For the next 10 weeks we will follow the fortunes of a typically overweight Irishman as he once again tries to fit into his wardrobe
This is really hard for me to say, but here goes. I'm an unhealthy looking bloke with a bulging stomach and a chin that could've doubled as a lifeboat on the Titanic.
At nearly 18 stone, I've got a 42-inch waist that is getting bigger. I've got constant pains in my back, arms, stomach, knees, bum, ankles and legs. I've even got a pain in my face. And that's all before any one bothers to take a look inside. In short, I'm the type of guy on World Health Organisation wanted-posters. Reluctantly, and with some trepidation, I think it might be just the time to embrace a diet.
Before I start, a few confessions: Firstly, I suffer from two deep-rooted worms that live in separate compartments of my body, one in the brain and the other in my stomach. This pair have a telepathic capacity to communicate the notion that fast food is the only food worth eating and that, in case of emergencies, I should always over-order. It's also a communique I'm loath to interrupt.
Secondly, I'm not exactly a fool and am totally aware that the bane of my entire life revolves around my relationship with food and the amount of saturated and hydrated fat, added salt and extra sugar that is the bulk of my normal intake.
Thirdly, Achilles-like, despite my love of chips, wedges, hamburgers and anything else that comes fast and fried, I know I'm doomed for an early death if I don't do something fast.
Fourthly, I'm what I call a moderate drinker who probably drinks too much. And lastly, I'm the most miserable individual this side of the hamburger mountain.
If I have a medical condition it would probably be explained as Big Eyes, Big Mac, Big Arse, Big Moan syndrome. At just under 18 stone, I have to do something about it.
Now, this winter confession and mantra isn't unusual for me. I get these thoughts when any Michelin man worth his salt has to face up to the advent that, after every Christmas, there comes increased daylight, forthcoming holidays and thoughts of natural exposure.
It is, of course, a well-known fact that during winter fat people enjoy an immortality - a camouflaged existence that hides in our long coats, stupid hats and French-tied scarves. That is, if we bother to go out at all.
Once the light/dark ratio swings against us, and hiding places are at a premium, clothes loiter around the body like skin on a stuffed, pulled turkey, and clothing oneself is about as comfortable as dressing up bribes in a planning office with brown envelopes.
Mornings are the worst when the "what-am-I-going-to-wear-today" question gallops like a marauding insurgent around the bedroom, encircling and mocking the podgy mountainous and blubbery cheeks that sit beanbag and Buddha-like astride my one-storied and squashed Pisa-tower excuse for a neck.
Frequently, I sit on my side of the bed, my short legs swinging like a ventriloquist's dummy, looking stupidly in the cavernous dark wardrobe while the music from Countdown shell-shocks around the room as I ask contestant-like "go on Carol, give us a shirt, a trouser and a vest".
I ask in vain. And, I used to love clothes. That was before I put on so much weight that now I couldn't be bothered. I've now replaced fashion with necessity. In fact, shopping for clothes is planned with a nod to the annals of the military academy at WestPoint, Napoleon's mastery at Austerlitz, and Rommel's infantry blitzkriegs, where seal-like, I try to make my way into a shop, check the size on a pair of trousers, pay and leave in one continuous motion, and before anyone can get a glimpse of the Seven-Bellies trying on the new parachute from Ralph Lauren.
Shopping isn't my only problem. Currently, I live and breathe in two pairs of trousers and two long-armed shirts, all blue and moderately modern. I wear one set for good wear, special night-outs, funerals and weddings, while the other, closer than my soul, is my de facto everyday uniform.
Depressed, saddened and hurt, I'm as moody as any overweight footballing boy-wonder. But not for long, for as soon as I finish this carcinogenic over-fried chicken and saturated chips, I'm starting the mother of all diets.