Life on Tapp: It’s farewell pie and chips... now pass me the couscous

As somebody who has spent a lifetime worshipping at the high altar of gluttony, it’s no surprise that I have an uncanny knack of putting on weight.
By Jane Chippindale
Published 19th Sep 2023, 08:05 BST
Updated 19th Sep 2023, 14:14 BST
While I’ve, so far, resisted every temptation to step on the scales before the official weigh in, which is the only time I’ll ever feel like a heavyweight champion, I already feel much better than I did this time last week. Photo: AdobeStockWhile I’ve, so far, resisted every temptation to step on the scales before the official weigh in, which is the only time I’ll ever feel like a heavyweight champion, I already feel much better than I did this time last week. Photo: AdobeStock
While I’ve, so far, resisted every temptation to step on the scales before the official weigh in, which is the only time I’ll ever feel like a heavyweight champion, I already feel much better than I did this time last week. Photo: AdobeStock

Blaise Tapp writes: Ever since I discovered supersized kebabs and reassuringly expensive European lager in my teens, I’ve gradually developed the body shape of a moderately successful darts player. By my mid 20s, I was carrying more bulk than a heavyweight boxer, although my muscle profile was minimal, which is when I first decided to go on a diet.

Back then, the weight fell off – more than three stone in total – just in time for me to skip down the aisle with Mrs Tapp on our wedding day.

While I didn’t stay at my fighting weight for too long – honeymoon grub and endless post-nuptials takeaways put paid to that – I was always able to lose extra pounds if I really wanted to.

That was then, but since hitting 40, the battle against the bulge has become far more difficult, given the fact that I now have the metabolism of a hibernating tortoise and that our cupboards are filled with tasty treats that a sedentary middle aged man has no business eating.

My last visit to the bathroom scales convinced me that I could no longer carry on filling my face like it was Boxing Day every day and, with some gentle encouragement, I decided to go on my first diet since the days when I needed comb.

It’s the earliest of days so far but I’ve signed up to the slimming group for an initial six weeks, which at the very least, means a month-and-a-half of weighing out extra small portions of porridge, reacquainting myself with fruit and making a note of every single thing that passes my lips.

I’ve set myself a relatively modest target of losing two stone but the reality is that I probably need to lose double that if I want to keep my knees for another 40 years.

While it’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever see a photograph of a waif-like me in a newspaper, stretching the waistband of my old, giant trousers to emphasise my miraculous weight loss, I do feel quietly confident.

Who knows if I will achieve my target but, for now, it’s goodbye to fry ups and hello to low fat spray and plenty of couscous.