Written by: Mike Jones
Beer, Blunders, and a New Year's Reboot
months without beer. If you’d told me I could go that long, I’d have laughed so hard I might’ve spilled my pint. But there I was, on Christmas Day, sipping my first beer in half a year, and you know what? It was glorious. The kind of glorious that makes angels sing and pigs in blankets taste even better. But here’s the kicker: once the glass was empty, I wasn’t desperate for another. The old me would’ve turned Christmas into a marathon of malt and hops, but not this time. This time, I was content. It felt like a quiet victory—a toast to surviving a year that’s been equal parts chaos and clarity. Of course, while my beer habit stayed under control, my festive eating habit took the reins and sped straight to 16.3 stones. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world either. Seeing the numbers creep up again has reminded me why I started this journey—and given me the kick I needed to get back on track. Here’s to a healthier, happier new year and a summer without t-shirt explosions!
Three months without beer. Three. Entire. Months. If you’d told me at the start of this journey that I’d willingly give up my beloved pints, I would’ve laughed (and probably spilled my drink). Yet, there I was on Christmas Day, sipping my first beer in half a year, and let me tell you—it was spectacular.
It wasn’t just about the taste (though let’s not downplay how glorious it was). It was the symbolism of it. A reward for navigating a year that has felt like an emotional rollercoaster. Stress, depression, frustration—I’ve ticked all the boxes this year. But I’ve also rediscovered what it means to feel normal, to feel human.
Here’s the twist: after the beer, I wasn’t craving another. The old me would’ve taken that as a challenge and kept going until the fridge was empty, but this time? I was content. It felt like closure—like I’d broken up with beer and was now mature enough to be friends.
What hasn’t been so mature, however, is my relationship with food lately. Let’s rewind to the start of my weight loss journey: 17.5 stones of glorious dad bod, determined to make a change. Through blood, sweat, and probably fewer roast potatoes than I’d have liked, I whittled myself down to 15.5 stones. It felt incredible. Clothes fit better, I had more energy, and for once, I didn’t feel like the human embodiment of a beanbag chair.
Then came the last six weeks. The festive season is a dangerous game, my friends. Roast dinners, party buffets, and an alarming amount of chocolate have conspired to undo some of my progress. I’ve crept back up to 16.3 stones, and while it’s not catastrophic, it’s a stark reminder that old habits die hard.
But here’s the thing: I’m not beating myself up over it. Okay, maybe a little. But mostly, I’m using it as fuel. Seeing the weight creep back on has lit a fire under me. I don’t want to spend another summer feeling self-conscious, melting into a puddle under the blazing sun, and wondering if my t-shirt will survive another stretch.
The plan is simple: get back to basics. Less junk, more veggies. More walks, fewer excuses. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again—this time, with a renewed focus and maybe a bit less indulgence along the way.
As we step into a new year, I want to wish everyone reading this a very Happy New Year. Whatever your goals are—whether it’s weight loss, kicking a bad habit, or just surviving the chaos—I hope you smash them out of the park.
Here’s to a healthier, happier year ahead. And who knows? Maybe by the summer, we’ll all be rocking those t-shirts with confidence. Just make sure they’re breathable. Nobody wants to relive the great sweat-drenched disaster of ’24! Cheers!