by Tom Watson
Sometimes, if I was too time-pressured to prepare a cooked breakfast, or if I was seeing Clayton for an early-morning workout, I’d fix myself one of my special coffees instead. For me, it was a more than adequate substitution; its high saturated fat content suppressed my hunger for hours, enabling me to remain full until lunchtime, and allowing me to resist the temptation of a mid-morning snack.
‘Chocolate Hobnob, Tom?’ I’d be asked during a meeting in a Commons committee room, as the refreshments trolley was trundled in.
‘No thank you, I’m fine,’ I’d say, smiling, reaching for the water jug to top up my glass.
It had taken a long time, but I’d finally found myself in full control of my thoughts and actions, and possessing the inner strength to avoid a Cookie Monster-style biscuit binge. Shunning that chocolate Hobnob, without a single pang of regret, was a truly amazing feeling.
Although I believed wholeheartedly in the Bulletproof, some of my loved ones reckoned I’d completely lost the plot. Whenever I extolled its virtues, and related Dave Asprey’s story (Tibetan yak’s milk and all), I was met with derisive snorts and raised eyebrows.
‘Butter in coffee? Ugh, that sounds vile,’ said my friend Fraser Kemp as we chatted on the phone one evening, during which call I’d tried to explain how, thanks to a combination of Bulletproof, keto and exercise, I was feeling so much better in mind and body. The next time Fraser and I met, however, he probably detected a certain vivacity in me that he perhaps hadn’t seen for decades, and the initial cynicism appeared to melt away.
‘So, tell me again, Tom, exactly how much butter do you put in that coffee?’ he asked. ‘And can I use margarine instead?’
‘Sorry mate,’ I said, grinning, ‘margarine is on the banned list.’
*
While my low-carb, high-fat eating plan had taken early inspiration from the work of Dr Michael Mosley and Professor Roy Taylor (and, more latterly, my friend Clare Nasir and the 2 Keto Dudes), I continued to encounter other books and studies that crystallised my way of thinking. The Pioppi Diet, co-written by cardiologist Dr Aseem Malhotra and documentary-maker Donal O’Neill, was one such example. It took its inspiration from a tiny village in southern Italy whose inhabitants enjoyed a longer than usual life expectancy; their Mediterranean-style diet was found to be low in sugar, starchy carbohydrates and processed foods, which, according to the book, probably helped reduce their risk of developing chronic conditions such as heart disease and type 2 diabetes.
Like me, The Pioppi Diet’s authors viewed the nutritional advice meted out by the UK government since the 1980s as flawed and outdated, especially its demonisation of saturated fat and the glorification of calorie-controlled diets.
‘Be prepared for everything you know and believe to be true to be turned on its head,’ the book’s introduction stated. ‘Misguided public health messages and the marketing campaigns that push them continue to mislead doctors, the public and politicians, but it’s time for that to change…’
It was the authors’ holistic credo that particularly appealed to my sensibilities. While an LCHF diet remained at the core of their programme (its recipes and meal plans were excellent), the book advocated an all-embracing, big-picture approach to well-being and weight loss. Those with aspirations of a long and healthy life needed to learn how to manage their stress levels, it was suggested, and needed to optimise their sleep patterns and maintain meaningful social interaction. Exercise and activity – or ‘mindful movement’ – had to be at the forefront, too, in order to avoid the myriad health problems associated with a sedentary lifestyle. This didn’t necessarily mean pumping weights or pounding treadmills (after all, there were no gyms in the village of Pioppi) but could instead comprise a brisk 30-minute walk or a regular series of stretches.
The Pioppi Diet deepened my interest in the idea of survival and longevity, and provided me with some thought-provoking theory and guidance. It felt good to contemplate how long I was going to live, not how soon I was going to die.
On a more practical and culinary level, the book helped me to understand that I needed to eat real food, not processed food, and also widened my repertoire of tasty low-carb recipes. I remember whipping up pork chops with sage butter for myself one evening, and as I carefully chewed each mouthful, savouring the meat-and-herb flavour combination, I suddenly realised that my sense of taste had definitely intensified since I’d quit junk food. My taste buds had been dulled by three decades of bland ’n’ beige stodge, and were gradually acclimatising themselves to decent, wholesome fare.
This is so flippin’ good, I thought to myself. Beats a stuffed-crust Meat Feast any day of the week.
Although I was becoming quite au fait with home cooking, I still enjoyed the occasional meal out with friends or family. Dining in restaurants, keto-style, was pretty easy in larger cities. At Yo! Sushi, in Manchester’s Piccadilly station, I would choose tuna sashimi (which doesn’t have rice), rather than sushi, and at the Covent Garden branch of Five Guys I would plump for a large beef patty with cheese. The staff there were happy to serve it wrapped up in an iceberg lettuce leaf so that I could eat it like a regular burger and, as I tucked in to my bespoke, keto-style meal I remember thinking how my younger, gluttonous self would have pissed himself laughing at the very sight of it.
As for desserts, I avoided all manner of cakes and pastries, either opting for fresh berries with cream or a cheeseboard with grapes (minus any sugary chutney or carb-laden crackers, of course). I ended up becoming a bit of a cheese connoisseur, in fact, using my revitalised taste buds to differentiate between a wedge of Wensleydale and a chunk of Caerphilly.
Adhering to my eating regime was slightly trickier in West Bromwich – there wasn’t the same breadth of choice – but there were ways to get around it, and there were venues that were more keto-friendly than others. I had been a long-time patron of the Vine on Roebuck Street, one of the many ‘Desi’ pubs that had sprung up in the area, renowned for serving top Punjabi fare in great British boozers. Its grill room was legendary, and in bygone times I’d often capped off a beer-fuelled Saturday night with a large plateful of methi chicken and rice, mopping up the delicious Punjabi ‘gravy’ with hunks of freshly baked naan bread.
When I paid a visit, post-keto, I ditched the naan and the gravy, though, and requested two portions of methi chicken, but minus the rice. The Vine’s proprietor, a lovely guy called Suki, looked flummoxed.
‘You sure that’s going to be enough for you, Tom?’ he asked. ‘No gravy? No naan? No rice? Are you not feeling well tonight?’
‘I’m good, Suki, just fancy something different,’ I replied, smiling to myself as he looked at me with deep concern. ‘But don’t scrimp on that chicken, eh?’
While eating out in restaurants was relatively straight-forward on a keto diet, eating on the hop during the working day could be difficult. I tried to cobble together my own packed lunches if I was on my travels but, on the occasions when this wasn’t possible, I’d often struggle to find keto-friendly options. On the train, I’d regularly find myself having to peel roast chicken slices off a sandwich roll – fresh salads were few and far between – and sometimes I’d have to resort to munching on a few bags of mixed nuts. In a certain high-street coffee emporium, often found in airports and railway stations, there was virtually nothing I could grab from the glass display cabinets, save a bowl of fruit salad (and even then I’d have to take out the high-carb banana and mango). No doubt some of my travelling companions saw my actions as rather extreme, and very pernickety (‘surely ONE chocolate muffin isn’t going to kill you, Tom?’) but I was determined that nothing was going to throw me off course.
Within days of starting keto, in that second week of October, my weight had begun to plummet. When I’d stepped on the scales in early August, at the beginning of the summer recess, the needle had rested at 308lb (22 stone or 140 kilos). By the end of September – having commenced some gentle exercise, and having started a gradual reduction of carbs and
sugar – I’d come in at 289lb (131 kilos) and, on Monday 9 October (the day I returned from Torremolinos), I’d weighed a total of 281.8lb (128 kilos). I had shed nearly two stone, or 13 kilos, in two months (amazing, really, since I’d only made moderate tweaks to my diet) but I still found myself in the XXXL size range, still with a high body mass index, and still clinically obese.
It was only when I applied strict ketogenic nutrition principles – ultra-low carbs, and comparatively high fats – that I began to see remarkable results. During that very first week, I inputted the following data into my MyFitnessPal app:
Monday 9 October: 281.8lb
Tuesday 10 October: 279.1lb
Wednesday 11 October: 278.9lb
Thursday 12 October: 276.2lb
Friday 13 October: 277.4lb (a slight increase here, which can happen for a variety of reasons. Perhaps I had some water retention that day)
Saturday 14 October: 274.6lb
Sunday 15 October: 274.8lb
After just one week of keto, I’d lost seven pounds, half a stone (three kilos). One week. Seven pounds. I was totally and utterly elated. This may sound a little melodramatic but, apart from the birth of my kids, it was the best week of my life. Finally – finally – my own deeds and actions had benefited my body, not failed it, and I’d actually made a difference. And, not only had I lost half a stone, I’d done so without any sense of food deprivation, and by eating a succession of fabulous meals. From smashed avocado and bacon in the morning, to barbecue ribs and salad in the evening, not once had I felt remotely peckish.
I had to speak to someone about it, to shout about my good news, so I told my pal David Wild after we’d finished walking around Kennington Park.
‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ I said, breathlessly reeling off all the MyFitnessPal stats. I must have sounded like a total nerd, but I felt too exhilarated to care.
‘Bloody well done, mate, losing half a stone in a week is amazing,’ he said.
‘I feel marvellous,’ I replied, thrilled that I’d successfully embedded an eating plan that seemed to perfectly suit my needs. ‘Fifty-one years old, David, and I’m finally starting to take care of myself.’
As my keto regime gathered pace, and my life became more disciplined, I got into the habit of measuring myself more regularly, from my glucose levels to my blood pressure. Only by closely monitoring my own data could I properly chart my progress, I reckoned, and I would carefully pencil all the relevant data into a little notebook. By my own admission, in the past I’d been negligent in this respect, especially in the wake of my T2D diagnosis. For instance, I’d never performed a blood glucose finger-prick test before (even though I’d been given the kit), although that was probably down to a combination of fear, denial and laziness.
Every morning I assiduously measured my fasting blood sugars and on alternate days I checked my blood pressure. High blood pressure, or hypertension, was very common in my family, and even though I was taking medication it remained a concern. Deep down I knew that much of it was related to weight, but over the years I’d conveniently convinced myself that it was genetic, and that there was nothing I could do about it. Examining the daily data was a sobering experience – I had stage two hypertension, which was classed as severely high blood pressure – but it also helped me to focus. Each daily reading may have made my heart sink, but it also motivated me to put on my trainers and get moving.
I also began to monitor my ketone levels on a daily basis. This was to ascertain whether I’d entered that Holy Grail-like state of ketosis, whereby my body was drawing down its energy source from fat stores rather than carbohydrate stores. This again involved using a finger-prick with a test strip that, when measured against a blood ketone index, revealed my ketone count. This, combined with my blood glucose reading, provided me with a ratio – the glucose-ketone index (GKI) – which indicated whether or not I was at the right level of ketosis to promote fat-burning, to reduce obesity and to tackle insulin resistance. Getting a handle on ketosis was important in terms of Project Weight Loss, since it allowed me to establish whether I was ingesting the right balance of foodstuffs. It also helped me to understand how my body was responding, both nutritionally and biologically, to this whole new way of eating.
I spent Christmas with Siobhan and the kids at her parents’ home in Yorkshire. I lapsed a little bit, diet-wise – after three ‘dry’ months, I couldn’t resist a few celebratory glasses of white wine – but I still managed to keep the dinner itself pretty keto-friendly. My in-laws, Paul and Karen, were magnificent cooks and served me up a delicious plate of roast turkey, Brussels sprouts, baby carrots, red cabbage and cauliflower cheese. The previous year I’d helped to prepare some speciality ‘trimmings’ (namely Tom Kerridge’s glazed carrots and Delia Smith’s red cabbage) but, since both contained copious amounts of sugar, on this occasion my considerate in-laws had made some plainer versions. I politely swerved the roast potatoes and cranberry sauce, though – not easy, since the extra-crispy spuds looked superb – and for dessert I opted for the festive cheeseboard instead of the Christmas pudding and brandy sauce.
‘Dad, I can’t believe you’re not eating this,’ said Malachy, tucking into his fruit pud with gusto.
‘Don’t worry about me, son,’ I said, smiling. ‘This vintage Stilton’s a winner.’
The Watson family enjoyed New Year’s Eve together, too, the plan being for all four of us to attend the House of Commons firework display, an annual event attended by MPs and support staff that raised funds for various charities. We spent the preceding afternoon trailing up and down London’s Oxford Street, however, since my 12-year-old son had suddenly become fashion-conscious, and was desperate to spend his Christmas money in the sales.
While Malachy and Saoirse browsed the rails in Gap, Siobhan dragged me into Zara, suggesting that I needed to update my wardrobe since my clothes were becoming baggier by the day. I had never once crossed the threshold of this particular store; I’d always thought it looked far too trendy for me, and had assumed that my 22-stone frame would have barely fitted into the changing cubicle, let alone a pair of their trousers. Other than good ol’ Marks & Spencer, I’d rarely shopped on the high street, and had instead routinely ordered clothes online from ‘plus-size’ retailers.
‘Here you are, Tom, this is nice,’ Siobhan said, holding up a blue patterned shirt, probably a tad brighter than I’d have usually worn. ‘Why don’t you try it on? You could wear it tonight.’
I scrutinised the label: XL. It had been a decade or so since I’d squeezed myself into that size.
‘Okay…’ I replied, nervously. ‘Let’s give it a go.’
Five minutes later I emerged from the changing room, my broad grin speaking volumes.
‘It’s ever-so-slightly tight-ish, but it fits,’ I told Siobhan, ‘and it actually looks OK.’
‘Brilliant,’ she said, smiling. ‘I tell you what, Tom, let me treat you to this. Your first non-M&S shirt for thirty years.’
It was a very kind gesture from my former partner. This size drop was a special moment for me, and she knew it.
Malachy and Saoirse, on the other hand, spent the rest of the shopping trip affectionately ribbing me, trying (and failing) to persuade me to try on various wild and wacky designer outfits in Selfridges, now that I could finally fit into an XL. Beneath all the jesting, however, I sensed they were delighted to witness the positive change in their dad, in both attitude and appearance. I had always been a weighty, wheezing presence in their lives, but now that I was feeling better and getting fitter, I think they were really noticing the difference. That particular day I’d walked along Oxford Street without having to cling onto a wall to get my breath, for instance, and had passed by McDonald’s without the urge to stop for a quarter-pounder. I hadn’t lost focus mid- conversation, and I hadn’t become drowsy mid-afternoon.
My newfound vigour was allowing me to engage more meaningfully with my children, and this made me feel inordinately happy.
After all, my desire to get well, and to get healthy, had always been as much about Malachy and Saoirse as it had been about me. The desire to make up for lost time ran so deeply, and I wanted to be a presence in their lives for many years to come.
Later that evening, clad in our new gear, the Watson clan joined the throng on the floodlit House of Commons terrace. Greeting us were a number of friends and colleagues, including Bradford South MP Judith Cummins and Baroness Alicia Kennedy.
‘Scrubbing up well, you lot,’ said Alicia, smiling, eyeing the faux-leather coat that I’d grabbed for half-price in Zara. ‘Snazzy jacket, Tom.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I said, part of me wanting to yell ‘Yeah, and guess what… it’s only an EXTRA LARGE!’
As Big Ben’s chimes rang out, the fireworks display kicked off. With Malachy and Saoirse by my side, I watched as a succession of rockets erupted in the night sky, their gold and silver sparkles reflected in the River Thames below. As the strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ rang out from the terrace, I found myself welling up with emotion. I’d had a great day. And I was going to have a great 2018.
CHAPTER FIVE
Healthy Turnaround
I continued to visit my GP, Dr Nazeer, albeit perhaps not with the same regularity that I’d done in the past. I was feeling so much better health-wise, and felt far more in control of my condition, and simply didn’t think it necessary to be knocking on his door every two or three weeks. However, during a scheduled appointment toward the end of 2017 I’d happened to mention that I was following an ultra-low-carb ketogenic programme, that the subsequent weight loss had been dramatic and that, according to my daily fasting plasma glucose tests, my blood sugar levels had dipped to 5.7mmol/L (millimoles per litre), which, according to the chart that I’d been given, was within the ‘pre-diabetic’ range. He seemed pleased to find me looking brighter and lighter, albeit via unconventional methods, but was keen to manage my expectations. Technically, once the NHS tells you you’re a type 2 diabetic, you’re always a type 2 diabetic, and it was prudent and professional for my GP to exercise caution at this stage.
