by Tom Watson
I paused for a moment, feeling slightly reticent about the whole idea.
‘No harm in trying, I suppose,’ I replied, finding it hard to visualise myself ducking and diving.
The following week Clayton met me in the park’s basketball court, carrying two pairs of boxing gloves and a set of foam pads.
I wish I’d never shown him that video, I thought, fearful that more public humiliation was heading my way.
As I’d suspected, what followed was forty minutes of pure hell. Clayton made me pummel the rectangular pads as hard as I could, while constantly bouncing on my feet, and it was absolutely torturous. My chest heaved, my breath rasped, and I seriously thought I was going to vomit all over the tarmac. Worse still, halfway through the session I happened to be recognised by a passer-by, the first time I’d experienced this in Kennington Park. A bloke in his thirties, walking his young son to school, had clearly clocked who I was (the specs and the waistline probably gave me away) and immediately stopped in his tracks. He whispered something to the boy, perhaps explaining that I was a Labour politician, which prompted the lad to press his little face against the surround netting.
‘Hey, Tom, who are you punching?’ he yelled. ‘My dad wants to know if it’s Jeremy Corbyn…’
The cheeky little blighter. I couldn’t help but laugh, though, albeit mid-wheeze.
From then on, I saw the father and son regularly passing by the basketball court, usually as I was nearing the end of a boxercise session. The twosome always gave me a friendly wave, which the boy would follow up with some words of encouragement.
‘Keep it up, Tom,’ he’d say, punching the air. ‘You’re smashing it!’
I would try to wave back – I quite liked these pep-ups, to be honest – but I was often so jiggered that I could barely lift up the boxing glove.
Though it was hard work, I had lots of fun doing boxercise, and I really liked how it made my body feel so pumped up afterwards. That being said, I had no immediate plans to challenge Anthony Joshua, despite the fact that Tommy ‘Two-Dinners’ Watson would have made a fabulous ring name.
Kennington Park soon became a huge part of my life, thanks to Clayton, and I grew extremely fond of the place. I regarded it as my own outdoor gym, I suppose, and I loved the feeling of being part of the park community, as just one of the many local residents who used it for pleasure and leisure. I would always smile to myself as groups of joggers or cyclists, especially those of a certain age, passed me by.
Maybe that’ll be me one day, I’d think, visualising my slimmer, sportier self.
For me, the benefits were psychological as well as physical; after three decades of sedentary living, it was exhilarating to get myself out into the open air, with the sun on my skin and the wind on my face, and see the outside world in all its vibrancy.
I returned to Westminster in early September, following the parliamentary recess. I had made so much progress since the summer (I was eating more healthily, exercising more regularly and sleeping more soundly) and, as a bonus, I’d shed a few pounds, slowly but surely. This minor weight loss wasn’t enough for workmates to notice, though, and to most of my fellow MPs, I was still Tommy Two-Dinners, waddling around in the same big black suit and baggy white shirts. The Commons Tea Room staff must have realised that something was amiss, though, because one of their most regular customers had suddenly stopped popping in for his daily bacon butties and his Friday lunchtime fish ’n’ chips (cutting out those butties was purgatory, by the way; they’d been part of my life for fifteen years). The more observant among my colleagues might have also noticed that I was now taking the stairs instead of using lifts, and walking to work instead of hailing a cab.
I did let my office staff into my little secret, though. We were a close-knit bunch, and I thought it only right that they should be privy to Project Weight Loss. Also, for the previous few weeks I’d ploughed a fairly lonely furrow (other than chatting with David and Clayton) and I think part of me was ready to share my thoughts and aspirations with this select coterie of colleagues. In all fairness, two of my team, Jo Dalton and Sarah Goulbourne, had at one time or another (and with admirable politeness and diplomacy) tried to nudge me in the direction of a gym or a salad. Back then, I’d not been ready or willing to heed their advice, but now I’d finally started to ring the changes.
‘Good for you, Tom, that’s brilliant,’ said Jo, when I told her about my plans.
‘So impressed,’ added Sarah. ‘Onward and upward, eh?’
I instructed Jo and Sarah to ensure the other core staff were in the loop, but – since I didn’t want to put myself under too much pressure at Westminster, or draw undue attention to myself – I asked them to keep matters within our four walls. They were only too happy to oblige, which I greatly appreciated.
I also asked them to be as flexible as possible with my diary in order to accommodate my morning fitness sessions. In the past, I’d always arrived at the office between 8.30 a.m. and 9.30 a.m. (not that late in Westminster terms, as we often had evening votes and events) and it was common for briefings and meetings to be scheduled around this time, via the electronic diary system used by the whole team. However, now that I’d taken the first steps on my health and fitness journey, and was heading in the right direction, I had no intention of ditching my Kennington Park walks or my exercise regime with Clayton. On certain days, therefore, I’d need an early-doors slot blocking out in the diary, with mid-morning or afternoon spaces ring-fenced for any meetings. The plan was to concentrate on my fitness for an hour, return to my flat to get showered and dressed and report to the office for no later than 10.30 a.m.
Jo and Sarah did their very best to accommodate this but others in the team, who were all vying for my diary time, sometimes forgot. Much to my frustration, I’d discover that the 8.30 a.m. slot earmarked for Clayton had been filled with a last-minute meeting, which I’d feel obliged to attend at the expense of my boxercise. Despite my pointing this out as gently as I could, the following week the same thing would happen, and instead of going for my soul-enriching power-walk I’d be sat around a committee room table, discussing Christmas card designs. All this started to create a palpable tension among the team. Perhaps a few of them weren’t taking my requests seriously; understandably so, maybe, because I’d attempted weight-loss plans before that had come to nothing. And they, no doubt, found it frustrating to have to organise a jam-packed schedule around my morning workouts. In the end I had to put my foot down.
‘Look, I know there’s a crushing demand on the diary,’ I said, during a pow-wow I’d convened, ‘but I’m trying my best to structure a lifestyle plan, and to implement a few rules and routines. These exercise sessions are so important to me, and I really need your help.’
I added that if any more morning meetings happened to clash with my walks or workouts, I would simply not attend, full stop. Amid much rolling of eyes (I could only imagine what they were muttering under their breath) my staff took my comments on board, and agreed to protect that diary time. Indeed, once they realised the true extent of my commitment and determination, the rest of my team bought into the whole thing and offered me a great deal of support and encouragement. Health and well-being soon became a common topic of conversation in the office – somewhat ironic, since I’d avoided broaching the subject for years – and we’d readily compare and contrast our own experiences.
Sometimes, my colleagues and I would go for lunchtime walks around Westminster, walking over to the South Bank, past the London Eye, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. If it happened to be raining, we’d pace the House of Commons corridors instead.
‘Who fancies a stroll?’ I’d ask, especially if we’d been confined to the office all morning. ‘Let’s get our blood pumping, eh, and stretch our legs. Sitting still for four hours is no good for anybody.’
Later that September, the annual Labour Party conference took place at the Brighton Centre, comprising its usual mix of speeches, debates and moti
ons, followed by convivial get-togethers and drinks receptions with members and delegates. However, compared with the previous year’s gathering in Liverpool, it turned out to be an altogether different experience for me. This time, unlike 12 months previously, I neither touched a drop of alcohol, nor ate my weight in buffet food. For once, I didn’t find myself hogging the karaoke machine, or joining in a drunken singalong to ‘The Red Flag’. Instead, every evening I fastidiously went to bed at 9 p.m., keen to avoid these after-hours temptations and determined to stick to my regime.
‘Hey, Tom, where are you going?’ exclaimed a member of the Unite union, Jim Mowatt, as he spotted me in the lobby of my hotel, about to take a Waitrose chicken salad and a tub of Greek yoghurt up to my room. ‘You not coming for a drink, then?’
‘Just taking it a little bit easier this year,’ I replied with a smile. ‘Got an important speech tomorrow. Going to get my head down so I can wake up feeling nice and clear-headed.’
‘Oh, OK…’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Fair enough, I s’pose. But you know where we are if you change your mind.’
I could totally understand his bewilderment. He had attended conferences with me for 25 years, and had never once known me to decline the offer of grub and Guinness.
Not only was I going to bed early to get my beauty sleep, I was also getting up at 5.30 a.m. to achieve my latest 10,000- step target. In fact, if any colleagues or comrades expressed the desire to talk politics with me during the conference, I told them I’d only agree to a chat if they accompanied me on one of my five-mile walks along the coastline. I remember strolling from Brighton to Hove with my good mate James Gurling (a lifelong Liberal Democrat, who was attending our conference in his corporate communications role), taking in the lovely sea views and marvelling at the magnificent beachside mansions. James couldn’t quite get his head around my newfound lifestyle change – he’d known me as Tommy Two-Dinners for years – and, after we’d returned to the hotel, he reluctantly admitted that he’d found it difficult to keep up with my walking pace.
‘Have to say, I’m bloody impressed,’ he said. ‘Fair play to you, mate.’
‘This is just the beginning, my friend,’ I replied.
My deputy leader’s speech took place on the penultimate evening, and was a rallying cry for all delegates to maintain pressure on the flagging Conservative Party.
‘Yes, there’s hard work to do and no, we mustn’t be complacent,’ I said, ‘but Jeremy Corbyn has broken the spell of fear the Tories sought to cast on this country. He has helped us all to remember that politics should be about inspiring hope, not peddling despair. He has shown us again what a real alternative to Toryism looks like and what it can achieve.’
It went down pretty well, I think, although the next day’s Guardian cartoon, sketched by the inimitable Steve Bell, ruthlessly lampooned me.
‘Brighton Fatberg Spotted,’ ran the caption, above a huge caricature of yours truly looming over the comparatively svelte figure of our party leader.
Fatberg? Ha! Not for long… I thought, before wondering whether Bell would have used similar fat-shaming terminology had he parodied a female Member of Parliament. Being an overweight male MP seemed to justify such satire and, despite it being a grotesque portrayal, I was expected to laugh along and suck it up.
On the final day of the conference, as soon as Jeremy Corbyn’s speech finished, I headed straight out of the Brighton Centre and hailed a cab to Gatwick Airport. Five hours later I was enjoying a meal in a Torremolinos restaurant, La Taberna de Guaro, talking diet and nutrition with a well-known TV weather presenter, as you do. Her advice, as it happened, would change my life.
I first met Clare Nasir, who came to national prominence while working for GMTV, through mutual friends. She and her husband, BBC 6 Music DJ Chris Hawkins, were good pals with fellow Labour MP Gloria De Piero, who happened to be married to James Robinson, my former communications director.
Gloria and I had known each other for years, and during our twenties had even shared an apartment together in London. I was by no means the perfect flatmate, as my friend will attest. Once, following a boozy night out, I returned home and put some boil-in-the-bag kippers on the hob for an early-hours snack. I then staggered into the lounge and promptly fell asleep on the sofa. The water evaporated, the plastic melted and soon the flat was filled with acrid smoke and the aroma of burnt fish.
‘Are you trying to bloody kill us, Tom?’ I vaguely remember Gloria yelling as she ran into the kitchen in her pyjamas, flinging the pan into the sink and flapping at the plumes of smoke. It took weeks, and countless air fresheners, for us to get rid of the smell.
Our friendship continued regardless, and in September 2017 Gloria, James and I decided to go abroad for a few days during the parliamentary break. An autumn recess was always scheduled to accommodate the various party conferences, and a cheap week on the Costa del Sol seemed just the ticket. Clare and Chris happened to be there at the same time, and we all decided to meet up one night. Clare and I chatted for ages in the restaurant. Like me, she’d once experienced her own weight struggles and, by completely overhauling her diet and fitness regime, she had since undergone a total lifestyle transformation.
Coming from a scientific background – she was a trained meteorologist – Clare had conducted meticulous research into various nutrition programmes, reading widely and furnishing herself with as much information as possible. In the end, she chose not to proceed down the conventional low-fat, low-calorie Eatwell Plate-style route. She instead embraced the low-carb, high-fat (LCHF) philosophy of so-called ‘ketogenic’ nutrition, a concept that I’d come across as I’d ploughed through my extensive reading list. I was intrigued to learn more about it – Clare had lost so much weight, and looked a picture of health and vitality – and, over a couple of glasses of Rioja, she gave me the run-down.
Ketogenic nutrition, I discovered, was a regime that drastically reduced the carbohydrate in your diet and replaced it with fat and non-industrially-produced oils (it had originated in the 1920s, having been prescribed for children with drug-resistant epilepsy). This reduction in carbohydrate meant that your body effectively ‘learned’ how to reach a metabolic state called ketosis, which then enabled your body to draw down on fat stores to produce energy by turning fat into acids in the liver, known as ketones. The Western diet very often ensured that the body only ever used glucose to provide energy, yet by restricting carbs through fasting or diet, ketogenic nutrition allowed the body to become ‘fat-adapted’ in order to provide fat-burning as a fuel source. Many who followed the nutritional programme claimed that it reduced sugar cravings and feelings of hunger.
Clare’s LCHF keto diet predominantly comprised meat, poultry, fish, dairy products, oils and vegetables. All manner of starchy carbohydrates (pasta, rice, grains and potatoes, for example) were strictly forbidden, as were sugary carbs in all their many guises. Highly processed convenience foods were wiped off the menu, too, in favour of natural, wholesome, home-cooked alternatives.
Typical keto-friendly meals could consist of bacon and eggs for breakfast – with no toast, of course – and a chicken, avocado and leafy green salad for lunch. Dinner might be a rib-eye steak with broccoli and cauliflower, followed by fresh raspberries and double cream for dessert. Snacks and nibbles could include a handful of nuts or a couple of chunks of dark chocolate (although the latter had to be a variety with 80 per cent cocoa solids, to ensure the sugar content was low). Due to its carb content, beer was a no-no, but the occasional glass of wine, or a measure of vodka, was permitted. Eating out ‘keto-style’ was eminently doable, it seemed, by adapting certain restaurant dishes – forgoing the mashed potato with the pork chops, for example, and ordering spinach instead – and by avoiding others that weren’t suitable.
‘Have to say, Clare, I really like the sound of that.’
‘Well, all I can say is that it works for me,’ she replied. ‘I love the meals, and like the fact that they’re so filling. I
never have any hunger pangs.’
I then explained to Clare how things currently stood with me: how, since the summer, I’d commenced a fitness programme, and how I’d started to monitor and reduce my sugary snacks and starchy carbs in an attempt to lose weight and control my insulin levels.
‘I’m pleased with the way my fitness is going,’ I said, ‘but I know I won’t lose weight with exercise alone. I need to really drill down into my diet and nutrition. I think it needs more structure and refinement.’
Like her, I’d done plenty of research – much of which had pointed me in the direction of LCHF programmes – but I’d not really found the impetus to go the whole hog.
‘Maybe now’s the time for you to move up a gear,’ said Clare with a smile, adding that not only could ketogenic nutrition help me shed some weight, but that it might also help to manage my type 2 diabetes. She promised to send me some useful links to keto-related websites and podcasts, too, that had helped her on her way.
For the next few days I couldn’t get our conversation out of my head. I spent a good deal of the holiday sitting under a parasol, glued to my tablet, watching the YouTube channels and listening to the podcasts that Clare had recommended. The more I gleaned, and the more I learned, the more convinced I became that this nutritional credo was right for me. Once I returned to the UK, I vowed, I would put my own ketogenic plan into action, and I would do my utmost to stick to it.
The prospect of this was so exciting that it quite literally put a spring in my step. Toward the end of my week in Torremolinos, and for the first time in decades, I went for a jog. It may have been from one palm tree to another – and it may have left me sweating cobs in the searing Spanish sun – but, to me, it represented yet another important milestone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Downsizing
With Clare Nasir’s advice still ringing in my ears, I flew back to the UK keener than ever to delve deep into the world of low-carb, high-fat nutrition. I needed to understand, as best as I could, whether this rather strict and prescriptive regime would work for me, whether it was right for my body and whether it could take Project Weight Loss to a whole new level. I was as busy as ever with work, both at Westminster and in my constituency, but whenever I had a spare half-hour I’d pick up a book or download a podcast, absorbing as much detail and information as I could.
