Guest Post: The Curse of the Chubby Lastborn (and How to Break it)

12 Dec

It’s only just over a month until our 5km race. Last week, The Grit Doctor’s agents joined the RFBR training regime . . .


In the years I’ve spent politely refuting any hereditary ties to Judaism (I have a ‘distinctive’ nose), being propositioned by men in skull caps, and heckled outside my University Christian Union (‘Jesus was the Son of God! right, thank you), I’ve also secretly harboured an affinity with all things Jewish. Jews are bookish; I am bookish. Jews make good chicken soup (I’m told); I make good chicken soup (I’m told). The Jews fell victim to God’s judgement and were blighted by a fateful plague which struck down every firstborn in Egypt; I was struck down with the lesser known, but truly momentous curse – that of the Chubby Lastborn.


Nowadays I’m not fat. And I’m not deluding myself either, Grit Doctor, I promise. I went to the mirror, like you told me to. I took all my kit off, had a look and thought, fair to middling. I was a little pudding, however, as a child, and so will probably forever see myself as the ugly duckling amongst my four sisters, who in their youth and to this day are very beautiful. Beautiful Bitches.


There’s one who is especially problematic for a Chubby Lastborn, however. She is Skinny and Beautiful. And don’t get me wrong, I love that bitch. But it is hard to feel the love when, aged 8, your sister gets to play Belle when you have to play every other character in your Christmas rendition of Beauty and the Beast, or at 14 when she comes back from a 5IVE concert at Wembley having been ‘spotted’ by Storm modelling agency (your only comparable experience was being spotty), or aged 16 when she whines that you have ‘stretched her clothes’ (I had). More recently, it’s been hard to love the Skinny Beautiful Bitch’s extreme weight loss advice. Like I say, I’m not fat, but after a masochistic girl-perve session on the American Apparel website, faddy diets happens to the best of us.


Historically, I’ve always turned to her for advice. And turned away again, and then turned to her, and then away again. I have the stretch marks to prove just how much yo-yo dieting I’ve done. The best analogy I could give would be one of those bungee runs, with an Elle Macpherson body suit at the end you run towards. We know the how it ends. The SBB’s regime, though, involves precisely no exercise. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that her methods are miserable. There is nothing funny about channelling the inner bitch to drive a starvation diet (ask Michael Fassbender).

Having just had a sneaky sneak preview of Run Fat B!tch Run at work, I’m well placed to say that whilst the Grit Doctors’ regime is hardcore (40 minutes three times a week?!!), and her means of channelling the inner bitch borderline schizophrenic (isn’t talking to yourself in the mirror the step before the tinfoil?), it is also very funny, and therefore – provided you possess a healthy sense of humour – achievable and sustainable.


And so for me, as it will do for you once you READ THE BOOK, it has begun. On Friday I had pleasure of going for a run with the real Grit Doctor (gritty), I skipped Saturday (skipped the run that is, I couldn’t move for s**t), and managed a 30 minute trot to the shops on Sunday. I had a shower, looked in the mirror, laughed, and told myself that ‘this fat bitch is gunna sort it out for Christmas’. Then I ate a chocolate truffle (the book says ok) and packed the trainers in the following day’s work bag. Like I say, it has begun. And I feel good.


The SBB’s strategy (the one I’ve been following sporadically my whole adult life) is nothing short of horrifying, and this is simply because it lacks The Grit Doctor’s vital element at the bitch-channelling stage – a sense of humour. I must say at this point that my sister the SBB is actually tremendously funny herself, and has a wicked sense of humour. This can only mean she self-administers some sort of irony-lobotomy when she wants to really jumpstart a starvation session (a week or so of 600-calories-a-day evil suffering, with wonderful short-term effects). When my sister needs to harness her inner bitch, she follows this simple (no-fat) recipe.


1. Lying on the bed, legs bare and stretched out in front of you, rub thighs together.

2. Tell yourself you’re fat.

3. Rub thighs harder and faster, really soaking in that sense of disgust at the wobble.

4. Rub harder, fatty.

5. When thighs are red with chafe, swiftly move to the kitchen and remove all fun food from the cupboards.

6. Sleep.

7. Repeat on daily basis until thighs are firm and thin.



This recipe is proven, but I really hate it. And I never keep it up, because, deep down and no matter what people (my boyfriend) might say to the contrary, I am just too rational for this lunacy. The Grit Doctor, in effect, has made some subtle but revolutionary alterations to the SBB’s no-fat recipe. At stages 2 and 4 of the process, she insists that you laugh, and at stage 5, she replaces the kitchen cull with a 30-40 minute run. Two secret ingredients – laugh and run.


I have a copy of Run Fat B!tch Run on pre-order for my sister. Being both militant and amusing, she should, in theory, be the perfect candidate for success. As for me, I owe one to the Grit Doctor. She plays the wicked fairy well (incidentally, a skinny bitch with a penchant for targeting the unsuspecting firstborn) with her tough talk in CAPITAL LETTERS and the no-pain, no-gain, NO-BULLS**T tactics. But in my case of the Chubby Lastborn, Run Fat B!tch Run may be the spell that breaks the heavy curse.


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