Big, fat truth: Volume Eight

Spa Slay

I am going to a spa. Yay! 

I went to a local hotel for a pamper day, complete with a heathy buffet and ONE glass of wine OR fruit juice, for my beautiful friend’s hen. I did not want to go at first. I didn’t know what to expect, I was not happy that I would need to be touched and a healthy buffet sounds terrible to me. 

It was a very pleasant surprise to find out that I am most definitely a spa person, I was totally right about the buffet though. 

I did have a few things crop up that I want to avoid this time though, so I am preparing well in advance. 

Swimming Costume Etiquette

I was told to wear a bathing suit last time, because there is a pool. No problemo, I go swimming a lot so I actually have two. They are super comfy, practical and sporty, the kind with little shorts that those maniacs who do triathlons wear. Perfect. I did not realise that going to the spa is more like going to a Marbella pool party than going to my local leisure centre. 

You might be thinking, Bek, if you feel more comfortable in a black onesie that covers you from your knees to your chin, you should not be shamed by the flamboyant costumes of your fellow spa-ers. And you would be right, but, I love to dress up. I will not be passing up the chance to wear a thoroughly impractical two piece, jewellery and full face of make up, thank you very much. 

I’ve bought a delightful yet flimsy bikini from boohoo curve, it wouldn’t stand up to a vigorous backstroke, so it’s lucky I intend to just float around like a well dressed jelly fish. 

Bathrobe Blues

When you aren’t swimming or being oiled up by teenage girls, they let you knock about in a fancy bathrobe like Whitney Huston or the queen or something. It feels very decadent to lounge on a sofa drinking ONE glass of wine OR fruit juice in a fluffy dressing gown, or it would have if the robe in anyway covered what it was supposed to. 

I asked at reception for their biggest robe and was looked at like I was speaking Elvish. She said the waffle ones were more generous and passed it to me with a sad look. I was a size 16 at this point, but I carry all my weight in the front like a plumber, the robe barely fit and I had to reposition myself the whole time to make sure I wasn’t showing people more of my body than they wanted to see, unlike a plumber. 

I’m now a size 20 or 22 depending on the store, I don’t think even the waffle robes are going to cut it this time. I was more than a little concerned about this, what was I going to do if it didn’t close! Like seriously, what the fuck would I do? Kick off? Insist on wearing my bikini during the treatments? Sit around eating cold pasta salad in dripping wet cozzie? Bring one from home?

Oh yes, I’ll bring one from home! Thanks to Amazon I am the proud owner of a double xl luxury towelling bathrobe of my very own. This is great, I am going to be way more relaxed at the spa and I can pretend to be Whitney Huston in my own home any day of the week. 

Actually Relaxing

Unwinding and forgetting the stresses of the real world is kind of the whole point of spas, right? Well, last time I was so stressed about the whole experience that my anxiety was through the roof when I was having my treatment. I only realised it was actually wonderful to just lay there and be scrubbed and massaged by a professional, exactly three seconds before it finished. 
I am going to be chill af this time and enjoy the whole thing, I still won’t let them touch my feet though, I’m not an animal. 
So yeah, I’m all set for my day of pampering and indulgence now and I am super excited to spend the day with some of my favourite ladies. Also, I’m going to load up with a real big breakfast because a healthy buffet is as unappetising as it sounds. 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Seven

Did I forget something?

It’s been a month since New Years, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. The oven is off, I don’t iron and I’ve locked the front door. I’ve got my keys, my phone and my purse in my pockets and I’ve fed the cat. What is giving me that, Mrs Mcallister realising she left her son in the attic to die, feeling? (I watched Home Alone four times at Christmas, give me a break). 

Then, when I was catching up with a gal pal and the conversation inevitably turned to weight (we are women, obvs) I realised why I feel so odd. This is the first New Years, since I was 15 that I haven’t been starting a new diet. 

I did not wake up on the first thinking about how great I will be at everything once I’m skinny. I didn’t pretend that as soon as I am a size 6 again, in just three months, if my calculations and the promises made by the diet app are true, I will have energy, I won’t be sad and tired all the time and I’ll be able to have fun and relax again and, maybe, actually leave the house for nice reasons instead of just work. 
I’ll will never be that person again. I’m not going to set myself up for failure and then berate myself for not being good enough at changing my whole personality. I will not buy fresh produce and leave it rot in my fridge while I eat out anyway. I will not download any bullshit apps or drink diarrhoea inducing tea. 

I have spent the latter half of 2016 trying to rediscover and nurture my authentic, true, happy self. I do not want to derail that by spending two toxic months beating myself up because I’m not outdoorsy or vegan or thin! Weight, or anything to do with appearance, should never be listed as a character flaw. I shan’t be buying into this bullshit again, what I will be buying is doughnuts. 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Six

Outfit of the Day

I am pretty self conscious, cynical and self policing. I think six steps ahead at all times, reaching a point that PROVES I would have been a fucking twat to do, whatever I really wanted to do.

It’s hard being in my brain. It took me until I was 26 to admit I wanted to be a writer, I am 31 now and I have only just started putting myself out there. I want to tell everyone everything about fashion and comedy and telly and films and I feel like I am finally able to whop out some of the millions of ideas and thoughts that are, so often, wasted talking (thinking?) to myself like shit. I’m doing this and my stand up and making great strides at my job. I am more confident, inside and out, with every new day. Why then, am I terrified of actually showing of my styling skills? Why, when the amazing women I follow on social media and blogs, whose selfies make me smile and put a spring in my step each morning, do I feel like a numpty (sorry Non British readers, douche bag to you guys), whenever I attempt, then immediately abort, any and all ootd pics? 

Reason One: I am too cool. JK! I want people to think I’m cool at all times. Chill, not bothered, aloof, mysterious. To be these things you must shit on everything, especially things you love desperately, never try and, absolutely no earnest behaviour! Being interested and/or caring about things, trying you best and pursuing your dreams, these things are for losers and swots. Or worse, loser-swot hybrids, who happily work hard at school and relax by kicking back and playing a table top game with a hundred sided dice and wizard hats and can look at themselves in the mirror and sleep at night because they are living their God damned truth! 

This, completely toxic and false, word view is one I lived by throughout my childhood and way too long into my adult life. It always conflicted with my true urges to please my teachers and do well, to be bold and show everybody I was bloody brilliant, to dress up and show off and to embrace my talents. This is also why I left school with pretty much no academic qualifications, turned down opportunities to audition for actual tv shows (Casualty and some BBC Wales stuff, what a twat!) and wasted my time on dick boyfriends who hated me (until I sacked them off, then I was a goddess they couldn’t possibly live without. Strange). Posting awkward mirror selfies is definitely trying, earnestly trying.

Reason Two: I think I’m not good enough. I’m just going to be some creepy selfie wanker and people will know I’m not proper. They will think, I think, I’m awesome and they will think I love myself, when I absolutely do not have the right to. 

Reason Three: I really am awfully shy. I feel all sorts of sick thinking about being noticed. That’s it, just noticed. Even though I am desperate to be Instagram famous and be pals with Amy Schumer, and go on talk shows and tell my most intimate secrets to Ellen, I could also, happily, only ever leave my house if it was on fire. I am complex and interesting, right? 

Reason Four: I just screaming into the abyss. Does the word really need to see more fat girls taking shaky photos of themselves in dingy spare rooms? (Not throwing shade here, my spare room is just dingy af). 

The answer is, fuck yes! My world changed forever when I saw a documentary called Plus Sized Wars. It featured loads of kick ass bloggers and it introduced me to the idea, which honestly had never crossed my mind, that you can buy nice clothes and makeup and look pretty AS YOU ARE! I didn’t have to wait till I lost five stone to buy garments that weren’t flares and hoodies, I didn’t need to keep my ‘good’ clothes in my wardrobe for when I was thin again and I didn’t need to subscribe to the bullshit convention that was dieting anymore. Look at these queens! I followed them all, and many more, on Instagram, and I felt like I was seeing straight for the first time in ages, actually, since I skipped my first meal when I was 14 because I was a massive size 10! (I also deleted all the thinspo accounts I secretly still followed and gave Ted style lectures, to anyone who would listen, about how you think clothes look bad on fat bodies because the fashion industry doesn’t let us see them). 

So, what I have taken entirely to long to say is, little girls and big woman alike need to see more people who look like them. They deserve to feel like they are proper and that they are entitled to the space they take up. If one person sees my jolly, round face on the Internet and is motivated to give zero fucks, my momentary mortification would have been worth it. 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Five

Identity Crisis

I need to get a new wardrobe for my new job, it has to be fashion forward and from my store. I spent the whole day last Saturday, watching customers try on super cute outfits and wearing clothing and being creative with combinations of items I would never have thought of myself. One girl in particular caught my eye. She was very cool. Her mix of floaty, floral palazzos, a vintage band tee and denim shirt, finished off with classic, black Birkenstocks, blew my mind! 

I subsequently spent the rest of my shift shopping for similar articles so I could recreate this girls killer look. Btw, not in a creepy, Single White Female way, but kinda how people try to look like Kardashians. 

Anyway, I find the perfect garments and head home excitedly. I, literally, cannot wait to see how cute I look! I was so disappointed. 

I had bought all the same things as her but I did not feel like a hip, chill, bohemian chick, I felt like a frumpy soccer mom. I couldn’t pull it off because it wasn’t me, individually, each element was lovely but I didn’t see myself in the mirror (figuratively, obvs). I didn’t want to prance around my boyf or What’s App my mate to show it off. It did not pass the take away test. 

This week I bought several pieces that actually reflect my personal taste. I didn’t think, would Beyoncé wear this? Well, no more than usual. I picked things I wanted because I thought they would be fierce on me, not because I got my head turned by someone else. The mystery girl was rocking her look because it was hers and God damn it, I will do the same with mine. 

Ps. The pic is of one of the black dresses I bought instead. If chubby, urban/grunge/goth fusion is working for me then I’m going to go with it. 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Four

Keep your pecker up, no matter what! 

I have recently gotten a fantastic part-time job in a plus size store in my local town. I am having a blast! I’ve always gone back to fashion retail because I’m bloody good at it and I really love shopping and I want you to love it too! 

The best thing about my store is that it isn’t afraid to be fashion forward and we have been able to create a safe and supportive environment. An environment where women can feel comfortable and confident to experiment with different shapes and colours and trends. An environment where they can buy lingerie that is actually pretty or sexy, not two potato sacks in black, white or beige. It’s truly nirvana for fat chicks. 

[Side bar: My two cents on the whole ‘plus size’ debate, is that we will never find a term that everyone is going to be happy with but, when I was a kid, Evans was called outsize. Outsize! Plus is better than Out in my book. However, I do hope that one day all brands will run into bigger sizes and we wouldn’t need to be sectioned off at all.]

The only trouble in paradise is the not fat friend. I have seen girls, who were having a ball in the fitting room, literally deflate when they overhear someone’s skinny mate or daughter making cruel remarks. A slim chick will hold up size 30 harem pants and say, ‘just murder me if I ever get this big’, or give someone picking up a crop top the side eye, and, at least twice a day, a twelve year old will bring the house down by showing how the bras are bigger than their head, hilarious. 

Only it’s not funny. The sad fact is, I can spend 30 minutes helping a woman shop and telling her how beautiful she looks and to fuck everyone who thinks differently, but it only takes five seconds of scorn to undo all that good work. Who do they think they are? Where is their compassion and sensitivity? Why is it ok for people to feel superior by cutting down others? And, most importantly, what should I do to stop them? 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Three 

Lounging like a pro. 

Oh leisure wear, you comfy son of a bitch. I want to wear you every day, I want to spend all my money on Ivy Park body suits and PINK slogan tees, and I want to walk around like a fierce, yet squishy, advert for the sporting life. I don’t though, and there are a couple of reasons why. 

Society judges my body type so much that it can be a mine field. If a skinny gal wanders around in trackies people will assume she is about to exercise or shoot a hip hop video. If I were to rock up in the same ensemble people would assume I’m off to McDonald’s or shoot and episode of Jeremy Kyle. 

Actually, if folks do think you are going to exercise that can be even worse. The amount of times strangers have approached me, unsolicited, to give me diet and fitness advice is astounding. I could not give two fucks that your auntie lost four stone on Atkins or that big girls shouldn’t lift or they may get bulky. I not even going to the gym, I just like the feeling of being swathed in velour when I lay around my house or nip to the shops. 

Prejudice and misinterpretation I can live with, I was a teen goth after all, but the second road block to me getting my sports lux on is that brands do not want my custom. I am barred entry to these labels because they do not want me to represent them. I have heard all the excuses for not going beyond a size 14 and they are bullshit. More expensive to make? Put it at a higher price point. Creating new, bigger blocks is time consuming? It’s a one off faff that would increase your customer base forever. They wouldn’t feel confident enough to wear that type of thing? Nope, not a thing. That is body shaming, pure and simple.

Just be honest, you only want sexy, lithe, young girls to knock about in your overpriced jersey creations. Say what you like about Abercrombie and Fitch, but at least they have the balls to admit that they are only concerned with their small (literally) customer base and their projection of exclusivity, perfection and physical elitism. 

So, I guess what I’m saying is, the market is there for bigger and better sporting apparel but we need the public to chill out about fat people wearing Lycra and we need companies to make shit in our size. Really in our size! Not the habit some retailers have of stitching a size 16 label onto a garment that would be a 12 in any other store and patting themselves on the back for it. Comfort for all, no excuses! 

Big, Fat Truth: Volume Two

Do not trust the hangers, they will lie to you if you let them

You’ll be surprised to hear that buying clothes when you are a size 20 isn’t without its pitfalls. Tiny fitting rooms, snooty Saturday girls and not being allowed into New Look eating a pasty, even though it’s right next door to Gregs! The biggest thorn in the side of the curvy consumer however, is this little fucker! The size cap! It seduces you, it makes you feel safe, excited that they have your size, like the retail gods are smiling down on you. Then when you get to the fitting room you realise, hopefully before you’ve put it on, that the dress is actually a size 8 on the wrong hanger. It’s like finding out Santa isn’t real all over again. 

I did trust the size cube once. It was a dark day. It was a 6 on an 18 hanger. I did not check because I was in a rush to get to an appointment. Spoiler, I didn’t make it to the appointment. I was stuck, like this, for 27 minutes. The girl kept asking me if I was ok through the curtain. She probably thought I was injecting heroine. One, because I sounded weird and muffled saying, “just making sure I like it”through a thick corduroy pinafore and two, because in Swansea people shoot up in fitting rooms a lot. I thought, This is how I’m going to die! I tried to wiggle out but my hands couldn’t bend and I was sweating like a trucker in June. I tried to rip it but that wouldn’t work. I managed to free one hand and tried to saw my way out with my house keys. To no avail. I sat down and cried. I phoned my sister to asked her to come and help me but she is a grown up with kids so she just laughed. After resolving to bite the bullet and ask the petite, 16 year old hipster handing out the tags to set me free, Jesus took pity on me and drew my attention to a hidden zip. A HIDDEN ZIP! 

After reapplying some make up and putting my wonderful, perfectly fitting clothes back on, I informed the shop girl the dress didn’t suit me and walked out like Beyoncé. The moral of the story being, check the garment NOT the hanger and if in doubt style it out. 

Big, fat truth: Volume One

There aren’t any rules (aka, you aren’t going to lose 20lbs so buy the damn dress) 

I am going to tell you a few home truths about being fat and loving to shop. You can do both and you should never be put off buying something you love because some twat in a lanyard tells you, “curvy girls should avoid white”, “maybe you could get away with that if you wore leggings”, or, my personal favourite, “shall I get you something to hide your arms?”. There are no rules, if you feel like a million bucks in an outfit fucking buy it!

I used to be skinny, very skinny in fact. At a time when I was a UK Size 8, I remember telling my best mate that, if I lost that last stone, I would buy myself a playsuit. IF I LOST WEIGHT!? I was tiny! I was so small that when I saw a photo of myself from that period at a friends house I said, “I used to have that top!”, completely oblivious to the fact that the petite blond in the pic was actually me. Eating disorders, depression and a prick of a boyfriend had all conspired to make me think I was still too fat to wear nice clothes. 

A few weeks ago at work I was asked, by a well meaning but very insensitive young lady, why it didn’t bother me that I was fat. I said it is hard everyday and I have to keep reminding myself that it isn’t my job to be thin and pretty and aesthetically pleasing. I have to remind myself that I am a person already and not the starting off point of a make over show. I deserve to dress exactly how I like and to only please myself. I also showed her my ‘skinny pic’. I told her I hated myself more at that weight than I do now. That I felt more angry and fat and stupid and worthless and lazy when I was training three hours a day and restricting my calories and I still wasn’t good enough. I’ve felt like a fat, ugly bitch since I was 15, it’s just now the outside actually matches my perception. This has given me a strange sense of peace. I feel more confident with each passing day and I am happy with my body and the space I am taking up. 

Back to clothes. I am never going to say, “I’d get that if I was smaller”, ever again. I have started to buy cute things every time I go shopping. Crop tops, high waisted jeans and hot pants are back in the game, and if other people disapprove I simply don’t care. Walking around the shops with my belly peeping out of the top of my haram pants is thrilling. I feel like a rebel. It takes me back to my teenage goth phase, when I would rejoice at tormenting chavs and old ladies alike by simply having the audacity to wear massive jnco jeans and fishnet vests (and, sad to admit, chains. Smh) 

You may think me shallow, and I am not implying there is a right or a wrong way to dress, but I believe having your own look is so important to your identity that it can harm your self esteem to go against your instincts. I know that in the years that I gave up on fashion and dressed to hide myself, I lost a big part of my personality. Because I love fashion. If you love leisurewear or denim or fleeces with wolves on them, that’s cool too! Feed your soul.

The feeling I try to recapture when I’m shopping is one from my childhood, the feeling that got me hooked on retail in the first place. I have a super cool big sister and, on my birthday and at Christmas, she would take me shopping for ‘grownup clothes’. I loved going to Tammy and New Look and buying clothes like hers and I would do a fashion show when I got home and nag to wear my new threads to the  chippy so people would see me in them. I didn’t want to keep them for best, I wanted to show them off! 

Now, when I try on stuff in a fitting room, instead of just checking it does up and isn’t see through (I shop in Primark a lot), I have fun again, I strike a pose and decide if I would want to show this off at a takeaway. If I can’t wait to wear it, it’s going in the bag.   

Life Goals 

I quit my job today, I don’t have another one to go to and I have a mortgage. After two panic attacks and a cry, I’m actually feeling pretty zen about it. I didn’t know I was going to do it, until I did. I didn’t know why I had, until I did. I had a moment, a powerful realisation and I knew that if I don’t try to get into comedy now I’m going to die. I am also very dramatic. 

From a very young age, I have been prone to highfalutin thoughts and grandiose beliefs that I was incredibly talented, funny and beautiful, but my crippling self doubt had always won the internal battle for my soul. For the last 20 years I bullied myself mercilessly until I gave up and I let down the little girl who secretly took her own headshots, because she wanted to be in Byker Grove. 

So, thanks to the support of my amazing bf and family, I’ve got two months till my money runs out. That’s plenty of time to convince the country that I am the voice of my generation, get on some panel shows and make some serious coin. 
How hard can it be? I mean, everyone is stoked about funny women in this post lady Ghostbusters era. Right? 


Most people who have insomnia struggle at bedtime because it’s when they start to have dark feelings. They have been too 
busy to dwell on shit during the day, so it’s at night when their chickens come home to roost. Guilt, remorse, regret, all unbidden, bubbles up to remind you that you are a subpar human being. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have not been immune to spiralling into a pit o’ pity about my past life choices, from ‘borrowing’ liberal amounts of my sister’s much loved CKOne, to saying fuck in front of my very prim and proper Mother, and everything in between. Mostly I wish I was as nice as I would like to be. I wish I hadn’t bullied lispy Michelle for having a lisp by making her say her own name, even though it was ironic that her parents had given her a name that she would never be able to say, because of her lisp.

So, anyway. Yes, I do wallow and judge myself harshly and self analyse but, unlike you lot, I do it all through the day instead. All day, every day. At night, that’s when I come to life. When I’m alone with my thoughts, truly alone, no screens or people or books or sleep aiding podcasts, I reach the conclusion that I am actually a bloody brilliant human being. 

I don’t know if the lack of sleep makes me delirious after a point or if I just need to be away from the call centre for more than six hours before my brain is back in full working order. What I do know is, I am never as optimistic, confident or dynamic as I am at 12 in the morning. Ambitious plans to become the next Jo Brand (who also has a fashion blog, a reoccurring role on Home and Away and a four album recording contract) seem like a piece of piss to bedtime Beki, she’s just great. I wish I could sleep better so that a bit of her can rub off on daytime Beki, she’s just knackered.

I’m going to start to Blog at Bedtime from now on. How can I possibly sleep when I have so much going for me? The world is my oyster. (And I have a cat on me)