Snap shots and cheap shots.

One of the the unforeseen side-effects of making the film last week (Oh, did you make a film, John? Eye roll) was the full horror of my cameo. We had a skeleton crew, and if I needed bodies to bounce light off, eventually one of them was going to have to be mine - our bubble was a finite one, and I'd used everybody else up. I was unprepared for quite how much of the the screen I was going to block - I was the only thing in widescreen. 

I thought I'd got away with Covid corpulence, and perhaps I had - maybe I was the size of the Westinghouse elephant all along (though it was still shocking). It's easy to fool yourself: a preferred selfie angle, a contouring filter to resurrect your cheekbones like Jesus on Lazarus. And everyone knows that a shop window reflection adds fifty lbs! But the cold eye of the camera lens doesn't lie. My dark shirts and sucked in cheeks were fooling no one. So I've had a regime change: no booze, healthy food, two hour walks every day. I mean, I'm fifty now - its probably pointless. My metabolism is like the last marathon runner over the line, barely able to take the weight of the silver blanket. But you've got to show a bit of willing. And besides, given Covid still applies I can combine the exercise with a bit of a social life. I have a few play-date rambles lined up with people I haven't seen for ages. How lovely. 

Today I climbed up Black Hill with Joe Nawaz. It was delightful. At the summit there is an old stone well, and Joe took a photo of me looking, I assumed, moody and convincing as I stared out at the trembling horizon. See Fig 1. 

Fig. 1

There I am. Some evidence of cheekbone. Firm jaw, but melting softly like a warmed through brie as it turns to dewlap. Standard "harvest festival" black shirt ("all is safely gathered in"), hair blending nicely with the cotton wool smears over head. I mean, it's not great, but it could be worse. 

I posted it to Facebook. I know. What was I thinking - I'm a man. Imagine posting an image of your own face on your own social media page. YOU ARE ASKING FOR A PASTING, you vain clown. Worse still, I labelled the photo "The Joshua Treat", as a riff on Anton Corbijn's grainy black and white photos for U2. In quick succession I was transformed to "The Joshua Teat", then "Wart" (okay, I mean it's shit, but...) then "Achtung Dadbod" (very poor) "Hairline on the Horizon" (...am...I going bald? Is that it?) then "Van Daimen's Gran", (not actually an album, and assonance, but...right...fine)

I mean, its hardly the shit that Jesy Nelson from Little Mix gets, but it does remind me why I never post photos on Facebook. As a man you are obliged to accept that you're ugly and useless. It's the standard position. The best case scenario is that you're a benign troll, constantly farting and breaking things. A lumpen, numb-thumbed man-child, who can't boil a kettle without loss of human life. That rather clashes with my cherished self-image. 

My female friends post pictures of themselves on Facebook and there is an audible smack of dopamine as the compliments pile up. "You look amazing" "Looking great, girl" "Oh I hate you - you're so beautiful." Their friends gather round holding out a support blanket as they leap from the burning building of their emotional well-being. No one posts that they look fat and their hair's shit.

Look, I'm talking myself out of this. I was briefly annoyed at being called a fat fuck while I was actually doing some exercise. I don't want to look like this, and I'm taking steps to avoid looking like this - however Quixotic that endeavour might be at this point - but I didn't think I looked that bad: felt cute, might delete later. 

I momentarily lost the sense of humour I definitely have (I have no sense of humour). It doesn't really matter. I know that women are often subject to indescribable torments on social media - and sometimes their support network can't save them. My friends decided to tell me I looked fat and old. It was, at least, undeniable. 

I wouldn't do it back, mind. I don't care for the cheap shots. 

I actually joshingly remonstrated with one:"I'm halfway up a fucking mountain trying to get some exercise to lose the weight and you're calling me fat!" He replied: "No, it's a large flat road, as I recall."

Fine. Double down. And fuck you.