Designated drivers should film their mates
I was a slender youth. At 26 I still weighed 63 kilograms and shoveled and barrowed a tonne of sand, cement and bricks a day. Then my wife got pregnant. Somehow I never recovered my figure.
It was partly a desk job and fancy lunches that did it but mostly it was the rivers of beer.
I’d always enjoyed a drink. Okay, I’d always been a grog head, but landscape gardening and an active night life kept the waistline down. At forty, I gave myself surfing lessons and realised that I was out of shape. A dozen twenty somethings and one fat old bastard lined up on Belongil Beach to learn the moves. By lunchtime, the youngsters complained about sore calf muscles from balancing on the board. I could hardly move my arms from struggling to lift my fat carcass off the horizontal. I started running three times a week but, more pertinently, I gave up the grog.