Welcome to Keep It Up Fatty! But who is fatty and what exactly is she keeping up?

Let's kick things off with my origin story

This is not Catford Hill.

Catford Hill, June 2020. I’m on the home stretch of an 8KM run (that’s 5 miles, imperial fans). And I’m feeling pretty smug that I can run continuously for an hour, just a couple of months after lockdown succeeded where so many PE teachers, medical professionals and well-meaning loved ones have failed, and somehow propelled me to exercise for the first time ever. 

At 7.50am, it’s already getting warm, so most vehicles on the road have their windows down, including the white van approaching me from behind, with two blokes in it.

“Keep it up fatty!” one of them bellows at me, and his equally moronic mate cackles.

As befits a sophisticated woman of 39, I manage to give them the finger before they speed off towards the bright lights of Lower Sydenham while I plod home, feeling angry and defiant but, yes, humiliated. Nobody can tell, though, because my face is already glowing from all this exertion. 

Three years on, my hapless hecklers - let’s call them Steve and Steve - will be pleased to hear that fatty has kept it up, thanks, with the half marathon medals, suffocatingly expensive gym membership and large collection of Sweaty Betty Power Leggings to prove it (I’m manifesting a sponsorship deal).

But getting into fitness when your body is more Boris Johnson than Dwayne Johnson*  is tough - physically, mentally and often logistically. “Eat less and move more!” they all bleat, with absolutely no regard for the complex series of things that need to align for this to be possible for many people.

In my case, I was and still am merely “midsize” in fashion terms, plus - and you’re not supposed to admit this sort of thing when you grew up in the 90s and 00s, so let’s whisper it - I sometimes think I’m quite hot actually. If someone like me with a pretty regulation body and reasonably healthy ego gets this kind of encouragement in the street, imagine the barriers to entry for those who, for whatever reason, feel even less permitted to take up space on the pavements, in the gym, or even on their very own living room rug with only lovely Joe Wicks for company.

So, I’m reframing Steve and Steve’s words into an inspirational quote, a war cry and yes just basically a newsletter for anyone, regardless of the size of their arse, who’s ever said or thought things like:

“I’m not a runner”

“I feel so self-conscious in the gym”

“I could never do what you do”

Sign up below for a fortnightly (maybe) perspective on all this from me, a freelance writer who has made the groundbreaking move of finally starting a newsletter. Assuming I keep the Substack up, fatty, I’ll probably talk about stuff like forming habits when you’re Really Very Busy, the ongoing battle to untangle exercise from weight loss and how to be kind to your body when you spent your entire twenties getting paid to be mean about celebrities (I appreciate this part is quite niche).

*I agonised over this line and it led to an intense and still unresolved WhatsApp discussion with my best mate about whether, if this is all about getting active whatever your body type, I should really be taking cheap shots at Boris Johnson or if he’s fair game.

Alternatives I considered:

More Queen Victoria than Victoria’s Secret

More Honey Monster than High Street Honey (I’d be funny in 2002)

More Homer Simpson than Jessica Simpson (see above)

More Agatha Christie than Linford Christie (I’d be funny in 1902)

More Jabba than Jenner

And finally, my personal favourite:

More Kim Jong Un than Kim Kardashian.