Who ate all the pies?
An Open Letter from a Double Fat Bastard.
A little something different today. I’m not quite sure where this fits in with my usual schedule of content, but it’s something that’s been on my mind and I wanted to find a way to talk openly about it. It’s only chaotic in the sense that it’s a little bit all over the place, but it’s intended to be an inspiration of sorts, if only to myself.
It’s not strictly poetry either, so I’ve included a related poem of mine at the end to restore balance to the universe. Not that any of us would notice the difference these days.
TWs: self-deprecation, body dysmorphia, diet culture, and Miss Trunchbull
Dieting is not to be trifled with… ooh! trifle!
Growing up in the late '90s and early noughties was to endlessly navigate a veritable no man’s land unduly laced with tripwires of body shaming and dietary obsession. The air was thick with the toxic fumes of diet culture – everywhere I turned, there were commercials promising miraculous weight-loss pills, magazines parading emaciated “heroin chic” models, and endless conversations about the latest fad diets. As a child, I absorbed these messages like a sponge, letting them seep into my skin and poison my self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became increasingly more torturous, each meal a skirmish in a war I didn’t understand but felt I was losing. I loved food, I always have, but I’ve lost count of the meals where I’ve heard a little voice in my mind pushing me to finish my plate with the words “You can do it, Bruce!” This little ritual has never once deterred me from adoring either Pam Ferris or Emma Thompson in the slightest. And never will.
Family dinners were fraught with minor comments about portion control (how many Yorkshire puddings?!) and the morality of food choices (but it’s good for you!) I’ve heard all the pithy catchphrases, "A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips," “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”, “you are what you eat”, but no such nonsense dare be suggested when Nana brings the trifle out at a family gathering. Not that I ever ate the trifle. I know about calculating sins, counting calories, and red & green days. I know about counting out sticks of carrot & celery into a cup, the same cup you’re later going to use to measure your one scoop of fat-free, sugar-free, flavour-free vanilla ice-cream. And look on longingly at everyone else’s seemingly bottomless bowls when they have chocolate sprinkles and salted caramel sauce drizzled lovingly over their mint choc chip triple scoop bonanza. I wasn’t in a weight loss club, but I read all the pamphlets, so I got all of the guilt with none of the little tokens. Never got my half stone sticker!
I do also have to add as a sidenote, none of this was helped by the fact that it’s a common greeting in the the UK (probably just up North, but I’m not 100% sure) to refer to other men colloquially as “fat lad” as in “now then, fat lad”, a phrase I heard many a-time growing up said between family members as a friendly greeting. Doesn’t have to be “fat lad”, it could be “lard arse”, “big man”, or even a banterful chorus of “Who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pies!”
For any Americans reading, all of the above roughly equate to “hello!”
I’m from a big family, there’s only three of them but they’re all fat as fuck.
- Ed Byrne
An Altogether Queer Shape
Adolescence brought with it the dawning realisation of my queer identity, a revelation that was both illuminating and devastating. I sought solace and guidance in queer role models, but they were also a double-edged sword. While the references to queer figures in my beloved books were few and far between (cheers, Section 28!), luckily there were potential role models to spare in the world of music, finally, I could perhaps find ways of explaining my queer self to my non-queer self and others.
Figures like Freddie Mercury, with his electrifying presence and lean, sculpted physique, became the benchmarks of my worth. He had long, dark hair & mad teeth, just like me at the time. (Wait, no, still got long hair and wild uncontrollable teeth. Carry on.) That resonated quite loudly, actually. My pin-ups became Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, Russell Brand, Jeff Buckley, Bill Kaulitz, Gerard Way, Steven Tyler, & MIKA. (I clearly have a type!) The message was clear: to be desirable, to be seen, I had to be thin, to be perfect. The gay community, with its laser focus on physical perfection, only magnified these insecurities. The chiselled abs, the defined jawlines, the sinewy muscles – these became my unattainable holy grails. Each shirtless pic on social media was a dagger to my self-esteem, a reminder of my perceived inadequacies. And still, it persists. By the time I discovered books about keeping fit and losing weight, the spandex-clad lovelies contained within were quite frankly rippled with muscles and seemingly all glazed in caramel. Which didn’t help.
It’s peculiar really, I grew up in a house with a bodybuilder, my Dad. At one time he clearly had his sights set on looking like Leeds’ answer to Arnold Schwarzenegger, and continued taking his protein powders long into my childhood. I’m not quite sure what possessed anyone to ask Leeds, of all places, for an Arnold Schwarzenegger, but still! I wish I had a photograph I could include here for reference.
Hall Of Mirrors
As my obsession with achieving the ideal body grew, so did the insidious grip of body dysmorphia. It was a silent spectre, creeping into every aspect of my life. I spent hours scrutinising my reflection, fixating on perceived flaws that no one else seemed to notice. My nose was too big, my stomach too soft, my arms too scrawny. It was never enough, I was never enough. I pretty much wanted to be Russell Brand at this point (we all make mistakes), and would still attempt to slither into those black painted on skinny jeans, tight white shirts, and buttoned up waistcoats. But I still lived in a constant state of anxiety, each glance in the mirror a further confirmation of my deepest fears.
Clothing shopping was a nightmare, each ill-fitting garment a reminder of my body's betrayal and my betrayal of it. The weekends wasted trying on clothes in Topman, the noughties indie weirdo’s haven, only to leave feeling like I’d tried to squeeze a rubber band over a parked car, and yet again to no avail. I’d approach the neon-clad brooding twink thing behind the counter clutching a hat or a scarf and slink away. After all, you’re never too fat for a hat.
The mental toll was immense, a relentless cycle of self-criticism and shame. I avoided social situations, convinced that everyone else saw me through the same harsh lens I saw myself. I would stand awkwardly at the bar or in the corner of the smoking area, holding my breath, and adjusting my posture. Relationships have always been fraught with that same insecurity, my fear of rejection overshadowing any potential for genuine connection. Body dysmorphia is a prison, one with invisible bars that has held me captive to my distorted self-image for far too long. Lights off, please.
I remember looking in the window and thinking “will that fit me?”
Why should it? It’s an estate agents.
- Victoria Wood
Too Much and Not Enough
Venturing into the queer world, I encountered the phenomenon of gay tribes – a labyrinth of nuanced subcultures within the gay community that categorise men by their body shape and size. Twinks, bears, otters, jocks – each tribe with its own rigid standards of beauty. Navigating this maze as a bisexual man was particularly excruciating. On one hand, I felt the pressure to sculpt my body to fit into the desirable niches of the gay community; on the other, I was acutely aware of the broader, heteronormative beauty standards that demanded a different kind of perfection.
Straddling these worlds left me feeling fragmented, perpetually inadequate, and constantly at war with my own body. I was altogether too soft for the gym bunnies, too broad for the twinks, and a seemingly eternal misfit in my own skin. Not helped by the fact I was already decompartmentalising parts of myself away to hide my queerness anyway, so anything that expressed that side of me went into a box a long time ago, and while I’ve wiped the dust off the lid now, I’m still too scar(r)ed to open it. Maybe one day soon.
Supping at the Fountain of Youth
In my twenties, this war reached a fever pitch. The pursuit of an ideal body consumed me, driving me to gruelling workout routines that didn’t stick, restrictive diets that have ranged from cutting out almost everything but the bare essentials in a way only a half-starved & potless student can do, to opting for the Ed Sheeran method of replacing carbs by drinking vodka. I’m not sure if that last one worked or if I was too pissed to care. Not to mention an unrelenting internal monologue of self-criticism. I still occasionally visualise Miss Trunchbull leering over me telling me to eat her fucking cake. I’ve tried so many different versions of diet pills, I’m certain none of it works.
That said, a touch of body dysmorphia has rendered these experiments wildly inconclusive anyway. I have photos taken back then that I look at and recall thinking while looking in the mirror “you fat bastard”, but now I only see a skinny little idiot looking back. As far as I’m aware, I look the same in the mirror now as I did then. The only differing feature is I’m now measurably several dozen kilos heavier. The proof was in fact in the pudding. I know, I checked. Voraciously.
The queer dating world, with its fetishisation of youth and beauty, exacerbated these pressures. As I neared the big 3-0, the fear of becoming invisible gnawed at me, a constant reminder that fashion favoured the young and that I was “running out of time” to achieve an ever-elusive standard of perfection. I was always too fat for those red trousers, and maybe I always will be. The dating apps are a minefield of "no fats, no fems, no 30+" each rejection a confirmation of my deepest fears. And still those red trousers are hanging in my wardrobe. One day I’ll be able to wear them without looking like Santa Claus. Or at least feeling like I do.
Ageing and the Changing Body
Ageing brings with it a cruel new reality. My metabolism is slowing, and the weight that once melted away with relative ease now clings to me like an unshakeable curse. Someone rolled the dice and is yet to proclaim “Jumanji”. Don't be fooled, it isn't thunder / Staying put would be a blunder. Where did that fucking elephant come from?
The routines and diets that had never quite sustained me in my twenties no longer yield the same results. Obviously, because these patterns weren’t making a blind bit of difference either way. My body is changing, betraying me in new ways I still can’t control. Each new wrinkle, each extra pound, feels like a personal failure, a stark reminder of my mortality and the impossibility of eternal youth. The mirror became an enemy, reflecting back a body I struggled to recognise or accept. But I recognise the look I have in my eyes in every photo. And yeah, I’ll get past it, I’m hardly the crypt keeper as yet, but I feel him lurking in the shadows somewhere nearby.
"Sandra, if you're going into town gerrus a raspberry yoghurt. If they haven't got raspberry gerrus som'at else."
"I couldn't get you raspberry yoghurt, so I got you meat 'n' potato pie instead. Is that alright?”-Victoria Wood, on dieting & the quest for low-fat yoghurt
Back from the brink of a Kale-hole
Yet, amidst this turmoil, my early thirties also marked a period of profound self-discovery. I began to question the destructive patterns that had defined my relationship with my body and my mind. The desire to live authentically, to embrace my true self, grew stronger. I yearned to break free from the cycle of self-abuse, to cultivate a sense of self-acceptance that had always eluded me. But this journey is fraught with difficulty. The ingrained belief that thinner is more beautiful is a formidable adversary, an insidious voice that undermines my every attempt at self-love. Every attempt to break free feels like trying to unlearn decades of indoctrination, a Herculean task that leaves me emotionally exhausted, and eventually I’ll be back to knocking back the bourbon biscuits while recovering from a temporary kale-hole. You can’t begin to accept yourself for who and how you are if you don’t do the work unlearning the shame and hatred of who and how you are first. And this doesn’t always emanate solely from within you either, there are external pressures to account for too.
The battle for self-acceptance is visceral, raw, and deeply personal. It’s a struggle to reconcile the desire to be desirable with the need to accept oneself as is. This dichotomy perpetuates a cycle of unhealthy habits, both mentally and physically. I don’t want to be overweight. I don’t want to be undesirable. But more than anything, I want to be able to accept myself. And wear whatever I fucking want! It’s a conflict that resonates with many, especially those of us who have spent a lifetime striving to meet similarly unattainable standards. Each failed diet, each skipped gym session, felt like another step backward, another confirmation that I was failing.
And now I’m beginning to realise I don’t need to feel this way anymore, and as my relationship with these toxic cycles changes, I’m already noticing I find it easier to engage with healthier choices in my life. I make decisions today that will better support future me. I don’t have to just learn to love me now, I also have to learn to love a potential future version, and speaking as the future version of a past me that didn’t give two shiny shits about eating healthily, I’m sure I’ll feel better for it in the long run! Weirdly, it’s almost easier learning to love a potential future version of myself because I’m separated from that person enough to see them as outside this body and mind, they have infinite potential. I can learn to love them, and in time, hopefully, I’ll do enough for them to love me looking back too.
And to anyone who stands in my way from here-on-out, be warned, I don’t want to eat you, but I will if provoked.
Time for Just Desserts
So, let’s just talk about it.
Let’s talk about the pressures we face, the insecurities that plague us, and the relentless pursuit of an ideal that often feels just out of reach. Let’s acknowledge the complexities of ageing in the queer community and the unique challenges it presents. And let’s commit to breaking the cycle, to embracing our bodies and our identities with compassion and understanding. Because at the end of the day, self-acceptance is not just a destination – it’s a journey, one that we must navigate with courage, resilience, and an unwavering commitment to living our truth. Every single ounce of it.
Put on your red trousers or suitable equivalent and let them fucking have it.
Each glance in the mirror, each passing birthday, is a reminder that this is a war worth fighting – not against our bodies, but against the toxic ideals that have been imposed upon us. And the people who perpetuate(d) them. Let’s challenge these narratives, reclaim our bodies, and redefine beauty on our own terms. I want to learn to forge a path towards self-acceptance that is as fierce and unyielding as the pressures I’m determined to overcome.
This is obviously an ongoing process. It’s not going to happen overnight, I know that. Just like none of this dieting or exercise nonsense works overnight either. Oh, the times I’ve eaten a salad for lunch and stood in front of the mirror seeing if the broccoli nymphs have made any progress mining the fat off my arse. They’re rarely so efficient, must be a union thing.
I want to end on something of a lighter note. And to attempt to bring this post back to the usual poetry-related content I share. So, here’s a poem on the subject of the body. I do have one on growing up wanting to be Russell Brand, but I’ll have to save that for another time. This is yet another poem where, for no apparent reason, I cook myself in some way. Well, if I will insist on describing myself as being clumsily carved out of a budget block of reconstituted ham with a stomach like a beanbag full of coleslaw, this is bound to happen. Anyway, here’s my poem, L-U-M-P, Pronounced Lump.
Pronounced Lump I used to breathe in when I walked towards someone hotter than me, blue in the face, gasping through thickening, green hot air, bending my gills out of shape, to assimilate, hotness A simulation of the tempered gaze, Hot footed and elusive self-assurance, What if I’m found out? The reassuring illusion of symmetry blinds, A keyed car door and boarded up window, With our noses askew, both faces contorted On reflection, the fairest in the land is not necessarily the kindest, troubled wittering clicks and claws its demonic rhythm, possessed by regime and routine. I measured out my life in cups and half cups, (No ruling as yet on mixed textures) I have one of those enormous Starbucks mugs, Too much beetroot for one man. They say if I cheat, I’m only cheating myself, But I know I’m cheating you, When I breathe in deep, and wait til you pass. We’re all set free in the cold and in the dark. All uniform bones, in a wide set, double breasted, boxy “boyfriend sized” box, it’s winter now, I’m over warm and undefeated, I’ll store this cake like a three and a half lumped camel, They’ll have to eke out my veins like tomato puree, And roast all my parts, once I’m thawed and glazed, And skinny wisp of a phantom will see what’s been raised, a lump of a man, that I am, myself, braised.
And to think, this was originally going to be a food blog! It was. Some time ago it was called The Wild Epicurean, and I was going to write about food, history, and ingredients, probably with the occasional recipe from my days as a chef, and my desire to build what I lovingly called The Apothekitchen. And now it’s meant to be about poetry, and you’ve still ended up with a ramble about my issues with body image. Jay Rayner wouldn’t put up with this shit. He says “thou shalt not cut off the fat” in his Ten Food Commandments, and the accompanying photo is him covered in pork scratchings à la American Beauty. People I know who know of Jay Rayner (mostly chefs) dislike that I got a photo with him the first time I met him, and the people who don’t know who he is resort to commenting on how much I look like him. I think it’s a big nose thing. Sorry, Jay! Fuck it, you know what you look like, with or without pork scratchings.
On the subject of Jay Rayner, I recently came across all the notes I took while attending his Food Writing course in London many years ago, and oddly enough, a lot of the advice goes the same for Substack writers and poets. So, I shall be writing up my notes for you all in due course and filling it with writing prompts, as always!
Until then, be kinder to yourself,
Poet Chaotique x
I normally make a plea here for coffee and cake with a little button you can press, but it feels a little disingenuous to request such things after a post about body image from a recovering double fat bastard. So maybe I’ll opt for carrot cake? Baby steps. As for the coffee, well, you’ll have to literally steal that from my cold, dead hands. I won’t go down without a fight. There are very few remaining luxuries in life, the world is a veritable shitstorm, and has largely been a mess since 2016 when David Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, Carrie Fisher, Alan Rickman, & Victoria Wood all died. So, I’ll be taking my coffee black and my cigarette mentholated, and I’ll be taking them in my pyjamas on the veranda. Maybe it could be a veranda button? I don’t have one of those as yet.