry. 

My mum on the other hand: small, petite, high cheekbones, creative flair, culinary genius -the list goes on. Cross reference those to myself. 

Small - nope, not at all. Except I have abnormally small baby toes. 

Petite - that word only enters my vocabulary when describing Chihuahuas, or quickly walking past the 'petite' section in topshop

High cheekbones - I think I can somewhere feel cheekbones under my chubby cheeks but in now way are they prominent features. 

Creative Flair - Now I do like to think I am creative but this is more of a subjective opinion. I think creative is downloading the colouring-in app on my ipad, whereas mum draws for fun.

Culinary Genius - well we were bound to have something in common.

But I feel its fair to say, I inherited my dad's genes. Thanks dad, thanks a lot. You gave me the metabolism that mirrors the speed of a tortoise. 

The clearly uncanny likeness between me and my dad is getting so bad that I was even recognised at Law School in Leeds with no Baz present. 

I was moderately excited for my lunch with the Attorney General and the Solicitor General, because I had been a keen bean at the beginning of law school and wanted to get involved, a decision I regretted almost instantly. So suited and booted I sat down and in bounds a few rather plump and important looking men. One of them parked himself opposite me and introduced himself as the Solicitor General (didn't actually know what that meant but presumed he was some kind of big dawwg). He had that public school boy act down to a tee and blathered on about how his daughter went to Leeds university to do journalism...snore, snore, snore. So having fully introduced himself he then proceeded to make the three of us on the table introduce ourselves - the usual: where you are from, interest in the law (slightly difficult for me as I have very little interest in the law -but you know gotta make that shit up) So it was my turn and I said I was from Leicestershire (never want to say just Leicester as it has bad connotations, so I pretend I'm more rural than I probably am). The SG was then completely interested as it turns out I fell under his constituency. It all went down hill from there. 

He looked at ny name tag (probably inappropriately placed right on my boob rather than above...awks), then looked at my face, looked at my name tag/boob and then said to me 'No relation to Baz are you? I am sensing a family resemblance.'

Thanks SG you basically said I looked like a Mexican bandit with an overgrown tasche. Needless to say I was quite literally overshadowed from that moment on. Daddy there is no escaping you. Of course dad thought it was hilarious - he loves to be the centre of attention even more than I do.

I suppose being the mini (more a term of phrase than an actual assessment of our frames) Big Bad Baz isn't all bad, it does mean for the most part I outsmart my brother and sister into making them do things for me. But I'm not going to lie getting mum's physical genes would have made my teenage years a lot less challenging. 

Well, you're on your own now pops. The only resemblance there is going to be now is when I am in dire need of my upper lip waxing. 

Fatty BB xxx

The 'Before' Picture

You see the 'before' pictures for plastic surgery where they deliberately make the person look shitty in every way possible. If it's a plastic surgery for a face lift the before picture has the poor victim looking bleary eyed, no make up, dark circles under their eyes, greasy hair etc. Then they hit you with the after picture hair professionally styled, full face of airbrushed make up, whiter teeth - before you have even considered the fact they have had a face lift you automatically thing 'WOW they look amazing, and everyone from aged 21-60 wants a face lift. I don't need a face lift - the fat in my face is filling out any wrinkle there could possibly be.

The before photo for weight loss I think is even worse. Most often you see the before picture with the poor middle aged woman forced to wear a nike crop top and ill fitting tighter than tight gym pants so that her middle tyre is firmly protruding, and in most cases hanging over the gym pants. Her back boobs are clearly on show, and her cellulite is bursting through the leggings. I'm not doing that shit.


I do have a little self-respect, just a smidgen. No way, not ever will you find me in one of the those terrible before pictures with all parts that should never be seen, bulging in every direction. I don't even wear that stuff to the gym (unless it is covered by a baggy tshirt..., who am I kidding I was a terrible gym member.)  I would never subject you poor souls to that kind of photo. I promise it would give you nightmares - I shudder at the thought. 


So I intend on picking a glamorous before photo. Not one that I have photoshopped to make me look like something I am not...(nope, never done that before...), but a quite realistic picture, not necessarily a hideous one. By no means am I suggesting that this picture has the potential to be slapped on the cover of August's edition of Vogue with the title 'Sizzling Summer Style', but you know its a PPP (potential profile picture).

So, without delay - here is...ME.

It's not the best picture to be perfectly honest but its the latest one I have of myself, but you don't get the  full flowing effect of my diva skirt and by this point I had drank the best part of a bottle of vodka (In fact its probably best there are no flowing skirt pics as I kept stepping on the skirt and pulling it down - always so graceful). But have a good long look -not too long, envy is not an admirable trait and say GOODBYE, SO LONG, FAREWELL FATTY!

I know, I know you are all thinking - what on earth is she talking about she is so stylish and so cool. HA, I WISH. Just go back on my facebook photos and you will see my life as a fashionista has pretty much only just begun. I am really not advocating that you do 'go back in time' on my profile as I fear you wont want to be my friend after you see that I thought it was cool to go on a night out...in white linen trousers. I shudder. And for those who have known me for a while - I am more than thankful that my hair has grown. For 18 years I thought it was perfectly normal to have a bob, it really wasn't. I am hardly the plus size Rachel Zoe but be grateful I don't try and squeeze myself into a corset. But give me time you won't know what's hit you. 


Fatty BB xxx

When bad things happen to really really good people.

I'm the really really good person - just to clarify.

So I had been good all week - floor shaking workout videos and healthy living all round (minus the hiccough with the Perinaise but I cleared my guilty conscience by telling you, so that doesn't count.) Then I headed to London for Harriet's birthday, I tried to keep a positive mental attitude. My mantra for the weekend was, 'CARBS ARE THE ENEMY, VODKA LIME AND SODA IS YOUR FRIEND'. But karma was not so good to me. Like I mentioned before it seems I am always fighting temptations, I am Jesus on day 6 of being in the desert. All Jesus wanted was some ice cold water, all I wanted was a Kettle chip. So of course, hostess Harriet comes trotting out with two huge great bowls of kettle chips. Waaaaahhhhh. I'm not going to lie...I died a little bit inside. Instead of caving I hit the homemade raspberry daiquriris...hard.

So I casually stuck my middle finger up to my first temptation - no kettle chips even entered my personal pace.However, the second was much MUCH worse.

It was cake.

I'm sure you know the famous phrase: 'I love you like a fat kid loves cake' - it's not really bullying because its 100% true. I love cake, you love cake too. Even Victoria Secret models eat cake. It happens to the best of us. Her pre cake picture is a little better than mine though, namely because mine is my mother's first sonogram and I'm pretty sure I didn't have wings. It was a downward spiral from then.

To further add insult to injury, it wasn't just any cake. It was an absolute masterpiece made by Hatti. What was even more astonishing is that such a tiny person could make such a BIG cake - a three layered black forrest gateau. Here have a look, see whether you would have been able to resist, because guess what folks....I DID!!

Wipe away your drool, both lots - Rosie drool and cake drool. Are you proud? I am, I am, I am. Saying no to cake for me is like saying no to free money - it is almost impossible.

However, Harriet then ruined all my hard temptation-beating work by making me go to a restaurant that had a set menu, of which the only think I could eat was risotto. I know, I slapped my wrists too. The other options were roast dinners or seafood linguine. Why not go for the linguine, you might say. As well as many other unfortunate traits (mainly from being Indian) I am also allergic to shellfish and in fact most kinds of fish; surprisingly though battered fish seems to take no effect....odd. If you have ever seen the film 'Hitch' that may give you some indication as to how I look after shellfish has been consumed. I may already have a rather round and chubby face but I promise you it gets A LOT worse.

I'm hoping by this point, you think : you know what it's OK that Billie had to eat that risotto because aside from being a fabulous friend by driving 4 hours to central London for one night, it's clear she really tried the rest of the weekend to resist temptation. I agree with all of you who think this, I mean hello gold star for me! BUT of course karma is a BITCH.

Payback for eating risotto:
My contact lens splitting in my eye 20 minutes into a 5 hours journey back home. 
Not only was the pain excruciating, my eye was leaking black stinging tears. (You know in Mulan, when Mulan throws the tea on the teacher woman right at the beginning and her make up slides down her face?...just saying). Being blind in one eye whilst trying to navigate your way through central London when all the tomtom says is 'Bear left...then keep right' is somewhat of a challenging task. (Yeah, you said in a tomtom voice).

For whoever really wanted to smite me down, I have learnt my lesson again - never let Harriet choose the set menu. Risotto we are no longer friends - you are not worth my sight or looking like a drowned overweight geisha. Neither of these traits are attractive.
Let's hope tomorrow brings better things for really really good people.

Fatty BB xxx

My Latest Love Affair

For those reading this that know me, you will know there is always a ‘love of my life’, for the most part this changes on a weekly basis; as Rupert Cox will vouch the love of my life changed once on an hourly basis. It’s fine, we became best friends – it would have been a disproportionate match anyway, I’m short and fat and is tall and (for most of the year) a lean machine . That being said my latest love affair in diet world is home made Nando’s. Now being Asian it seems it is my prerogative to love Nando’s. I challenge you to walk into a Nando’s and it not be 75% filled with Asians, what can I say – we love Portuguese inspired chicken.  So grilled Portuguese chicken in hand and a plate of salad I thought I was doing more than well. No. No, I wasn’t. There was one fatal flaw in my otherwise perfectly healthy meal…PERINAISE. If you haven’t tried it you haven’t had the real Nando’s experience. But take caution. 

We have a problem in our house – along with my title of ‘Carbohydrate Queen’ comes the title of ‘Condiment House’. No meal is complete without a dose of mayo, ketchup, salad cream, light mayo, horseradish sauce, lea & perrins, anything else you can think of….we’ve got it (even different sized Branston Pickle). So I trotted off to the supermarket and was suitably smug when I got to the checkout and my basket was made of vegetables, salad, marinade and a pot of perinaise (which clearly out of subconscious guilt I had hidden underneath the family sized bag of salad). I looked at all the other people on my checkout pulling ‘Chicago Town Pizza’ and haribo out of their basket and I judged them for it, I thought ‘FATTY!’ Obviously in their head they were thinking, ‘yeah about time get on those greens, love’. But this didn’t even cross my mind, no I was loving life as the superior shopper, shame I was only in Asda this would definitely have had more impact in Waitrose.

Happy with life I went home and found my new best friend (like all best friends, this one totally supports my new relationship with Nandos). Meet my Bessie: George Foreman. What a man. However when cleaning the GF with the possibility of electrocuting( as this one time…the plug fell in the sink) I choose to use the Griddle Pan (the more boring friend but the one that would ALWAYS be there). So mindless ramblings aside I did make Nando’s for the whole family on 2 separate occasions (and of course was congratulated on my supreme culinary skill, griddle pans can be surprisingly challenging) only to find the entire tub of Perinaise RINSED. Two sittings it took. Then I made the even more fatal error of not only eating the perinaise, but I checked the calorific content….It wasn’t good, not at all. It was really, really bad. Big mistake, big....huge. 

For all the skinny minnies out there eat it to your heart’s content. For everyone else SPARSE is key, I’m talking pipette drops. I’m already feeling the effects definitely gone from a size 8 to a size 10. Damn it. 

Fatty BB xxx

I'm basically a Pussycat Doll

In an effort to already spice up my 'diet life', I have taken to exercise videos. There are a number of reasons for this but mainly that I am unemployed and cannot afford a gym membership, and although my dad has kindly offered to pay for my gym membership I rather he save to buy me a new Audi A3. Just saying. 

Now the PCD workout dvd has become a firm favourite of mine, it mixes sexy dancing with more sexy dancing and the occassional feather boa (we used scarves, the feathers would have just made us irritable when so sweaty). I wouldn't say I was a natural mover, at school I was mocked for my signature move; that being standing in the middle of a club, pout firmly on and one hand in the air. Occasionally swaying from side to side depending on the number of then VKs I had consumed. Whilst my skills have little improved, I do believe the PCD workout video has taught me a thing or two - 'the snake', and the 'pop it, push it, grind it, slap it'. Normally I am not alone in doing this workout, my housemates have often joined in the slutty fun, but yesterday I attempted it alone. It was not quite at the same level of success and was definitely not as entertaining as it usually is. Normally we are so good at it, Alice and I have frequent routine offs in the kitchen - the only way really to perfect the hair swishing snake. 

Instead yesterday, I heard my dad shout from his office, 'Billie, why is the floor shaking?!' Clearly my criss cross jump was a little over enthusiastic. To add to the disastrous workout the builders from next door were definitely watching and most definitely laughing.T further add insult to injury I caught a glimpse of myself snaking in the mirror and whilst I normally think, 'yeaahhh I look HOT', yesterday I simply thought, 'you twat, put some make up and a sports bra on'. 

HOWEVER this moment of self loathing and obvious bad light will not deter me. It will only make me stronger. Laugh at me all you want middle aged grotesque builders I am going to look like Rihanna and then when you see me snake and  'pop it, push it, grind it, slap it', HA you will not be able to contain yourselves. 

But for now I might stick to Davina and in the lounge, less opportunity for pervert and floor shaking.  If you're feeling brave check out the link to the best part of the workout, try it on a night out - it will most definitely score you at least one jaeger bomb. 

Fatty BB xxx

I'm just fighting temptations...

So my idol Bey says, 'I'm just fighting temptations, you gotta get more control'.
This precisely mirrors my feelings today...and it's Day 1 of PROJECT RIHANNA. Everyone in my family knows about me wanting to lose weight and shape up, mainly because they all bully me about it constantly (I'm such a middle child). So why is it then when I come home do I find a plate of cupcakes to welcome me!?
How kind.
I feel less like Carrie Bradshaw and more like Jesus embarking on his 40 days in the desert. Selfish gits. So of course I go a little closer to inspect the devilish treats and possibly give them a smell. That familiar guilty feeling hits me in a big cupcake shaped wave, NO I DON'T WANT TO EAT YOU. Of course this is a lie but boy did it feel good. Cupcakes = carbs....I just said no to carbs. I'm basically a saint.

So on a less angelic point....I have a confession. Although today I feel fabulously superior to all human beings because I have been good and healthy for one day, those two words did by not means enter my vocabulary this weekend. No way, not even close, maybe once actually to comment on how deliberately unhealthy I am being. Its like when an addict is about to enter rehab, obviously they are going to get as many hits as possible before they know they are going to give it up. So that it exactly what I did. I got my hit...of Ben and Jerry's. On further contemplation of these two wonderful men in my life, I would go so far as to consider them my soul mates. They have been in there in my darkest times and have offered me small chunks of cookie dough if only to briefly cheer me up. They have also been there in times of utter enjoyment, like when watching the Wedding Date or Step up, a combination that can never be beaten. But carb rehab has been entered and the first step is recognition that you have a problem and coming up with a solution.

So here is my solution: find a new soulmate. I have changed what I normally go for, instead of chunky and full of sugar I'm now looking at a life with the lanky green sorts like rocket. I'm happy about this - I see us having a good future together, one where there is no concern about diabetes.

New soulmate in check the fight to stomp on all temptations is firmly on, bring it on complex carbohydrates and over sugary treats, I'm ready for you.

Fatty BB xxx

'Carbohydrate Queen'

So tomorrow is the day. The day that my body has waited for, for 22 years...having written it down like that I feel it's a little overdue. Excited doesn't quite fit the emotional bill, I'm nervous. Like any other goal you set there is always the inevitable feeling that impending failure is a possibility. Over my somewhat premature life I have never been comfortable with the feeling on not reaching high standards ( it must be the Asian in me), in nearly everything I have done I have wanted to achieve the best that I could ( good Indian girls become doctors and lawyers, or if they have an identity crisis they do Classics...). For some reason I have never quite translated this theme to the physical aspect of my life.
I put this down to the fact I have been labelled the 'Carb Queen' from the age of... birth?! That should have been the indication as to why, by the age of 22 I really do resemble a potato - of the overgrown bulging sort, not the perfectly formed jersey royal (that's more the Kate Middleton's of the world). My potato double is that big jacket that you spot amongst the smaller jackets that is just a bit too large for lunch. Whilst the other jackets are filled with tuna and cottage cheese, mine is bursting with full fat butter and a hefty dose of cheddar.

BUT and here it is, I shall be the 'Carb Queen' no more. This realisation has come with a sharp intake of breath and to be honest, a loss of identity. I'll get over it, why you might ask - except for the obvious fact that this blog is about me getting fit (dumbass). The real reason: IM GOING TO LOOK LIKE RIHANNA. (with smaller nails because they are just grim). BRING. IT. ON.

Goodbye carbs... It's been a good run. I will miss you, I'm not going to lie but I deserve better.

Fatty BB xxx

I feel like Carrie Bradshaw

Well this is exhilarating isn't it?! I genuinely feel like a fat Carrie Bradshaw. I confess I have never actually been a 'Sex and the City' fan, growing up under the watchful drunk eye of Big Bad Baz good indian girls were never to watch such rubbish. But I know who she is and although I despise Sarah Jessica Parker, if I were a successful Manhattan writer with a wardrobe to die for I would be feeling somewhat how I feel now. Similar to how I feel when someone gives me a white magnum - sheer joy.

I need a signature sign off, gossip girl has one and she's almost as wise and important as me. Even Jerry Springer has a sign off! Thinking cap is firmly placed on ( see I knew this post was never going to top the first one, the excitement got the better of my wit). Got it. Eureka moment. Simplicity is key.

 "Fatty BB xxx"

Classier ring to it than 'can't afford lipo' or 'gastric band won't work'. No Fatty BB (bye bye, Billie Bhatia, Big and Beautil *cringe*...the BB limits are endless.)

Goodnight my children, Bradshaw is out of here,

Fatty BB xxx

The Pilot.

So here it is, the greatly overdue first blog. A bit daunting really - you want to sound clever and witty but to start off so strong would mean all the following blogs have to beat it. Low expectations is the way forward keep it simple...so here it is: the blog that is going to out do all other 'fatty blogs'. See, starting very low on the expectation front, I will be over the moon if only one person reads it (mum that's you). This blog is going to detail my story from FAT TO FIT. It has been acknowledged that although practically perfect in every way I do need to shed a few pounds here and there...just a few.

Before the epic story starts, like any great novel (as this is likely to be...) one must set the scene. Currently I have self-diagnosed myself with P.U.D.S. That being Post University Depression Syndrome - has a nice ring to it doesn't it?! I feel at a loss, my previous university life although chaotic and often shall we say lazy at times always had direction; whether that be direction to the library or direction to a bar. Now - I HAVE NO DIRECTION. 2 degrees down and I feel like I'm 17 again, living back at home and itching already to get out. I see musicians on stage, chefs on TV, actors at the cinema ALL YOUNGER THAN ME and all far more successful - why mum and dad did you give me no useable talents?! Being able to eat my body weight in cheese is not going to make me a celebratory, that is unless man vs food gets in touch for a female series. No no no Billie focus the name of this blog: FAT TO FIT. So yes depression in hand I am currently of the cheery status of unemployment. I have left university all of 10 days ago and I just want a job, that's all, don't think its very much to ask. The big ask comes with where I want a job. Without being too unrealistic I want a job in London, preferably with Vogue (would settle for Tatler) taking pictures of topless male models and being given Chanel handbags as incentives from work. Not too much to ask at all.

Get a grip I tell myself. Dreams do not come true. Not Mulberry and Chanel and Eddie Redmayne filled dreams anyway. The harsh reality: I need to get myself into shape before I get considered seriously for any job. Not very fair in this day and age with likes of sexism, ageism, perhaps I should suggest fatism and demand a job instead. I have already gone off on a tangent...I was setting the scene.
So at home, unemployed, overweight and despite the cheery disposition of this entry, unhappy.

This is all about to change and this blog is going to document it. You know the saying 'the diet starts on Monday'. Well I'm going to go one better...'the diet starts on Tuesday', when I get back from lashing in Bath ( going to keep living the uni dream for one more weekend). BOOM.