5 Things They Don’t Tell You About Marriage.


The 5 things They Don’t Tell You About Marriage 


Nothing changes. The relationship is exactly as it was before you wore a dress and awkwardly danced to a song that your betrothed first fingered you to in a grotty nightclub. If you fought before, you’ll fight afterwards. If you worried about fidelity and trust, you’ll still worry about it afterwards. For those who believe it heralds the dawning of a glorious new age of contentment I need to ask; Why the fuck aren’t you getting that just now?


People will treat you differently. Yes. It’s true. I am treated with approximately 34% more respect in the workplace due to the fact I am with husband. People are dicks but it doesn’t change the fact that for some, a glittery ring signifies a level of stability, maturity and acceptance. Despite the fact that you decided to get married on a whim, you have a credit rating that even Iceland wouldn’t thank you for and you are barred from most taxi companies in the North. You just happened to meet someone who thought ‘I’m fed up of Match.com and you are good in bed’.


It becomes open season on the new brides womb. It is now perfectly acceptable for random aunties/colleagues/mother in laws to suggest that it is only a matter of time before the stork drops a wrinkly jelly baby. I suggest responding with ‘Lately, we’ve been doing a lot of anal so it might be a while’.


You do NOT make your money back on a wedding. And nor you should. It’s a party for the nearest and dearest to share the couples ascent into the dawning of a new age (Oh. Wait)…not a money making scheme. I was recently told of a bride to be who decided to take out a loan to fund her big day, nonchalantly saying, ‘Oh it’s fine, we’ll make a fortune anyway’. Shoot yourself, m’kay?


It might not last. Divorce rates in England and Wales currently sit at around 42%, with the highest number of people legally splitting after 5 to 9 years of marriage. It is also thought that recession has a direct (although delayed) impact on divorce statistics. It might be time to challenge Hallmark selling greeting cards with the message ‘Good luck on your new approximate 7 years together’. Added extra ‘My gift reflects the years you will last’.

But then I call my telephone banking, and they greet me as ‘Mrs’. I smile and remember the impromptu conga on our wedding day and my new husband crying as I walked down the aisle. Tears of joy, right?

You are mental, you are.

I have a little internal list of things I like about myself. Here is a

1.    I have a good nose. I’ve never hated it, which puts it in the top 3 things I like about my body (tied equally with my nails that grow fast and my fringe)
2.    I am very diplomatic and much more practical and rational than I let on.
3.    I have good mental health.
4.    I like my dress sense. Sometimes it veers towards ‘psychotic Fraggle’ but what can you do? It’s either that or *matching*.

Of all of these, number 3 is my most prized (followed closely by the nose).

I’m extremely lucky (and it is luck, for the most part I think) that so far I’ve experienced decent enough mental well being. I’ve never experienced depression, anxiety or suicidal ideation. Here’s the catch– I work indirectly in the mental health arena. Health & wellbeing is my work-related home girl and overarches everything I do in a professional sense. It’s important to me that I try my absolute hardest to take good care of my mind in order to be of ANY use to the people I work with.

I’ve just became a part of a team who will be delivering mental health training throughout Scotland and undertaking the 3 days intensive T4T
made me reflect a lot on my own experiences and behaviours. And therein lies the rub:

I congratulate myself on being mentally well, but I spent an hour the day after my wedding greeting at the facebook pictures that were posted because I felt I looked horrendous in them. I mean come on.  I
had an awesome dress, amazing husband and it didn’t fucking rain. I look the way I look. I can’t censor my own face. Unless it’s a selfie on Instagram then I totally can.

I spend too much time thinking about food, dieting, body image, weight loss, weight gain, the fact I am losing my chin and neck and will soon have the ‘chineck’ that my darling grandmother sported, my upper arms, the hypocrisy that I fully support the Fat Acceptance movement but not for me and cheese and low carb and on my lowest days wether or not I should just buy a muu muu and be done with. If I used this time to…I dunno, take over the world then I’d probably be successful and you’d
all be living under my rule (don’t worry, there will be cake).

Every so often I eat my feelings. Not just the sad ones, but the happy ones too. All feelings – I’ve never been anything other than an equal opportunist. My darling husband will come in and wipe the crumbs off me with a knowing grin and say, ‘You are on one, eh?’. I’ll grasp my stomach and say never again, whilst internally considering the combo of decade old jars of beetroot and solid oatcakes bought for Christmas. 2009.

I don’t want to be that person. So I propose to change. To challenge these disordered thoughts and feelings. What makes this time different? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But if I give up, I’m likely to lose my amazing nose to my ever growing cheeks.

My sporadic posting might suggest that I’ve cracked this weight loss shenanigans and I’m off frolicking/roller blading/posing in LOTS of pictures in bikinis but FEAR NOT. I’ve just been ignoring this page like genital warts.

So what makes me return? A number of reasons actually.

1) Still fat. Fat is fine. I have no issue with anyone being fat just like I have no issue with people being tall/short/bespectacled/brunette/blonde.  But I’m quite curious to see what I’d look like NOT FAT.

2) I’m reading a book that looks at thought processes surrounding our choices around food. And accountability plays a massive part on it. I like writing this blog as it gives me chuckles talking about that time I overdosed on freddos, or when I poo’d myself after a colonic. But I think I owe it to myself to REALLY utilise it.

3) It’s 5 months till my wedding. 5 fucking months. That’s insane. My dress comes mid Jan and whilst I know I’ll look all glowy and shit because I’ll be marrying the love of my life and he’s also got a mortgage and low council tax (CATCH)  but I proper have the fear about….

The Photos.

I hate getting my picture taken. Now, I know this is a common shout out to those of us with less than stellar self esteem but it genuinely gives me the fear. I’m confident, outspoken and outgoing. Put me in front of a camera and I want to go foetal in a corner with a foot long chorizo and tub of double cream. I just can’t deal with the fact that if the picture sucks, my memory of an evening is tainted. Insane, but there you go.

Will all this go away if I lose weight? I’m not stupid – I know I’ll still feel insecure.  But I want to put on a dress, get married and drunk without running away in wedding shoes when well meaning friends flash me with their iPhone.

I can understand why folk may think that this is a self esteem issue, rather than a weighty one and for some people I can really get behind that. But I know me, I’m happier smaller.

And the irony – my partner in crime is a photographer. A very good one. Can’t wait for the day when I’m pestering him to take ‘artful’ (read nudey) shots without using a wide frame lens.



PS – Shout out to my lovely ladies on GTHL.




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Things Wot I Have Tried or Scat Out of Hell.

I’m plodding away at my own special version of Slimming World where I vaguely glance at books and don’t hate myself when I eat a Freddo and it’s slowly but surely working. I’m losing around a pound a week. Whereas before this would seem like a complete waste of fucking time I am now repeatedly chanting the old fat girl diet mantra of ‘If I lose a pound a week I’ll be invisible within a year’. At least I think that’s it. 

If I DID lose a pound a week I’d be sitting at around 9 stone. I cannot remember a time that I was ever 9 stone. Maybe the early teens, but certainly way before the internet was invented. If I DON’T lose a pound a week I’m probably heading for the ‘Almost Big Enough To Have My Own Fat TV Show’ or maybe an article on the sidebar of shame on the Daily Mail. 

Anyway, years ago, I went to Oztralia for a year. It was great. If I had all day I’d tell you how I got stood up in Tokyo and survived on 2 cans of juice and a packet of crisps for 3 days, or the story of the Oscar The Grouch knickers (to be retold only in the presence of alcohol) but I won’t.

Instead I’ll tell you about the colonic.

I’ve copied and pasted an email I sent back to my friends to describe my experience. I’d lost a fair bit of weight when in Oz, purely down to the amazing fresh food and the fact that the lifestyle means you tend to do shit. So whilst being all healthy, I decided to get a colonic. Please, no jokes about my arsehole. This email was entitled Charlie & The Choco-colon Factory.

Good afternoon Ladies,
( Cue Jerry Springer theme music )
We hear clapping, and crowds chanting Jerry Jerry Jerry!
Jerry comes out from the side entrance, a rather attractive dark haired female, similar in style to a fatter Martine McCutcheon is on the stage….
Jerry – Today folks, instead of the planned My Dog married my Husband and My Child is a Transvestite Neo-Nazi, we have the LOVELY Jennifer  here to chat about the recent trend in Colon Hydrotherapy. Ho Jennifer, or may I call you Jenny?
Me – Hi Jerry, and no, you cant call me Jenny, Just Jen thanks.
Jerry – Okay Jen, why dont you start by telling us WHY you felt it necessary to have 25 gallons of water pumped into you stomach?
Me – Well Jerry it really was a case of blocked up belly, and the neighbours were starting to complain about the smell of my wind/gas/fart…whatever you want to call it. 
(crowd starts booing and holding their nose)
Me – SHUT UP! Yeah your mommas a ho!! (Jennifer flashes them …and everyone sits down and goes, hmm nice t*ts)
Jerry – Okay Jen, talk me through it, help me understand the procedure…
Me – Okay Jerry, you lay up on a bed, naked from the waist down and half a tude of self administered KY up the old bum, and you lower yourself onto a tube, water starts filling up your belly and it gets really really full.
Then you need to go poo poo…
Jerry – Ah but it didnt go to plan did it Jen?
Me – No Jerry it did not. Against the advice of the Hydrotherapist…
Jerry – Is that an actual Job Title Jen?
Me – I think so Jerry, there was a certificate in Beauty Therapy from Reid Kerr college on the wall…anyway, I couldnt sh*te on this tube, I felt as if I was going to jobby myself, and I started to cramp…so I got up from the bed and about a cup full of water poured out of me on to the floor. I then sat on the toilet for 15 minutes, defecating perharps the most sickening water/jobbies with a terrible smell. Apparently I should have done that on the tube, and the yellow fluid is known as toxic something or other…so back on again the old horse, and I sat for 30 mins, every so often needing to loo on the chair and letting it go on the tube. I watched it from the side – no recognisable matter, but defo some strange shapage coming out. 
Jerry – So would you recommend this to any of your friends and family?
Me – Well Jerry its a personal choice, and I really did pass some incredible amount of matter, so Im glad its out, but its not as amazing as you think. And you dont instantly feel light and spritely, and you dont lose any poundage..
Jerry – Yes, Jen, You do look rather rounded.
Me – Thanks Jerry.
Jerry – Well folks, if you feel the need to get that pesky old colon cleansed then maybe its for you, however if you are scared of a little stingring, then maybe buy some laxatives. Until next time – take care of yourself, and each other…
Cue Music, and big flabby Yanks shouting, Go Jerry Go Jerry….
Fade to black….
What I probably didn’t admit to, or make clear in the email, was that I shat on the floor. Not my finest moment but it certainly has to be mentioned on Things Wot I Have Done To Lose Weight. And I feel the blog is better, more well rounded for it. It’s not all Wooooo I lost a POUND. 
In saying that, this blog never really is, is it?

A thought.

If I spent as much time at the gym per day as I do looking at diet shit on the web, I would have no need for this blog or indeed size 16/18 pants. If I wear a thong it just looks like my arse is flossing. 

Anyway. As you were.


Whilst I don’t update this blog anywhere near anything approaching regular I do think about it all the time.

Case in point. After the festivities I had indulged. Now you know when I say indulge, it really means I consumed more calories that there are people in the world. And it’s a very true saying that what goes in must come out. I found myself farting some of the most vilest smells ever. I say this as a person who enjoys her own emissions. I’m not going to lie. But even I was trying to blame the dog rather than triumphantly destroying all living matter within a ten foot ‘kill-zone’.

After gagging from one particularly violent pimp , I had a thought that I really should sort out my diet. And there is totally a blog about how your rotten arse is probably one of the more obscure reasons for dieting.

But I didn’t until now. Because I didn’t stop eating. Or farting. But that’s really not what this particular entry is about.

I’ve piled on the weight. Pretty much a stone from my lowest of 12’10 (I’ll let you do the math, I can barely write it down). You can tell that it’s showing because I do not get the obligatory ‘Oh but you don’t look it’ when I grumble about having gained. There’s the searing honest awkward silence that tells you that, YES, you have put on noticeably and YES, I won’t insult your intelligence by saying otherwise. Which is okay. I mean that.

I did also want to blog about how the Fat Girl Hello usually goes something like, Hi, your looking well, have you lost weight? When all you did is wash your face a bit harder and brush your hair but I’ll be straight – no one is daft enough to pretend that I have in the last 4 months so I can’t actually verify this still happens.

In true Rottencrotch blogging style, I’m only actually updating because things have changed. I’ve reached THE POINT. The straw that broke the obese camels back. The LIGHT(or should that be heavy?)bulb moment. Last week I signed back up for Slimming World. I need the structure. I came dangerously close to getting a bit disordered in my foodie like thoughts and surprisingly enough following a plan makes me think LESS about food, not more. This week I lost 3.5lbs. Go Team Obese.

I’m going to admit to the next thing because I believe it’s common. For the first time in a long time, I cancelled on a night out. 15 minutes before I was due to go. The last time I felt this shit I started Lighter Life. Now this wasn’t your typical ‘I haven’t got a stitch to wear’ strop. This was the overwhelming feeling that I just couldn’t even think about being out, being social when I hated the way I looked. I’d have left after 15 minutes and probably came back with an 18 inch pizza. And a subway. So deepest apologies girls, if you read this. I really was looking forward to it.

I have the opposite of body dysmorphia. I think I’m thinner than I am, and I have NO clue what I look like. I took some photo’s to check out outfits, and BAM, I knew I was not going to go anywhere but the internet to research gastric bands this evening. Don’t worry, that was a joke. It was weight loss teas for 2 hours.

I’ve got 14 months till the wedding, and I owe it to myself and the dress to feel good.

Nothing changes, if nothing changes.

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Snow Business.

Can I just preface this entry with a little thought from little ol me regarding the snow.


I cant wear my super expensive wellies because they make my legs look like muffin topped sausages and I’m pretty sure they are so restrictive that gangrene sets in 20 minutes after I put them on.

I hate the ice. With chaffing thighs due to my obesity I already waddle. The ice just exacerbates this and I look like a chicken with constipation.

Work becomes MUCH harder. Travelling to groups is a nightmare, and you are never gauranteed that people will show up. And I don’t blame them. I would rather sit in my jammies watching Hollyoaks than have some mad wummin with ultra tight wellies and a waddle throw condoms at you.

So in conclusion, I am not happy it is snowing. And for all those dobbers celebrating it – move to Iceland before I ram a stuffed overweight cankle up your arse.


Back to business. I think you know where this is going. I joined Slimming World for a week. Lost 5lbs. Loved the diet. But then moved on. Casa-fucking-nova of the diet world.

Since then, I have been making like a polar bear and building up the blubber.  Purely because it’s cold (Snow, I blame you for EVERYTHING).  However as I am wont to do, I’ve reached the point of no return and I really can’t face anymore shite food and junk eating.

I am nothing if not a realist. It’s a month till the big fat man empties his load. I am NOT going to lose. If I can’t do it during the summer when everyone else is all salads and fresh air, it’s hardly likely I will surrounded by advent calendars and mince pies. Last year my calender was gone by the 4th. This time round I bought one with the shite chocolate in it and I only actually opened one day to wind up my boyfriend. Bad Jen.


So I’ll have a G please Bob, for some lovely goals.

– Food diary. I’m keeping one over at a forum. Just basic, but I know the theory and I think it may help

-Keep processed foods to a minimum. I can cook,  and I do actually enjoy it so no excuses.

– Get under 13 stone for beginning of January when I WILL return, like a spurned lover to Slimming World.


Toodle pip, I’ll let you all get back to building snowmen (DIE!!)


Jen x

My Name is Rottencrotch, and I am a fat club whore.

I’m going to cut the usual FELL OFF THE WAGON,BACK ON IT tirade to a minimum – for reference please see, oh I dunno, every other post I’ve ever written, and get on with the business of me being a slut.

Yes, I said it. A slut. A lady of ill-repute. Loose morally, less loose in clothing. Let me be clear, I would NEVER consider using the term slut when discussing a girl and sex – sleep with 1 or 100, not my business and I wouldn’t care to judge but when it comes to my behaviour…

I’ve bounced from one diet plan to another, showing scant regard for the feelings of Scottish Slimmers, Harcombe, Calorie Counting and my next victim…Slimming World. I show delirious love and affection for 3 weeks before I move wantonly onto the next.

My excuse? I don’t really have one – I had lots of nights away, nights out and I got engaged. See how I slipped that one in? I found someone daft enough to marry my fat ass. I think thats what they call ‘something to work towards’.

I weigh in tomorrow.  It’s my first weigh in – and it’s at 7pm at night. Which limits my usual strategy of ‘Do not feed the animals’ before stepping on the scales.

I wonder how many eggs I can eat/evacuate before 7?


Radio Silence or why public humiliation works.

The way I feel about this blog is the way you feel about that awkward dude you met from internet dating that you REALLY don’t want to see again, but you don’t want to cut all ties because it would be like kicking a puppy with a disability, and it also serves as a reminder of just how low you’ve sunk.

I was all fired up, writing that triumphant post whilst still being obese about how I’m never going back to 13 plus stone. Nuh uh. No size 18 way.

So what happened? Like the Titanic, you know how this ends.

I ate. Lots. And got fatter. I settled on 13 stone and 7 lbs. The heaviest I’ve ever been.

And like the poor guy at the beginning of this sad, sad tale – I was in denial. I checked in a few times, had a few half arsed (pun intended) attempts at a reconciliation all the while knowing that I was a bit of a fraud. I wasn’t really dieting outwith the hours of Monday 8.00 am and Monday 12.00pm.

I’m not sure why the self sabotage happened. But it did. I thought, by losing a whopping 8lbs I had this weight loss thing cracked and I got complacent. Please feel free to punch me in the head if you ever EVER hear of me thinking like that again. This is why the weight loss industry is worth millions. Because we are all pretty fucking rotten at it.

Lets not get all upset now, though. Would I really start blogging again just to berate myself for failing? Like every good story, this has a relatively happy ending. I did something I never thought I’d do again.

Join a FAT CLUB.

The first rule of fat club is do NOT EAT.

The second rule of fat club is DO NOT EAT.

The third rule of fat club is SHIT BEFORE YOU WEIGH.

The toilets are always mobbed at a fat club class, and if you didn’t know better you’d think we were all coke heads or bulimic. But obviously our BMI’s and dress sizes put paid to those particular afflictions. It’s the last minute wee’s and poo’s that can make all the difference between a disapproving stare and a triumphant YOU GO GIRL from a perma cheery woman with the scales of doom and the pen of power.

The sheer strength of public humiliation has motivated me. I really truly do NOT want to be one of those ones who stamp their chubby feet at the scales and declare loudly for the room that they have “hardly eaten a thing” and “been living off of fresh air and rice cakes so there is NO WAY I’ve put on 3lbs”. Special mention goes to the ones who say they struggle eating their calorie allowance. REALLY? I think we all know you didn’t join fat club cause you were scared of pies my friend. I say that with love, myself being previously deluded into the ‘How Can I Be Fat?’ camp. Apart from that time I ate a large Dominos then a whole tub of Ben & Jerry’s in 50 minutes. Myself.I knew I was fat that day.

It’s been 5 weeks and I’m down to 12 stone 10. So the public humiliation thing is working for this chubster. I pay a fiver a week to ensure the fear means I stop eating crap and actually monitor my food.

Okay, I’m not a complete angel and I did wear jeans to my first weigh in to artificially ramp up my initial weight (to ensure a whopping first week water AND  jean weight loss) and I do spend about 45 minutes before weighing bursting blood vessels in the toilet like the rest of my waist challenged friends but STILL.

So anyway, I’m back to blogging. I’m going to treat this blog as I would a relationship. With time, effort and witnessing the good and the bad. Not like a skanky, fall back, internet fauxmance. Who, if you are reading this, I nearly just wrote about that time you said you didn’t understand doggy or that time you cheated on me twice or that time I accidently found a drawer full of sex toys in your flat and took a photo and showed all my friends. Whoops.

I’ve been DYING to write a post like this…

Well, it’s been 14 days since I last spewed a diatribe of ‘I’m a fat bastard’ onto the web and I’d like to think that it’s about time I posted some results, proper ones and not just the ‘I chose diet coke with my KFC’ type of achievements.

As if I’d ever have a  KFC. Actually, I’d love a KFC but there isn’t one within walking distance (damn you pseudo snobbery of the ‘West End’ with your lack of quality fast food establishments – but you do have a Greggs and that suits me just fine).

Anyway onto matters most pressing on the arteries.  2 weeks ago I weighed in at 13 stones. A nice round number, unlucky for some – obese for me.  It’s now 2 weeks gone, and including some pretty raucous weekends involving FAR too much drink and some wonderful encounters in kebab shops (ask me when I’m drunk) I’ve lost 4lbs.

I’m at my scary weight. Scary as in I haven’t legitimately got the scales below 12 stone 10 in about the best part of a year. I seem to get there, give it a quick hello and I’m back up to 13 stone before you can say ‘Charlie Sheen is a maniac/Theres been another natural disaster’.  And when I say legitimately I mean without starving myself the day before weigh in, excessive jobbying or removal of all clothing and/or excess body hair.

The good news is that I’m feeling stupidly motivated. I’m not sure why, it’s just sneaked upon me like a wee weight loss monkey and I’m happy that it’s here.

It’s been a long time coming, a positive feeling coupled with ACTUAL positive results. Usually I’m all ‘this time I’ll do it’ whilst whipping out the ol bank card on Just-Eat.

Long may it continue. And roll on next week with a 12’9 on the scales.

4lbs down, 38 to go.  EAAAAASSSSSYYYYY!