If I was going to have my bubble burst I’m glad it was a Barbarian that done it…

So Monday then. I went to work on Monday feeling more than bit chipper with myself. My bathroom scales finally had some good news to report, there was a drop. A modest drop it has to be said but a drop nonetheless. My new eat less, walk more regime is still in it's infancy but it's seems to be paying off. Why just on Tuesday I walked three miles, whole miles  too, none of your fancy kilometers or any of those fancy European measurements, three whole honest to Gordon miles. Up a mountain. Yes, yes the mountain has a wonderful path and all that but still, quite an achievement for a chap more used to breaking sweat waiting for the kebab man. And, and this is the good bit, I cycled the best part of nine freaking miles that afternoon. When are the Olympics, 2012 you say?

So, anyhoo like I say I was feeling good about myself. I'm sure the self loathing and insecurities will return after my next KFC dinner from a bucket. I was feeling so good I even opted to put on one of my size 15 work shirts. Obviously I was fooling myself, and only myself. But I wore it all the same.

"More ripples than a 10 gallon tub of raspberry ripple ice cream", laughed the Glorious Leader. He laughed and pointed. We'll see who's laughing in 8 to 12 months Mr Chubby Chubberson.

He couldn't burst my weight loss bubble.

Monday night was a busy night with the place crammed with a veritable United Nations canteen of nationalities. At one point I had the axis of non-tipping evil spread across three tables beside each other - Australian, English and Random European. Obviously these tables only got about 30% of the full Manuel experience. I mean why would I bother giving them their full quota of waiter love and useful tourist information for no return. I'd be crazy fucking mad to do it when I had splendiferous Americans, ridiculously happy Dubliners and very pretty Italians to be be looking after. Funnily enough it seemed to pay off as only The Aussies didn't tip.

"Yeah, it wasn't a bad fucking steak mate. But honestly my little fucking sister can fucking cook fucking better on the baaaaarbie.", says The Australian chap wearing the sleeveless shirt (seriously, looked like that oaf from Home & Away from years ago) in reply to my simple inquiry as to how his meal was. The English pensioners on the table to the left did not appreciate his colourful and sporadic use of the f-bomb. I think that's why they tipped me, we bonded over our dislike of swearing in public. Heh, if only they fucking knew.

Maybe it was my good mood or maybe I was just moving quicker having shifted a teeny bit of fat but I was breezing about the place with a refreshing ease. It felt good, like when you make a large deposit in the bank of Armitage Shanks, I felt lighter. I felt good.

But then my positive bubble was burst. Not by the school yard bully boy taunts of my friend and manager. Not by the uncouth swearing and parsimonious ways of a loud mouth Aussie. Nor by my occasionally catching sight of myself in the various mirrors about the place. No, my bubble was burst by...

...Conan the Barbarian (the new one).

That's right we had, unknown to me, Jason Momoa booked for dinner. He's a big chap let me tell you and without sounding like I have some sort of man crush on him, he is what a chap is supposed to look like. Christ he has arms like Popeye and dominates, through his sheer size, his surroundings.

After I had taken his order, four starters followed by a Fillet Steak, we got to chatting. I was standing at the side of his table where over the top of his food he got a complete view of my blob like shape so I moved behind a chair. I've never done this before whilst talking to another man. I occasionally position a chair in front of myself when talking with women, but never with a chap. Anyhoo we were chatting, we covered all the usual bases - Belfast things to do and see and avoid like the plague, the quality of meat (he loves our steak and says the rest of Belfast sucks for steak) and then the conversation took a decidedly awkward turn onto matters of fitness and health. Yoga? Que? Is it a mini yogurt?

Obviously I had nothing to offer and ended up telling him and his chum all about the joy of kidney stones and about how I couldn't extradite them in the normal fashion and about how they would have to send a camera up my front bottom to get them out.

What the what?

Why did I do that?

Why did I feel the need to share my medical history with an American actor? Why why why? I mean would I tell Bill Murray about the cold I had three years ago? Or would Philip Seymour Hoffman be exposed to the inner workings of my perforated ear drum and the many causes of it? Would I stick it in his nose to smell, because it really does smell?!

Needless to say the conversation waned a bit after that. I went to bed with a very red face that night.

We shook hands as he left, well I tried to but instead looked like the whitest person in the world as I fucked up entirely the high five/urban flavoured handshake.

Oh my.

But he was a top chap and tips like a legend. He is a Barbarian after all, not an Australian.

Heh.