Alex Harries's diary

I am a fat b'stard. No, don't all rush to argue with me - it's the truth and one which stares at me every time I look down. Assuming stomachs can "stare"... Maybe they can't. I'll look for a better metaphor later...

Anyway, for the last six weeks-or-so, I've been doing something wholly unheard of for me - I've been voluntarily exercising, and watching what I eat and drink. Every single day. Shocking, but true.

One of the perks of being a Sabb Officer - and I'm eternally grateful that there are, comparatively speaking, quite a few - is that we're granted a membership to the University gym. Before now, I'd always regarded gyms as a cliquey place where "outsiders" were glared at until, out of sheer discomfort, they either threw themselves out of the nearest window never to be seen again, or simply gave up their dreams of living a healthy lifestyle, turning instead to drink and junk food.

Well, ok, *maybe* I was subconsciously hamming it up so I wouldn't have to venture into a gym myself, but I definitely never felt comfortable with the thought of rocking up to a gym with no idea how to work the machines, or what machines I should be working on. Basically, my fear of looking like a numpty got the better of me, although in all fairness I've had 26 years of practise at making a complete and utter tw*t of myself in public, so I'm probably not over-exaggerating the risks here... ;o)

Having done my gym induction with a handful of other equally lost-looking newbies at the Uni's St Paul's Gym - a scary enough prospect for me - I paid a few quid to have one of their staff members write up a programme for me. This is basically a one hour walk-around the gym kit - they ask what you're trying to achieve (for me it was simply "I'd quite like to lose some of this lard", although I was a bit disappointed to be told I couldn't bank on losing two stone in a week...), and based on your answers and your fitness levels, they pick out a series of exercises for you to work on when you come into the gym.

The only problem was getting over the instructor's advice not to look at my feet as I was running. Being an idiot - there's no other explanation for it - I then subconsciously made studying my feet a number one priority, nearly going base-over-apex into the window in front of me as a result.

For the record though, all the staff at the gym I've met so far have been friendly, helpful, and more than happy to show a complete newbie how to use a machine. No doubt they go back to their colleagues afterwards saying "I can't believe he didn't know how to turn on an exercise bike" (hint: start pedalling. Oh the shame...), but I can live with that as long as their derision isn't too overt.

Anyhoo, to cut an ever-lengthening (and no doubt extremely boring from start to anti-climactic conclusion) story short, I didn't collapse, wheezing and panting, after running a hundred metres. I didn't trip over my laces and headbutt the treadmill (although I nearly have done, several times a day). And no, I haven't found God or seen The Light. But the training's definitely having a positive effect. Until last week I was making it to 8km a day, but my leg's given up on me, so the treadmill's become my new home for the time being.

In case you're wondering, this healthy living kick didn't come about out of thin air - I kinda figured out that the combination of smoking, eating junk, living almost all of my waking life in the office, consuming so much caffeine on a daily basis that I resembled a particularly angry version of South Park's Tweek, and my general inability to "do" relationships of any sort - or even conversations, truth be told - was placing me squarely into a very grumpy downward spiral. That, and the fact I was less than impressed that I weighed 91 kilos (14 stone, 5 lbs), according...

A few days ago I looked downwards and had to lean over my ever-growing gut to see what shoes I had on (flip-flops, of course), so yesterday I decided to make an effort to start getting fit. In all fairness, Ed & Rep Sabb Andy Machin was also starting his training regime, so I've really just stolen his idea. Given how much I smoke, I decided cycling might be better than running for my knees and pride (since collapsing in a crying heap wheezing for breath before I get to the end of my road is ... well, rubbish).

So, yesterday was cycling day, and pelting off down the seafront for a sprint/cruise/sprint session was going fine until My New Best Mate decided to pull out right in front of me in his shiny new BMW while following his mate (also in a BMW) out of a side road. Cue the only perfectly-formed string of expletives I've ever shouted at anyone in my life without a rehearsal; his face was a picture. So was mine, I imagine....

Today was spent wheezing up and down the local swimming pool with Andy, and since I was late (as always), he'd done 32("-ish") lengths by the time I'd done 1. I managed 11 and decided to call it a day before I drowned - something tells me I need a bit more commitment here...

Meanwhile, back at work, I've been getting more than a little twitchy, thanks to a combination of some extra-potent filter coffee and a backlog of e-mails and to-dos which I'll probably be working on until midnight tonight. I've also been trying to tie up a number of loose ends left over from last year's web work, and get some new projects rolling, with the end result that I've been sending out literally hundreds of e-mails to my unfortunate colleagues, several of whom have now no doubt put me on their junk e-mail list, so this (from the BBC News Magazine) made me grin a bit today...

Anyway, there's no real point to all this rambling, but I guess I ought to mention what I've been up to over the last couple of weeks, since that is (so I'm told) the reason for this blog...

NUS Communication In Action training, Loughborough Uni

Interesting and good fun, and I think I picked up a load of very good ideas. The last day included a debate over how much control the Union's executive should exert over its media, i.e. should the Sabbs have the right to, for example, veto something they don't like? How about something they know is libellous? Illegal?

On the other hand, how much right should the Union's media - for example, the student newspaper/magazine - have to say what it likes, and to ignore the wishes of the exec?

This generated a lot of debate, but (imvho) I suspect in practise that the media should be allowed to write whatever it likes - within some bounds of reason I won't claim to know as intimately as our more experienced staff do, but also that the Sabbs - who have been elected by the whole student body to represent their views and needs - should also have the ability to have items published as long as it's in the student body's best interests.

As always, it's a bit of a balancing act...

Scouts' Jamboree, Essex

I was also shipped off to the Scouts' Centennial Jamboree by Making Waves, a PR company who do a lot of work with students, to do a spot of reporting on the event. Of course, not actually being a journalist of any shape or flavour, I felt like a total fraud all weekend, but managed to write copious pages of notes and will hopefully be able to write My First Feature with the results.

While I was there I also met a lot of the Sabbs who are heading off to Ibiza to promote the About 535 more words in this entry