by Tom Watson
Amazing Poster Boy – well done Tom, and good luck with helping everyone to improve their health in the UK.
Tom: a real achievement and genuinely worthy of admiration. All you have to do now is give up the capitalist status quo and embrace genuine democratic socialism.
Brilliant work, Tom! No one can accuse the socialists of not having the ambition to better themselves. Now it’s official, a very positive message.
Brilliant. Lose the sugar, the poison of the body. Then lose neoliberalism, the poison of the socialist mind.
I admire what you are doing but I once only ever voted Labour but since commies took over never again and you stick up for them.
On the whole (and with the exception of a few trolls and naysayers) I was showered with goodwill in the months following my revelation, and was often waylaid on the street by people wishing me well or asking for advice. I was always careful when I did this, though, prefacing everything I said with some precautionary words.
‘Look, I can only say how I’ve done it,’ I remember telling a hefty bloke in his forties who’d approached me in West Bromwich’s Queen’s Square Shopping Centre. ‘That might not necessarily be the way you should do it, though. There’s no one-size-fits-all. Sometimes you need to plot your own journey.’
I received hundreds of emails from members of the public – I tried my best to reply to them all, often pointing them in the direction of different books, websites and pieces of research – and I was also sent some kind messages from one or two celebrities, including a very famous TV presenter. Also making contact via Twitter was the actor Nick Frost, who was best known for starring with Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead, and who was often accused of being my doppelgänger.
‘I wish you’d have run this past me first,’ he tweeted, having seen a post about my slimmed-down self. ‘This has severely dented my chances of playing you in any future biopic. My only hope is the film takes place before the dramatic weight loss.’
Nick’s wasn’t the only amusing response to my transformation. Toward the end of 2018 my cartoonist nemesis, the Guardian’s Steve Bell, created a new moniker for me. I was now Fatberg Slim, still glowering behind my black-rimmed glasses, but now sporting a leaner frame and a smaller suit. My feelings about it were mixed, I suppose. While part of me grudgingly respected the way he’d segued from his original caricature – give him his dues, it was very clever – the other part of me gained some private pleasure that my previous incarnation was no longer relevant. The Fatberg, version 1.0, was history.
CHAPTER SIX
Channelling My Mind, Challenging My Body
In November 2018 I had the honour of being interviewed by Dave Asprey. He had got wind that a British MP had been extolling the virtues of his Bulletproof Coffee over in the UK, and had very kindly invited me onto his podcast to share my own weight-loss story with his army of subscribers. It was a genuine privilege.
‘He’s sitting here on Skype looking like a picture of health, not like a guy who was seven stone heavier than he is now,’ said Dave in his introduction. ‘We’re going to talk about how he did it and what it’s going to take to get the government to help all of us be a little nicer to each other.’
‘I’m incredibly grateful to be speaking with you,’ I replied, ‘because you’ve had such an impact on my life. You’ve actually sent me in a whole new direction. It’s great to be talking to your listeners, too, because I know that they’ve either been through the experience that we’ve been through, or they’re about to, and their lives are transformed. It’s a great feeling.’
Dave and I covered a wide range of topics, putting the world to rights about the scale of the diabetes time-bomb in the UK and the power of the ‘big food’ corporations in the US. On a more personal note, we discussed our individual approaches to mental and physical well-being, whereupon I explained that I’d entered into stage two of my lifestyle plan. Ditching the sugar and changing my diet had helped me to shed the weight, clear my head and bin my met-formin, but mine was definitely an ongoing project. There remained many physical and emotional refinements on my to-do list.
‘I’ve only just started,’ I told Dave.
Despite being a churchgoer (my lifestyle changes and realigned priorities had brought me even closer to my Christian faith), I probably read more about other religions than my own. I became particularly fascinated with Buddhism, more out of academic interest than anything, and often referred to a pair of fabulous books on the subject, Buddhism for Beginners by Jack Kornfield and The Joy of Living by Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche.
I found myself being increasingly drawn to the Buddhist principle of ‘right-mindfulness’. This therapeutic technique is an integral component of the ‘eight-fold path’ toward happiness and fulfilment, and is all about attuning yourself to your emotions, and appreciating your environment. It is a concept that allows you to focus on the here and now by reconnecting with your body’s feelings, listening to your inner dialogue and detaching yourself from the material things in life. By becoming alive to the moment, and by gaining control of your thoughts, you’re less likely to worry about the past or the future and are more able to value the present.
Practising complete mindfulness – centring myself, if you will – is quite a skill, and it took some getting used to. One technique involved listening to all the ambient noise around me, focusing first on the farthest sound (maybe an aeroplane, or some distant traffic) and then gradually zoning in on something much closer, maybe some birdsong, or even my own breathing rhythm. Occasionally I’d start my day with five minutes of silent meditation, reclining on a chair in the corner of my lounge, concentrating on all the sensations in my body, from my head down to my toes. I discovered that this short period of calm reflection set me up for the rest of the day, enabling me to curb that primitive, adrenaline-fuelled fight-or-flight response that had often afflicted me at Westminster. For more structured mindfulness, I also began to use the Headspace app. Its bite-sized, guided meditation sessions became truly life-enhancing for me, covering themes from sleep and anxiety to stress and motivation.
Conforming to a more contemplative mindset aided other areas of my life, too. Along with the wise counsel of Aristotle – his ‘we are what we repeatedly do’ maxim was still firmly affixed to my fridge door – I became a creature of routine, organising my life in such a way that I had fewer obstructions and distractions to derail me. Two books I read were instrumental in this respect: Aristotle’s Way by renowned classicist Edith Hall, which brought the ancient philosopher to life, coupled with Atomic Habits, a New York Times bestseller written by entrepreneur James Clear.
Part of Clear’s study focused on cycling supremo Dave Brailsford, outlining his belief that success lies in the aggregation of marginal gains. Brailsford believes that the cumulative application of tweaks and refinements, no matter how minuscule, can – over time – have positive, long-term consequences. He therefore had cycle tyres painted with alcohol, for instance, so they’d gain a little more traction on the road. Riders wore heated over-shorts, so their muscles would feel slightly warmer. Mattresses and pillows were carefully tested, in order to optimise competitors’ sleep.
Clear’s own theory about habits and change also fascinated me. As he saw it, there existed three levels of behavioural change.
He wrote:
The first layer is changing your outcomes. This level is concerned with changing your results: losing weight, publishing a book, winning a championship. Most of the goals you set are associated with this level of change.
The second layer is changing your process. This level is concerned with changing your habits and systems: implementing a new routine at the gym, decluttering your desk for better workflow, developing a meditation practice. Most of the habits you build are associated with this level.
The third and deepest layer is changing your identity. This level is concerned with changing your beliefs: your worldview, your self-image, your judgements about yourself and oth
ers. Most of the beliefs, assumptions, and biases you hold are associated with this level.
Many people, said Clear, start the process of change by focusing on what they want to achieve, which leads to outcome-based habits. The alternative is to focus on who we wish to become, by building identity-based habits.
His words really struck a chord. In many ways, I still saw myself as a fat bloke who was just trying to lose weight. Instead, I needed to start habitually thinking of myself as a fit bloke who, through diet and exercise, was striving to attain health and happiness.
As a result of my further reading, my day-to-day routines became far more streamlined and automatic. Channelling the Dave Brailsford approach of control and micromanagement, I implemented various life rules that simplified the low-level decisions that I made on a daily basis. Something as fundamental as designating a special place for my trainers helped to declutter my mind and instil some order. For thirty years I’d flung them into a random dark corner, after which I’d wasted valuable time trying to find the darned things, and then wasted more mental energy by berating myself for my slovenliness.
I bought myself a set of colour-coded notepads, too, so I could embed ‘to-do’ lists into my ritual. These action points, related to both home and work matters, enabled me to better sequence my life, thus muting the cacophony of internal voices that had often nagged me to do this, that and everything.
I also decided to keep a ‘gratitude journal’, having been given the idea by a friend. At the end of each day, I aimed to write down two or three sentences that made me feel thankful and optimistic, whether it was a small act of kindness shown to me by a colleague, or a beautiful sunset that I’d seen over Westminster. I also used this journal to encourage my own positive deeds and actions, perhaps prompting myself to drop a thank-you note to an intern for assisting me with some research, or reminding myself to ring a Labour Party councillor who’d been suffering with ill-health.
I tried to implant mindfulness elements into my day-to-day work life, too. The Brexit crisis had caused a great amount of stress among MPs across the board, with one Tory MP even claiming that he’d escaped the political turmoil by hiding in a dark Commons cupboard. I did my utmost to keep myself on an even keel, though, stealing a few moments of calm, solitary reflection whenever the pressure began to mount (the Headspace app often helped in this regard) and avoiding any altercations with colleagues regarding this hugely divisive subject. Naturally, I had very strong views on Brexit – I’d always publicly supported a second referendum – but I also respected fellow members whose opinions were diametrically opposed to mine. My friend and fellow Labour MP, Gloria De Piero, was extremely committed to delivering Brexit in light of the June 2016 result. A number of pro-Remain colleagues reacted with disgust, and virtually excommunicated her, but I refused to let any political differences affect our relationship.
‘We’ve been friends for thirty years, Gloria,’ I said when we spoke over the phone one evening. ‘Why on earth would I want to fall out with you over this?’
‘Seems you’re in the minority, though, Tom,’ she replied.
During the Brexit debates of 2019, I’d look around the Commons and witness MPs almost foaming at the mouth, their faces puce with rage as they hurled insults at opponents (indeed, a few years earlier, in the midst of my sugar addiction, I might well have been that person). I remember sitting in the febrile atmosphere of the chamber, wondering whether calmer mindsets and deeper thoughts might have encouraged more collaborative discourse and less spite and recrimination. Who knows? Had more Westminster folk embraced mindfulness, perhaps our country might have been coaxed out of the Brexit mire in a more timely and dignified fashion.
As the Brexi-shambles rumbled on, achieving quality downtime in London and the Midlands became more important than ever before, though now that I was feeling much healthier and happier, I found myself yearning less for the company of others. In my twenties, thirties and forties, I’d always needed to be where the action was, pressing the flesh at Commons receptions or partying with friends in a Frith Street drinking den. In contrast, the arrival of my fifties saw me craving solitude, and purposely spending more time alone in my little one-bedroom London flat. Turning my life around had encouraged me to like myself a lot more, I guess, and I’d genuinely started to appreciate my own company. Without sounding like a mad old hermit, my reflective outlook and my newfound clear-headedness allowed me to strike up meaningful conversations with myself, and I’d happily sit alone in my living room, mulling over issues and dreaming up ideas.
During my spare time in London I found myself listening to things for entertainment, rather than watching them; other than audiobooks (both fiction and non-fiction) my devices were forever streaming podcasts (notably those appertaining to health, poetry and philosophy) and my digital radio dial flitted between BBC Radio 4, LBC and BBC 6 Music. Spotify and BBC Sounds fulfilled my enduring love of music, too, enabling me to switch effortlessly between rock and pop, and between indie and classical, allowing me to fill my flat with Led Zeppelin one morning, and Kylie Minogue the next. I loved their curated playlists, too, particularly BBC Sounds’ Mindfulness Mix. Somebody once told me that the antidote to loneliness was solitude, not sociability, and – even though it took me five decades to realise it – I believe this is spot on. There have been times when I’ve felt lonelier in parliament, surrounded by people, than I have done in my flat, on my own.
My priorities and my perspective have indeed altered of late, and my work–life balance has shifted. I don’t find the all-consuming nature of politics a particularly rewarding endeavour any more. While I respect the institution of parliament, and I admire (most of) my fellow politicians, the daily skirmishes and the constant in-fighting, particularly since the summer of 2016, has been wearing and demoralising. I can’t deny that my transformational health journey has changed me as a person, has given me a much deeper sense of what really matters and has provided me with a whole new outlook. Of paramount importance to me, of course, is that my children are happy and healthy, that they are kind and compassionate and that they appreciate the people and the world around them. I deeply regret that, in the early days of my political career, I didn’t devote enough time and attention to Malachy and Saoirse; nowadays I go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that I’m present in their lives, zigzagging across the country if necessary.
My close friends and family are more important to me than ever before, too – they’re a very loyal and supportive bunch – and I hope that, as time has passed, and as my life has changed, I’ve become a better ally to them: more helpful, more thoughtful, more mindful.
It is sometimes said that the four pillars of good health are nutrition, exercise, well-being and sleep; from my experience, though, you can build the first three on the latter. My sleep problems began around the same time as I was elected as an MP. Whether it was attending late-night votes in the Commons, enjoying midnight meals in curry houses or staying in stuffy hotel rooms during campaigns, I was lucky to snatch five hours per night, six at most. Looking back, my ill-disciplined sleep had a pretty disastrous impact upon my health, and I remain convinced that my disrupted circadian rhythm contributed to my insulin resistance, my high blood pressure and, ultimately, my obesity.
In those days, my final act before hitting the sack was to check the #TomorrowsPapersToday hashtag on Twitter, just in case there were any front-page stories that needed my immediate attention (if so, I’d invariably fire off an early-hours email to alert my staff). Then, after experiencing a fitful night’s sleep – broken by at least two toilet trips – I’d wake up feeling achy and disorientated, groaning in pain and barely able to remember what day it was. Tellingly, the first deed of the morning wasn’t to clamber out of bed for a stretch, or grab a glass of water from the kitchen; it was to fumble for my phone in order to check the Labour Party’s overnight media briefing. This missive would reach my phone between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m., the expectation being that we MPs would diges
t it before breakfast.
I soon came to realise that my night-time health needed as much attention as my daytime health. I sought help and guidance from a brilliant book, Why We Sleep: The New Science of Sleep and Dreams by Matthew Walker, Professor of Neuroscience and Psychology at the University of California. The conclusions he drew, in both his book and online broadcasts, were absolutely fascinating.
‘Sleep is emotional first aid,’ he said. ‘Sleep is the greatest life support system that you could ever wish for. Sleep de-risks nearly every disease in the Western world.’
I was particularly intrigued by the chapter titled ‘What’s Stopping You from Sleeping?’ in which Walker identified the perils of electric light around bedtime. He spoke eloquently about this in interviews, too.
‘Man-made light began the re-engineering of sleep patterns with the invention of gas lamps,’ he explained. ‘When darkness arrives, the body is flooded with melatonin that prepares us for sleep. Electric light tricks your suprachiasmatic nucleus, which fools your brain into thinking the sun hasn’t set. So we go to bed when our body is not biologically capable of sleep.
‘Light receptors in the eye are most sensitive to short-wavelength blue LED light. It has twice the harmful impact on melatonin suppression. An iPad used two hours before bed can block melatonin by nearly a quarter.’ He went on to quote a study that found that reading books on an iPad, rather than print books, suppressed melatonin release by up to half and delayed production by as much as three hours, with the result that those taking part lost REM sleep, reported broken sleep and had reduced melatonin production for days afterwards.
Reading Professor Walker’s book became my catalyst for change, and from then on I tried to ring-fence at least eight hours per night for sleep. This wasn’t always feasible with my work schedule, but wherever possible I aimed to be tucked up in bed between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m., with my alarm set for 6 a.m. at the latest. To provide a sleep-friendly environment, I ensured that my bedroom was clutter-free, that it was suitably dark (thick curtains, tightly closed) and that it had a pleasantly ambient temperature. I banned myself from looking at any form of electronic device for an hour before bedtime (and for an hour after waking) and even bought myself a pair of blue-light-blocking glasses to reduce any screen glare at other times of the day. While I kept a phone on my bedside table at night, just in case any emergency calls came in from my kids, or from work, I never accessed social media or surfed the net. I also stopped scrolling through the daily media brief at silly o’clock, finally realising that it was a wholly inadequate way to start the day. Instead, I addressed any important issues once I arrived at the office. If there was something that I needed to respond to urgently, I could count on my team to inform me as soon as I walked through the door.
