So, Bozza-thrice-married-Jockstrap put a ring on it in a Catholic Church and the newly wedded mistress née fiancee née now wife, borrowed a fancy three grand dress, slipped on a flowery crown, gazed into the Priministerial eyes and Britagne was distracted yet again as we face a third wave of the Damnpemic. But Bank Holiday Monday didn’t feel any different from Bank Holiday Sunday or Building Society Saturday, only everywhere was shut and we’d run out of bananas. As the heat increased we set up the piano room for a remote voice over tomorrow morning whilst the massage bed is waiting in the wings for our first Tuina since March 23rd 2020. Tuina is a strange kind of massage where the masseuse shakes the body, unlike Western massage techniques, Tui Na goes beyond the muscles, bones, and joints to work with the body on a deeper, energetic level. I cannot wait. Having spent the whole of lock down monitoring my blood sugar, taking my blood pressure, weighing myself and generally obsessing about whether I am going to die of diabetes or just lose my feet and vision, I’m about to embark on two months of sachet eating to try and reverse my diabetes. The dawter doesn’t approve, the old git sits on the fence but my acupuncturist is fully supportive of Newcastle Universities’ studies about rapid weight loss by effectively shocking the body into remission. The theory is that after two months of rapid weight loss, one month of introducing greenery and then the rest of my fucking life in maintenance I will finally reverse my genetically induced sugar issue. I’ve tried everything from drugs to hypnosis. I’ve eaten less, drunk more, read the books watched the videos, listened to Michael Mosley and looked diabetes squarely into its insulin resistant face. If you are most people you take the drugs and smile gently as you make your way to the morgue. But if you’re me you are allergic to the drugs, allergic to insulin, allergic to your doctors and allergic to the diabetic strategies that are out there. ‘MASTERING DIABETES’ the book written by Cyrus Khambatta And Robby Barbaro is a revelation and flies in the face of most nutritional advice. I’ve used the book and marvelled at the results. The authors are both type 1 diabetics and they tell their stories and share breakthrough findings. But my need to lose the fat off my liver has proved difficult. So arriving at diabetic burn-out I gave up, stuffed my face with buttery toast, ate biscuits at 2.00a.m. and generally existed in total denial. It stinks; it takes up too much headspace; it drives me mad. So I’m embarking on two months of near starvation to reverse the ghastly sugar monster. That said, I ate my last meals today. Like people on Death Row facing an electronic execution I ate my last suppers. I had a BLT in the Deer Park Caff, munched al fresco on the dawter’s delicious food in the garden, slurped her homemade ice cream and jammed fresh cherries into my mouth. I now feel bloated. So, on June 1st 2021, I am attempting to do what thousands of struggling diabetics have done – remove the need to choose, cook, and eat food. I will simply sup on soup and sip on shakes. I suppose by making this public I will have to commit to Dr. Taylor’s advice and chow down on 700/800 calories a day, go to bed hungry, wake up hungry and, for two months, bite not even the bullet. Then, by August the first, I will be ready to add a little green leaf and my diabetic readings will be so good I can stop worrying. For ‘worry’ is my middle name, as is panic, boredom, irritation, anger, exhaustion and desperation. Time to take stock, but only if its plant based and without flour and sugar……