Taxing the fat to pay the thin

So, finally a doctor in the UK has been brave enough to speak out and voice what many people already think  – that instead of pandering to the needs of the morbidly and super morbidly obese with free mobility scooters and Disability Living Allowance, they should be made to contribute towards the massive strain they are placing on the health system, by paying more tax. And in turn, those who work hard to remain fit and healthy should be financially rewarded for their effort.

With obesity related issues draining every last penny out of the already overstretched NHS budget and £6.3 billion being spent fighting fat, this scheme sounds about on the mark to me. No doubt it’ll be met with cries of “You can’t say that”, but it has nothing to do with being judgmental or ‘fattist’, it’s just common sense. As is Dr Chand’s proposal to add tax to the type of fattening food that offers little or no nutritional value, yet guarantees maximum ‘junk in your trunk’.

Such a tax would of course cause outrage amongst the loyal Happy Meal brigade, all of whom would shriek loudly that it’s unfair to target those on lower incomes, who consider fast food a cheaper alternative. Quite frankly, tough. Tobacco and alcohol are already taxed in an effort to target smoking related illnesses and binge drinking, so why shouldn’t unhealthy food be too?

And as for the argument that junk food is the cheaper alternative, what a load of rubbish. It’s the easier alternative. With every supermarket offering cut prices bargains and more BOGOF offers than you can shake a stick at, it’s far cheaper to cook simple healthy food that it is to buy in a round of up-sized burgers, chips and coke. Even if you do have limited funds and an army of hungry mouths at home to feed. People who choose takeaways every night over cooking are just lazy, and parents who feed their kid’s junk for breakfast, lunch and tea should be done for child abuse. (see related post).

Strangely enough, many of these parents who claim they can’t afford to buy healthy food for their kids just so happen to smoke and drink. They think nothing of puffing £5 into thin air or pouring it down their throat, but they can’t stretch the family budget enough to incorporate something that hasn’t been regurgitated out of a deep fat fryer and into a styrofoam box. For £5 you can buy an entire chicken. So do you spend your money on 20 cigarettes, or a whole birds worth of protein to feed the kids? There’s the difficult decision of the week.

The argument that fast food is even fast is the biggest myth of all. At tea time it takes less time to scramble an egg, microwave a potato or even cook some pasta than it does to climb into the car, drive to the nearest nugget dispensing outlet, queue up, order, collect and scoff. Of course most children would probably prefer the nugget option, and as such be more likely to eat it up without a moan or a struggle, but since when was feeding them meant to be about taking the path of least resistance?

Children are just that, children. They should be eating what’s right for them, not what’s easiest for the parent, no matter how much money they have, how brain dead they are in the kitchen or whether by the end of the day they’ve simply lost the will to live. God knows I could well do without the constant battles about how many vegetables are lurking on my kid’s dinner plates, but I’d rather deal with the fuss they sometimes make than watch them both turn into Weebles, and wobble right off their Trip Trap chairs.

So is the idea of taxing the morbidly obese ever going to work? Nope, not a chance in hell. Why? Because many of those who fall into this category probably aren’t able to work in the first place. Their size, and the associated health problems that comes along with it, prevent them from carrying out even the simplest day-to-day tasks, never mind holding down paid employment. So if they were forced to pay more tax, they would no doubt need to be awarded more disability allowance to afford it.

Obesity is a problem that will carry on for many, many years to come. In part this is because many of those individuals who are contributing to the problem, simply refuse to accept any responsibility for their own actions. Instead they prefer to blame the government for its lack of support in helping them to lose weight. They complain about the shortage of free local sports centres and wide open spaces in which to jog. They claim that a bunch of carrots are exorbitantly priced and no one ever taught them how to cook.

In answer to that. It’s not up to the government (who lets face it can’t even run the country properly never mind a weight loss club) to prise the fork out of each and every chubby little hand across the land. There are 1000′s of miles of free pavements in the UK, go walk on them. If you can afford to upsize your £4.50 McDonalds meal you can afford a bunch of carrots. Go buy a cook book, or cheaper still, turn on the TV and listen to Jamie Oliver.

It seems incredible that so many people simply refuse to put two and two together and start addressing the problem, instead of comfort feeding and making it even worse. Even with all the fat fighting campaigns, health lectures and awareness raising TV programmes out there, all trying to ram the obvious message home, it’s hard to see what the solution will be.

Perhaps if those who need to shed the weight actually climbed out of their complimentary buggies and used their feet, they might be surprised to find the weight starting to drop off. Obviously there’s no miracle cure to losing this amount of weight, unless you see stomach stapling as a viable option, but it has been done, and is therefore not impossible.

I’m not even going to pretend to have a clue about the horrible vicious circle of a situation that you’d find yourself in, when you reach this sort of size. Or how demoralising and depressing it  could be to live with everyday.

I’m pretty sure that getting the weight loss ball rolling would indeed be painful, and a tremendous struggle of mind over matter to say the least. But any type of exercise was never designed to be easy, it was designed to be exercise. And anyone who’s ever tried a step class (and failed miserably) will know that exercise can be painful, complicated and downright humiliating whatever size you are.

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There’s no such place as perfection

Lots of people heading over to live from the UK want to know, what’s life in Perth really like? Is it all blue skies, suntan cream and sandy beaches? Is it better than the UK in every way? Is everyone as ‘happy as Bruce’ and do the kangaroos all smile and wave you on your way as you speed off to work your 5 hour day?

In a word, and a very short one at that, NO.

Despite popular misconception, it does get cold here as well – Perth has long winters with not much sun and a lot of rain. Just like the UK, everyone isn’t happy all of the time, and kangaroos don’t really smile. I’d say if anything they smirk.

Some people, understandably, given how many burning hoops they have to leap through to get a visa, want to believe that Perth is the answer to all problems on earth – and the very opposite of evil old England. Yes, without a doubt it’s a lovely place to live and the lifestyle is so laid back that many have trouble getting upright again. But like every country it’s far from perfect.

Houses are still expensive and the cost of living high. Jobs are often hard to come by, and the working hours and commutes long. Older kids are often tempted by the huge drug scene on offer. Gang crime, knife crime and gun crime still fills up the news. Politicians still fail to deliver and continue to talk out of their backsides… So Perth may be many things to many people, but if you’ve built it up in your mind to be ‘perfection’,  then you might just be shocked to find it’s not the answer to all of your prayers.

Those migrants fresh from the plane and still marveling at the vastness of the sky, the millions of stars on view at night and the wide open beaches will tell you that ‘Perth is as good as it gets’. And that, I think can be very misleading to those trying to decide whether to make the move over. Firstly because the reality of life overseas (once the initial excitement has worn off, whether that takes a week, a month or ever a year) can sometimes be very different to what people expect, and secondly peoples idea of ‘as good as it gets’ can vary greatly.

Many people move over from the UK for a better lifestyle and a house in the sun, a chance to escape a country that is spinning out of control. But despite this, a massive 40% of those who move over from the UK still decide to go back again. That’s an awful lot of people making an extremely costly and difficult decision to return – a decision no one would ever take lightly, or do without good reason. Moving your life around the world is a big enough upheaval in the first place, moving back and starting again is an even bigger one.

Everyone has their own different reasons for not wanting to stay. Some find the distance from friends and family too great. Some feel too cut off from the rest of the world. Some realise that problems faced in the UK are also faced over here. Perhaps some just didn’t want to spend their weekends surfing, hiking, fishing, camping and drinking beer around a BBQ. Or maybe once they’d had a year of cooking sausages in Kings Park, eating fish & chips at Hillarys and trying to spot animals at Perth Zoo the novelty of it all simply wore off. Who knows, maybe the reality of life here simply never lived up to the hype.

So if you’re leaving England and heading south in search of perfection, then it might be wise to really get the lay of the land before your feet touch down on the dusty ground. This way you cut then risk of being surprised, disappointed or disillusioned  by what you find. Because if you arrive ready to start your new life Down Under with your eyes wide open, then you will probably love it all and never look back.

To quickly go back to the original question of what’s it like to live in Perth, here’s my answer:

Today I got woken up early by the radio. It was grey, wet and cold outside and the drone of irritating DJ’s put me back to sleep – until the dog barked millimetres away from my ear. I dragged two children from their beds and fed them breakfast. I made my own breakfast and then watched it conceal into concrete as I hunted for last nights homework sheet. I stepped on the dogs tail as he rushed past me to the backdoor. It was still pouring with rain, so as the school bell went in the distance I threw the kids into the car.

I returned from the school run, cleared up breakfast, emptied the dishwasher, put on the washing machine, swept half the garden off the kitchen floor. I then rounded up my son, his water cup and potty and headed out to the supermarket. We navigated the aisles with a renegade trolley while I fed him pancakes to keep him quiet and contained. I loaded the car, filled up with petrol and unloaded the car – all in the rain.

Next came lunch, as requested by my son. I watched him push it around his plate for so long that I gave up, ate it myself and then cleared up. He got all his toys out just to see what would take his fancy – we played with Lego, blocks and trains. The school bell sounded, so we set off with the dog in tow. We ran to the park so the dog could wear himself out while we all stood under a tree in the downpour. I supervised homework, cleared up the house, cooked dinner for the kids and remembered the washing in the machine from this morning. I shoved it all in the tumble drier as it was still raining.

Fed both kids their dinner – felt my blood pressure rise. Cleared up the mess. Supervised their bath time – felt my blood pressure rise further. Overcame a toddler meltdown when Tellytubbies said ‘Goodbye’. Shoehorned two kids into bed and then cleared up the house. Again. Started dinner. Again. Husband arrived home. We both collapsed in front of TV – exhausted. The dog barked at next doors cat and woke me up at 1am. I lay there staring at the clock and waiting to go back to sleep again. I started to panic when I couldn’t fall asleep. Then I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to turn the tumble drier on. I went to sleep convinced I could already smell the washing going mouldy.

I got woken up early by the radio….

Point made? Living in Perth is like living in many other countries around the world – 5% sunshine and light, 95% reality of your day-to-day life. So whether you choose to live at the top of the world or down here at the bottom, your bills will still mount up and your funds sometimes run low, your children will still squabble, bicker and sulk, and the contents of your ironing basket will still have doubled in size everytime you walk past.

That, as they say, is life.

Is it possible to parent without Prozac?

I’ve often wondered, what makes a good mother? And if I were to be marked out of 10, what would I get?

I mean these days are you considered a maternal goddess simply because you manage to keep your offspring alive, fed and watered till they’re 18, or is there more to it than just ensuring the survival of the young? Maybe it’s about teaching Junior not to knock every other child to the floor, in the stampede to get the last biscuit. Or how it’s unacceptable to spit at passing old ladies in the street, or hold up the local corner shop with a Swiss army Knife, for the sake of a pocketful of jelly beans.

Basic ground rules no longer seem to apply to kids today and it’s hard to know what will keep them from falling off the straight and narrow. Personally I concentrate on good manners, eating well, doing what they’re told – and the all important learning not to interrupt me when I’m on the phone. But who knows if this is enough.

Perhaps there should be a Parents Manual 101. A check list so we can tick off what we’ve done right, what we’ve got wrong and and what’s still to come. Actually scratch the last one. If we knew what was to come, the survival of the young would be put into jeopardy and Prozac sales would sky rocket.

I do sometimes feel that I probably fall well below the Mother’s Mark – that’s the parental version of the Plimsoll line, there to let you know when you’re about to drown in another child rearing disaster. These feelings of inadequacy are often as a result of me completely losing the plot, followed by my temper. Generally over something that is, in the grand scheme of things, really not that important at all.

Like my daughter sifting through her dinner as if I’m deliberately trying to poison her with an olive. Or my son deciding that the clean, cream wall is the perfect empty canvas on which to exercise his untapped artistic talent. The sort of stuff that I no doubt did at that age – and got a smack for.

So when one tearful child has gone to bed with no pudding, because he refused to eat any of the vegetables, or the other is glaring at me as she stomps to her room because I’ve abruptly switched the TV off – without giving a full  60 minute’s worth of warning – then I feel like crap. Well actually, lets be honest, initially I don’t feel that bad at all. I’m normally glad to have some peace and quiet at last and a chance to sit down without being talked at, tugged down to floor level or questioned over everything I say.

It’s about an hour later when I go into their rooms and see them laying there, all angelic looking with a tear still clinging onto an eyelash. Then I feel like crap.

Worse still, when looking for reassurance the next day, I ask my daughter, “So do you still love me or am I the meanest Mummy in the world?”

“Of course I do”, she says, looking horrified at the very suggestion she wouldn’t, ” you’re the very best Mummy in the world”.

And that’s when I feel REALLY crap. As I think to myself how important, on a scale of 1 to 10, was it that she ate that last piece of aubergine.

The trouble I find is that intending to be nice, loving and patience to my children every minute of the day, and actually achieving it are often about as far apart as the North and South Pole.

Sometimes it’s impossible not to be a bitch, even to them. I never mean it, but they seem to have this knack of catching me at a time when I’m especially stressed out, tired and hungry. They then  pull out all the stops and leap up and down on my very last, very frayed nerve. At that point, unfortunately for them, the most appetising looking thing to bite off just so happens to be their heads.

To make matters worse, it’s at these times that I come out with the most god awful things. Threats I have no intention of ever carrying out, character assassinations that are completely unfair and phrases that instantly morph me into my own mother. I hear the words come out, and even in mid flow think to myself ‘what the hell, shut up will you’.

I’m presuming, or rather hoping I’m not alone in all of this. Judging by some of the sad looking children and the angry, muttering mothers I’ve seen stalking around the supermarket and away from the playground, I’m guessing not.

In a perfect world I’d deal with stress better and never take it out on my kids. But the trouble is, as with most multi-tasking mums, half the time I’m too busy trying to work to play dress up with Barbies, and too busy cooking, feeding and clearing up to make necklaces out of pipe cleaners and the contents out of the ‘Bits’ draw.  By the evening I am certainly too bloody tired to discuss in detail, all those things that children find endlessly fascinating, and parents find, well, boring.

Yesterday for example, after a long day at the keyboard, my daughter informed me that for her latest school project she had to learn all about the banana. Now it’s not that I don’t care about the banana project, or wish to restrict her learning all about the cutting edge life cycle of this thoroughly nutritious fruit. But my brain just doesn’t have enough functioning cells left at the end of the day to process such an uninteresting topic.

I could let her lose on the Internet to find out more, but god only knows what would pop up if she Googled ‘ banana + picture’. I have images springing to mind, and none of them I wish to have burned into the memory bank of my 8 year old. I am tempted to just be blunt – ‘A banana grows, it’s peeled, it’s eaten – end of story’. But I suspect this just won’t cut it.

Besides that, it would be mean to crush her imagination and wish to learn. Particularly as I’m something of a witch when it comes to policing her homework and making her learn her times tables in the holidays – when all the other little girls seem to be out chatting with their friends on the street corner, wearing 2 inch silver kitten heels and eating sweets…

Juggling life and kids is an uphill battle at the best of times. Add to that a job, whether in an office or 10 feet from the kitchen table, and you may as well throw in a couple of knives and a blindfold. I wonder how many woman wish they didn’t have to do it all, or at least to be seen to be doing it all.

Given the choice, some days I think I’d rather go back to the Stone Age way of life. Sitting at home in my nicely decorated cave, with nothing to do but carving up and cooking whatever gets dragged back in through the door after the hunt. As long as there was Ebay that is, and Eastenders on the telly.

Anyway I have to say I felt slightly better about my mothering skills the other day, when I set eyes on this picture. I may bark, bite and occasionally smack my kids, but at least I’m not subjecting them to this type of beauty pageant child abuse. I ask you, what sort of self obsessed mother does this to her child? It’s freakish, warped and quite frankly creepy.

In comparison to these ‘eyes on the prize’ mothers,  I’m practically Maria Von Trap, with a little Mary Poppins thrown in for free.

Flaming fish and luke warm chips

Last night we had something of a culinary catastrophe in the kitchen. A pretty impressive feat considering we were having take away.

Returning home with some fish and chips, my husband found me in the same position in front of the computer as I had been when he left, and not ready to eat as I should have been. Fearing the food would freeze over, (spring in Perth seems to be very backwards in coming forwards this year) he stuck it in the oven to keep warm until we were ready to eat.

All was fine until he came to take the fish out. Somehow, and we’re not sure how, the paper it was wrapped up in caught on fire on its way out of the oven. As Gorden Ramsey (the air turned a lovely shade of blue) stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the burning tray out, our natural sense of urgency and lightening fast reactions stepped up a gear. We both stood there, our mouths open as our dinner combusted in front of us and did nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Well when I say nothing, what I mean is we stood there watching the flames leap higher and higher and the paper burn faster and faster. Our daughter stood nearby, watching us and no doubt wondering why her parents were being so completely useless in such a potentially dangerous situation.

The reason for our obvious lack of fire drill skills and our indecisive nature was the dilemma that we were both silently mulling over. The bonfire before us was, after all, still our dinner. We were both starving hungry and more to the point reluctant to wave goodbye to $16 worth of fish. If we sprayed the tray with the fire extinguisher (the one that we bought in case such a fire should ever occur) then the fish would be rendered completely inedible. If we doused it with water, it would be soggy.

When we realised that we couldn’t blow the fire out and it wasn’t going to simmer down by itself, my husband carried the blazing fish out into the garage and stood next to my car. Or should I say rather he stood next to just under half a tank of petrol. Genius move. If we set fire to the garage we could also BBQ the entire contents of the house at the same time.

Eventually we moved away from the fuel tank and put the snapper, which was now on it’s last fins, on the ground in front of us. At this point my common sense finally woke and my Girl Scout training kicked in. I wet a tea towel and threw it over the tray. Ruined the tea towel I have to say, but a small price to pay I suppose.

Now most people would probably have binned the burnt offering and thrown out the remains, smouldering fishy funeral pyre and all. Not us. Oh no. We picked off the worst of the burnt paper, whipped the chips out of the oven and sat down to eat.

Funnily enough I’d lost the edge off my appetite by this time, which was just as well. I’d like to say that aside from the overpowering whiff of ashes and the fairly unpleasant carcinogenic taste that it wasn’t too bad, but I’d be lying. It was absolutely disgusting. Ketchup, it seems can only do so much to mask charcoal. Worst of all by this stage, despite it’s roasting the fish was stone bloody cold and the chips were soggy.

So what did I learn from this? Well never to put hunger before a house fire for one, and I suppose never to let small children, pets or husbands loose when armed with an oven mitt.

Interestingly enough and actually fairly worrying now I come to think of it, the smoke detector never went off. Normally if I toast bread on any setting higher than level 2 it bursts my ear drums, yet it failed to so much as beep with a greasy flaming fish flam-baying less than 3 feet away. Hmmmmm. I really must check that battery….

I should add (otherwise I will never be cooked for again) that despite nearly burning down the house, my lovely husband is normally a budding Jamie Oliver. Only better looking..

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McDonald’s Saves the Day

Australia, a country renowned for it’s love of sports and outdoor lifestyle has just been named the ‘Fattest Nation in the World’. Oh what a proud moment in history that is, let’s bring out a double cheese burger and chuck it on the barbie to celebrate.

What on earth has happened to this world and it’s waistline, and who is really to blame? Is it the companies who make the junk food, the media who promote it or the consumer who thinks if they buy a meal that’s ‘Happy’ then they must be onto a good thing.

At a time when the world seems to be sinking into financial hardship, ‘cheaper than chips’ food is even more appealing to those who are forced to budget and tighten their belts. Of course not eating the junk food would help considerably with the tightening, but that’s neither here nor there.

Still not to fear. McDonald’s (the all American hero) is one company that has ever so kindly stepped up to the plate and is fighting the good fight to ensure that the world doesn’t go hungry, and it seems that the public is incredibly grateful.

Grateful enough that in the UK alone, McDonald’s, the countries largest low wage employer, has recently created 4000 new jobs in their 1,200 outlets. Jobs evidently needed to keep up with the demand of the 2 million new customers who are flocking in through their doors every month, to fill up on a menu that seems to get cheaper by the week.

Now I have to say, that with the world media so heavily focused on the growing problem of obesity, and a staggering 58% of the world’s population predicted to be obese by 2030,  I just don’t get it.

Why are so many people still refusing to grasp the simple fact that it is not called ‘junk’ food for nothing?

The definition of junk according to my (Websters) dictionary is ‘discarded useless objects, rubbish, trash, any narcotic drug, such as heroin’. How very appetising. No wait, let’s wrap that in shiny paper and stick it in a box with a big smiley face on. OK, that looks much better. Now it’s good enough to eat.

Yes of course there is no denying that a ‘Value meal’ may be cheaper than buying all the fresh ingredients you need to cook a meal. Yes of course it is undoubtedly quicker to queue up and have your food thrown together for you than it is to stand in your kitchen at the end of a day and make it yourself. Yes of course kids will love it and therefore the threat of enduring yet another argument over how long it takes them to eat their dinner is significantly reduced.

So yes, yes, yes. I get that it can be a quicker, easier, cheaper and less stressful option all around. But that doesn’t mean it’s a better option. Cutting straight across a crowded road might be quicker than walking an extra 50 yards to the nearest flashing green man, but it doesn’t mean you will get to the other side in one piece. Several flattened pieces perhaps. Or, if you are in Singapore, with a fine for Jay walking.

The simple fact of the matter is that if you consume your body weight in Big Macs and McNuggets every month then the likelihood is you will get fat, you will get sick and you will die… years before your name ever comes up on the Grim Reaper’s call sheet.

Surely no food is worth gaining weight or dying over? I reckon if every McDonald’s had a pair of scales at the counter and you had to climb on them to place your order, it might make a whole heap of people think twice before stepping through the door and in turn, cut down the queuing time for those ‘Super Size’ fanatics who really don’t care.

Of course I know from experience the occasional burger might be nice. Or more to the point the idea of a burger might be nice – when you are out, hungry enough to eat the furry contents of your glove box and too far from your own fridge to make it through till the next meal. The reality of it is very different if I  remember rightly (since cutting red meat out my diet I haven’t been back). You go in through those doors starving and full of hope that it’s just what you feel like and come out 15 minutes later feeling bloated, greasy and in need of a colonic irrigation.

Now I know that it may seem like I have a real axe to grind with McDonald’s (or those who eat it), but that’s not the case at all. All fast food places are as bad as each other and wherever you go, the menu is nothing more than a recipe for any number of chronic medical conditions.

When it comes to the kids, these places are especially bad news. Nearly every possible combination of children’s meals in all these fast food joints are too high in calories, exceeding 430 calories – an amount that is one-third of what the National Institute of Medicine recommends children ages 4 through 8 should consume in a day. Incidentally Subways is the healthiest of them all and apparently the only one that doesn’t offer soft drinks with kids meals.

It seems crazy that some parents are OK with their kids filling up on empty calories and nothing else. If they were asked to make their child neck a bottle of vodka and chain smoke a packet of B&H for their tea would they agree? So why would they let some clown called Ronald help pour a load of saturated fat down their throat instead.

The reason why McDonald’s bugs me the most is because they base all of their promotion and advertising around families, suggesting that it is the perfect place to take your 2.4 kids for a nice meal out. Hey, who needs a Sunday Roast in a nice country pub when you can sit on a plastic bench, get ketchup all over your shoes and leave stinking of chip fat instead

McDonald’s spends over $2 billion a year on advertising – a large chunk of which would be used to target young kids. Their marketing encourages the use of ‘pester power’, the bain of every parent’s life. They know that if you stick a small plastic piece of nothing in a box, link it with the latest product, film or event then those little McNugget loving consumers will come a running.

And when chunky little Jo Junior hankers after the complete set of McAction ‘limited edition’ toys that come with his Happy Meal, then the rest of the family will invariably also come along to chow down at the Temple of McDoom. So what you have is the whole family now eating a load of cr*p just so they can get their hands on something that won’t even make it out of the backseat of the car. Clever marketing it maybe, but should companies be allowed to lead little lambs in for the slaughter like this?

I know for a fact this marketing works. The other day on the walk home from school, my daughter asked out of the blue if I would take her to McDonald’s. Obviously my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline and she had more chance of growing a second head, but I still asked her why she wanted to go. It turns out that it wasn’t for the food or even the play centre (the ones they put in to trap parents and get them to buy more food). No, it was because she desperately wanted some beanie thing that McDonald’s have brought out in honour of the Olympics. Sadly my daughter won’t be getting one, but seeing as she had forgotten she had even asked by the time we got home, I don’t think it will stick in her childhood memories and scar her for life.

Talking of the Olympics, there’s another really clever marketing campaign.  Who else could possibly be more suited to help promote the world’s most famous sporting event than one of the world’s leading sponsors of obesity. Strikes me as a bit of an odd partnership that one, much the same as if you held a sex convention in a nunnery or an AA meeting in a pub. But then, as every company knows, you should never underestimate the power of positive association.

Of course fighting McDonald’s cause along the fatty highway and creating a positive link between health and the McHeart Attack are some of the world’s most celebrated Olympians. Namely the 8 time gold medal winner Michael Phelps and the world’s fastest man, Usain Bolt.

Phelps, who once again has put Flipper to shame with his speed in the water, has talked about how he consumes a massive 12,000 calories a day, including foods from his favourite eatery – McDonald’s. Bolt, who makes slow motion look fast has revealed that he doesn’t eat breakfast and fills up instead on nuggets before hitting the track.

Oh yeah. Bang goes any hope of parents using these athletes and the extraordinary feats that they have achieved to motivate our children into eating well. I personally think Phelps should get back in the water and keep his eating habits to himself. If the average person took a leaf out of his book and thought that consuming this much food would help them win a gold (and we know there is always going to be someone dumb enough to try it), then Greenpeace would have to be called to dredge them off the nearest sandbank.

Despite their claims that they care and are working to help stamp out obesity, McDonald’s are only there to feed those who come knocking. Of course they are, that’s the nature of what they do. Their policy is not to restrict portion sizes and dispense nutritional advice with ketchup. Many light years ago my husband did a stint at a McDonald’s. After a few weeks on the job he was fired. Not because he stole fries or dropped a gherkin slice on the floor, but because he asked one very overweight ‘little’ boy, when he came up for his third Big Mac, “Don’t you think you might have already had one too many?” Straight talking is obviously not a trait they look for in their employees.

Please McDonald’s, enough with the celebrity endorsements and sponsoring of sports. Just start making the food a tad healthier and then maybe, just maybe, the obesity trend will be brought under control and in 50 years time there will still be enough space left on this planet for all of the people to squeeze in.

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Eat to Save Your Life

A couple of nights ago Jamie Oliver‘s programme ‘Eat to save your life‘ was aired on Australian TV. In a country where the amount of junk food restaurants practically out number the people, a programme like this couldn’t have come a moment to soon. Australia is a nation it seems that really does need to have the blindingly obvious message drummed home to the masses.

(Fast Food x Every day) + (Excess Fat + Disease) = Death

The show was aimed at those members of the public who believe that the gherkin in their Big Mac counts towards their 5 a day. It was designed to pick them up by the scruff of the neck and give them a bloody good shake, and a smack around their ketchup smeared chops. Nothing that Jamie Oliver said isn’t already common knowledge and in fact just basic common sense. He simply pointed out that if you shovel huge amounts of crap down your throat you will not only gain weight and look like a bouncy castle, but your body will buckle under the strain and your over inflated internal organs will eventually give up and stop working. More than likely a good few years before you are actually ready to give up on life. He also spelt out, by way of statistics and shocking test results that to continue with their junk fueled diet would put them at risk of a whole host of life threatening conditions, including heart disease, cancer and diabetes.

The 18 calorie guzzling guinea pigs on the show all had several thing in common. They lived on take aways, rarely if ever touched a vegetable and barely owned a saucepan between them. They were all classified as either overweight, obese or morbidly obese by their BMI.  They also seemed unable to put 2 and 2 together and realise that if you fill your body with saturated fats, sugar, salt and preservatives, and then run a mile from any nutrients or vitamins, you are inevitably going to look more like Miss Piggy than Miss Universe and probably won’t live long enough to meet your grandchildren.

One of the volunteers had her daily food and calorie intake laid out on a table for all the world to see. While she wasn’t massively over her recommended calorie intake (2550 for men and 1940 for women – UK Department of Health), the food that she did eat all arrived in a cardboard box on the back of a delivery bike. Her wake up and smell the cooking oil moment came when she was told that from her daily diet, just the one Latte coffee and a small bowl of crisps that she ate every day would cause her to gain a whopping 3 and a half stone over the course of the next 15 months – pushing her from just plain old obese to morbidly obese. This news and the estimated weight gain shown in an expanding image of her on a nearby screen was understandably enough to make her second chin start to wobble with the shock. It just goes to show that when it comes to food, moderation and self control definitely seems to be the key.

Perhaps the biggest wake up call of all was the autopsy performed by Dr Gunther von Hagens on the body of a 25-stone man, who literally ate himself to death. While there’s nothing like a little late night slicing and dicing to have your recently consumed dinner churning in your stomach, it did make for fascinating viewing. Once over the initial shock of seeing a human body being cut up and flapped open, seeing the massive amount of damage caused to the heart, lungs and liver by years of excessive eating was enough to make you push away the nearby packet of biscuits and reach for a carrot stick.

On the bright side, the best thing about obesity is that it can be cured and better still it can be prevented. Damage to bodies can be reversed and life spans extended. Parents can educate their children to eat well and in turn try and stamp out the rise in childhood obesity (read other article). Ideas and attitudes towards food can be changed, if the motivation to do so is there. I’d have to say that for most people surely the idea of staying alive is a pretty big motivation in itself.

Of course surrounded by treats, sweets and temptation at every cashiers till, very few people could honestly say that they live a completely healthy life or would even have the will power to try. And who would want to, life without any comfort food and empty calories would be very dull indeed. The trick it seems is to reach a happy medium and balance out the Yin and the Yang of unhealthy, healthy and good old fashioned exercise. Perhaps the answer is to have a take out as a treat, but then eat it while strapped to a treadmill. Or eat an entire block of chocolate, but wash it down with 3 litres of detoxing spring water..

I like a slab of Mud cake as much as the next person. I’ve actually just got through 2 pieces while writing this. There is of course a valid reason for being a pig today. I need extra insulation to survive a winter in Perth and I sense I will need a bit of a sugar kick to get through the dinner, bath and bed routine today. Mud cake aside, I like to try and stay as healthy as possibly. I have cut out meat, I drink Green Tea and I try and limit myself to 1 packet of Tim Tams a week.

Because I have children I would never want to knowingly do anything that would prevent me from being there to see them grow up, and in turn have their own children. I want to live for as long as possible, watch them turn into exactly what they will say they will never be and then watch them constantly nag their own offspring about eating all of the vegetables on their plate.

So let’s hope that people like Jamie Oliver continue to use their fame and positive influence to try and scare people into facing up to the facts and turn their life around. Someone give the man a medal or better still a knighthood. If actors, pop stars and talk show hosts deserve one, then surely so to does someone trying to save the lives of both this generation and the next.

Because so many people are trying to find copies of this show, I have found a website (based in Oz) that sells both a VHS or DVD version of ‘Eat to Save your Life’.

Cost: VHS-$54.95 (+ plus P&H)
DVD -$54.95 (+ plus P&H)

Cooked to perfection

Anyone planning to move Perth and pass their days rotating slowly on a beach towel like a rotisserie chicken should think again. Forget the myths about safe tanning – the sun is not your friend.

Over exposing your pale and vulnerable flesh to the harsh Australian sun, can and will leave you burnt to a crisp, not unlike a piece of blackened rump steak on the barbie. And just as that burnt steak can be a carcinogenic, so too can obsessive sun worshiping fast track you straight into the nearest oncology department.

Sunbathing here can equal baking – in a 40 degree fan forced oven. So unless you fancy looking like a Sunday joint in a roasting tin, then I’d suggest you think more along the lines of spray tans and bronzing balls, than lapping up the UV rays in your bikini.

Admittedly it does seem odd that in a country famed for it’s buffed lifeguards and beach life image, many people choose to stay away from beaches during the summer months. Unlike Brighton or Bournemouth on an August Bank Holiday, where pink flesh is laid out row after row, on a public holiday here many of the beaches are virtually deserted. As a socially phobic beach goer who doesn’t like having to suck my stomach in for long periods of time or listening to someone else’s music, I see this as a bonus.

There are some who will always buck this trend and lay out in the sun, regardless of how high the temperature gets. These include dogs and cats, tourists (who have limited time to achieve their holiday tan) and the older, die hard sunbathing fanatics. These in particular are easily distinguished by their rhino hide skin and the overpowering aroma of pork crackling that surrounds them.

It is not until you experience the sheer heat of the midday sun (particularly in the summer months) that you realise sun cream should never be just an after thought or something that you put on if you find the time. Sun cream is something you put on every time you come into contact with fresh air – whether you’re going for a walk, spending a morning at the beach or just mooching around in your own backyard.

Actually from painful experience I have learnt the hard way that your own garden is possibly the easiest place of all to get burnt. This can happen when you pop outside ‘just for 5 mintues’ to tidy up something in the garden. 6 hours later, after an impromptu full scale pruning operation, you look in the mirror and find yourself to be the same vibrant shade as Elmo and limited to loose, bag shaped clothes for the rest of the week.

The sheer size of the hole in the Ozone right above our heads is reflected in both the human and financial toll that it is taking on society. Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer in the world, accounting for around 80% of all new cancers diagnosed each year. Australians are four times more likely to develop a common skin cancer than any other form of cancer, a fact reflected in the 380,000 people treated everyday – over 1,000 people a day, and the 1,600 deaths that are a result of this. Skin cancer also costs the health system around $300 million annually, the highest cost of all cancers.

Such high numbers indicate the extreme severity of this problem – a problem that the Australian government does not take lighty. As well as the gruesome shock tactics press and TV ads that appear during the summer months, the ‘Slip, Slap, Slosh’ sun wise campaign is promoted everywhere that you turn.

This highlights the recommended methods of protection – SLIP on a top, SLAP on a hat and SLOSH on some cream. In addition, it is also recommended to wear wrap around glasses and stay in the shade during the hottest part of the day.

Keeping children creamed and covered up is especially important. Exposure to the sun in childhood and adolescence is an important factor in the development of skin cancer later in life. For children here, learning to put on cream is just a way of life and if they don’t have their hat at schools, they won’t be allowed to play outside. New born babies in particular shouldn’t be out in the sun at all. Most people use black UV nets over their prams – also good for keeping pesky flies away.

So if the dangers of sunbathing are so high, why has having a tan long been associated with wealth, health and superficial good looks?

Long before the Hiltons, Lohans and Jordons of this world began worshiping at the temple of St. Tropez, people believed that having a tan indicated good breeding and class – and the money to be able to travel.

A recent onslaught of budget airlines allowing anyone with a passport and an overdraft limit to fly, has well and truly knocked that perception on the head. On the contrary now, being a similar shade to an Umpa Lumpa is now a trait associated with the countless wannabe stars of the tabloids and celebrity magazines.

The perception that a ‘tan = wealth’ has however always been one reserved solely for the Western word. In Asia, it is a pale skin that is deemed more beautiful, with ‘whitening’ not self tanning creams in hot demand.

Unfortunately with so many models still promoting a sun kissed ‘healthy’ glow on the pages of glossy women’s magazines, the use of a tan remains a fashion accessory. An accessory that destroys your skin. How ironic that whilst tanning may give you an outer appearance of good health, it can also kill.

Not wanting to be seen to be promoting this health risk, many beauty companies do go into overdrive in the summer months, with their ‘responsible’ advertising of their safer, self tanning products. But don’t these just further enforce the idea that brown is still best? If big cosmetic companies really wanted to save people’s skins, then like on cigarette packets, they would advertise the terrible risks of sunbathing with hard hitting photos of melanomas, along side the sun creams they sell. But I’m guessing that stomach churning imagery doesn’t really help to shift beauty products of the shelves.

Having grown up in a succession of sunny climates, I know I have already fried my way through countless layers of skin, in the search of the perfect tan. Back in my teens and early 20’s, the mission was to get as brown as humanly possible, without actually having to undergo an ethnic transplant. Whether that meant dousing myself in Hawaiian Tropic or laying in a pool of my own sweat on a human griddle for half an hour at time, there was nothing I was not naively prepared to do. Back then, being pale did not equate to being beautiful, it simply meant you were coming down with the flu.

It has taken me a long, long time to finally get it into my head that having that ‘oh another half an hour won’t kill me’ mentality is really just playing Russian roulette with your health. The older I get and the more rigorous I am with the L’Oreal Wrinkle Decrease every night (which incidentally does exactly what it says on the tin), the more stupid it seems to then go out the next morning and undo all that hard work.

It has also taken a long time for the world to start pulling together to face up to this issue. One big step in the right direction will be taken at The 12th World Congress on Cancers of the Skin, held in Israel in May 2009. Dermatologists, plastic surgeons and oncologists from around the world will come together to learn about and discuss the latest breakthroughs in the world of cancer.

Until a cure is hopefully one day found, ignorance can no longer be used as an excuse when it comes to the sun. If you live somewhere where the risks run higher and you don’t slap on your slop, you will be treated like an masochistic idiot who ultimately deserves the consequence’s they might face. Unlike many others, this is one disease that can be prevented with a little common sense. So using some is essential.

If after reading this you still can’t resist lying out in the sun for hours, then here’s a way to achieve the same look in half the time. Simply baste yourself down with some good quality virgin olive oil, roll around in some fresh herbs and chuck yourself onto the barbie. It’s always been a look that’s worked well for a chicken drumstick, and at the end of the day cooked meat is just cooked meat.

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Barbie Etiquette

Barbies, as in the ‘throw a shrimp on the barbie’ variety and not the plastic bimbo with unrealistically long legs, play a crucial role in entertaining when living in Australia.

Most socialising tends to be done at home, as pubs can be few and far between in some suburbs, and clubs are aimed more at getting fit than legless. When friends do gather, the cheapest and easiest way to feed the masses is by marinating anything that moves, throwing the contents of your salad drawer into a bowl and then sending it all outside to the garden.

Once food leaves the relative safety of the kitchen, the women, who inevitaby have done the preparation, then have the rare opportunity to sit back, switch off and drink up. Over here, instead of gathering around wet coasters and bowls of germ infected bar nuts down the local Slug & Lettuce, men tend to congregate around the barbie, tongs in one hand, cold stubby in the other and discuss sport, or cars… or sport.

A barbie is of course that rare event that will draw even the most culinary uneducated, neanderthal male out of the woodwork. Like moths that rush at the electric bug zapper, men move towards the flames and silently battle it out for control of the fork. More fool the host who is called away and forced to relinquish the control of his kebabs. Whether this particular phenomenon is down to ego or possibly the smell of smoke, tapping into a subconscious caveman mentally, it will continue to remain a mystery to women everywhere.

The upside of staying at home and under alcohol house arrest is of course that it keeps you off the roads and lessons the chance of being caught by that dreaded booze bus.

The only real rule that seems to apply when being invited for a barbie is that you are expected, unless told otherwise, to ‘bring a plate’. Just to make this completely clear and save the embarrassment that my mother-in-law faced when she grabbed the wrong end of this stick years ago, it does not mean that you simply bring a plate – it means you take your own supplies, namely the meat, fish or vegetable kebab (depending on your preference) that you want to eat and the alcohol that you wish to wash it down with.

One last thing. While cooking everything to within an inch of it’s life is certainly a crucial part of bbq tradition in the UK, it’s worth remembering that burnt food is actually a carcinogenic. Therefore, for the sake of your health, it’s better when cooking to keep your food on the paler side of black.

ck.

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k.