Downsizing

by Tom Watson

  In January 2018, and following some gentle persuasion, Dr Nazeer agreed to give me an earlier-than-scheduled HbA1c blood test. This annual measurement of my long-term fasting blood sugars wasn’t due for a few months but, since I was feeling so good, I wanted another in the interim. The results were astonishing. My HbA1c test came in at 4.9mmol/L, which, according to the NHS measurement guidelines, indicated that I was within the normal range (the upper end of normal, granted, but that was good enough for me). I could hardly take it in. A year ago, I’d have considered this impossible. Had I not been sitting before this very distinguished doctor I might have let slip an expletive, but I bit my tongue and said it in my head instead.

  Normal. Bloody hell.

  It appeared that, by controlling my own biochemistry through nutrition, I’d managed to significantly reduce my glucose levels and, for the time being, had put my type 2 diabetes into remission. Three months spent strictly monitoring my carbohydrate intake had had a transformational effect on my body, and had enabled my blood sugars to come down to within the normal range. While this was the finest personal victory I could have ever imagined, I also felt a twinge of regret. I had spent five years of my life in denial about my health issues, yet had I got my act together sooner I could have sorted it out in three months flat.

  Dr Nazeer’s face was a picture. For years I’d been one of his problem patients, frequently missing appointments and often mired in denial, and I’m sure he’d never imagined me making this breakthrough. Many a time I’d noticed him raising his eyebrows at me in undisguised disappointment, but on this occasion he was positively beaming. He even came over to give me a little man-hug.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Tom,’ he said, patting me on the back. ‘You really deserve this.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘Genuinely, thank you.’

  As soon as I got home I rang my brother Dan. I had been regularly updating him on my progress and he’d been hugely tolerant of his elder brother’s health and exercise-related ramblings. He had also been on a weight-loss journey some years previously, and understood just how toilsome the whole process could be. Dan’s lifestyle change had involved a huge amount of cycling, including a daily 20-mile pedal to work along the canal towpaths that ran from Kidderminster to West Bromwich.

  ‘That’s such great news, Tom,’ he said. ‘The first of many milestones, eh?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I replied. ‘Still can’t quite believe it.’

  Within a few weeks, and in consultation with Dr Nazeer, I began to wean myself off metformin, my type 2 diabetes medication. From a physiological perspective, the HbA1c test (combined with my daily finger-prick test, and my improved general health) had acted as the confirmation that I was able to control my blood sugar levels through nutrition alone. From a psychological perspective, as soon as I’d realised that my diabetes was in remission, ditching the medication became my absolute goal, a symbol of success.

  My weight continued on a downward trajectory, going from 252lb (114 kilos) on New Year’s Day to 227lb (103 kilos) by the end of April. As the flab began to fall off, people soon cottoned on. At Westminster, fellow MPs gave me double-takes as I strode purposefully through the Commons’ corridors – ‘that can’t be Tommy Two-Dinners,’ I heard someone say – and lobby reporters began to jest in print that I was ‘a political lightweight’ or a ‘diminished figure in Westminster’. It may not have sounded entirely flattering, but in the most literal sense it was indeed true. Some people even mistook me for a dark, slim, bespectacled colleague of mine, Karl Turner, the MP for Hull East. That amused him no end.

  ‘Never thought I’d see the day that I’d get confused with Tom Watson,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Time to buy yourself some different glasses,’ I replied. I also had a handful of politicians knocking on my office door, intrigued as to how I’d lost the weight. My good pal, the Labour MP for St Helens North, Conor McGinn, had not long joined the Westminster fray – in his early thirties, he was one of the younger breed of members – and had been alarmed to discover that his busy new lifestyle had led to some weight gain. I told him how a ketogenic nutrition regime had worked for me (while stressing that it wasn’t the answer for everyone) and he decided to follow in my footsteps and lost a few pounds in the process.

  I received a visit from a somewhat rotund backbench MP, too, whose wife had seen a photo of me in the newspapers and had insisted that he paid me a visit to discover my ‘secret’.

  ‘My other half says she won’t stop bugging me until I see you,’ he admitted, a little sheepishly. ‘So here I am.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ I smiled. We talked for a while, and I agreed to email him my reading and research list, from Dr Michael Mosley’s book to Professor Roy Taylor’s study, so that he could make his own informed decision.

  Three further MPs (all of whom were suffering with type 2 diabetes) decided to confide in me as well. One colleague in particular had only recently been diagnosed, and was incredibly anxious about his future health and well-being. We sat down for a private chat in my office and, as he poured his heart out, I found myself relating totally to his deep sense of fear and shame. I ended up spending a good deal of time with this MP, reassuring him that type 2 diabetes really didn’t need to be a lifelong condition and explaining how, by adapting his diet and by introducing some exercise, he could even try to put it into remission.

  ‘It’s a long-term project that can have lifetime results,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Tom,’ he responded. ‘I’m worried as hell.’

  I received support from across the political divide, too. Conservative MP Sir Nicholas Soames (grandson of Winston Churchill, no less) was a jovial individual with whom I’d always got on well, despite our ideological differences. He too had successfully slimmed down his once-bulky frame, although, unlike me, he’d followed a more conventional low-fat, low-calorie plan (he claimed to swear by yoghurt and berries for breakfast but, knowing Soames, he probably lost his weight by going down from seven courses to four). Different diets worked for different people, of course, and Nicholas had certainly found the one that best suited him.

  ‘I can’t quite believe my eyes, Tom,’ he said, collaring me in the House of Commons one afternoon. ‘Congratulations. What a transformation. You’re a credit to parliament. You must send me your diet secrets.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ I replied. ‘Much less of a squeeze on those Commons benches nowadays.’

  Another Tory MP, James Duddridge, became a great support and sounding board. In the wake of a few health scares he’d lost weight and become super-fit, and along the way had developed a serious running addiction. James and I would often meet up for a light lunch in the Commons Tea Room, where we’d share our health tips, compare our experiences and try to avert our gazes from the bacon butties. Since I’d now started jogging in various parks around the capital, including St James’s Park and Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, he kept trying to tempt me into training with him, with a view to running the London Marathon. I always declined, though. Clayton the taskmaster had always stressed that the golden rule of exercise for the over-50s was DO NOT GET INJURED and I didn’t want to push myself too far and hamper my progress. I appreciated the sentiment, though (the fact he’d even asked me showed me how far I’d come) but I was perfectly happy with my runs in Kennington Park.

  While the majority of Westminster folk seemed very pleased for me, I occasionally found myself on the receiving end of a reverse compliment.

  ‘Don’t lose any more weight, Tom, will you?’ some would say, in mildly patronising tones. ‘You look fine as you are. You don’t want to get too thin now, do you?’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I’d say, smiling – albeit through gritted teeth – mindful that such comments were sometimes born of envy, or suspicion. I sensed that some individuals believed that my ‘new look’ had some sort of ulterior motive, and was part of a cunning, premeditated bid to improve my appearance,
polish my image and climb the ranks of power. This was complete and utter bollocks, of course. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  I do think, though, that some parliamentary colleagues found it hard to reconcile themselves with Tom Watson version 2.0, in particular my newfound, non-confrontational demeanour. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that some were completely infuriated by it. Once upon a time, in the midst of my sugar addiction, whenever a colleague tried to trigger me during a combative meeting I’d have bitten back with a vengeance, shouting the odds and thumping the desk like that flighty ex-union official of yesteryear.

  However, post-Project Weight Loss, and positively radiating calmness and contentment, I responded to any provocation with a smile, a shrug and some softly spoken words. I could almost see the steam coming out of certain people’s ears as I refused to rise to the bait.

  As an MP, you expect an element of aggravation – it’s par for the course to get needled by opponents, colleagues and reporters – but in my new, Zen-like state everything seemed to be washing over me. In fact, there came a point in mid-2018 when I genuinely questioned whether I was too chilled out and laid-back for the job.

  My own office staff detected a change in attitude, too. According to Jo, Sarah and the team, once I quelled my sugar addiction (and cleared my brain fog) I turned into a completely different boss. I became a lot more focused in meetings, they reckoned, I could recall facts and figures without prompting, and I was much better prepared for speeches and interviews. Their jobs had become considerably easier as a result, which was good to hear, but I couldn’t help but feel a little remorseful all the same.

  ‘It must have been a nightmare for you guys at times,’ I told them one afternoon, casting my mind back to those dark, dysfunctional days of KitKat binges and desktop snoozes.

  ‘Tom, that’s all in the past,’ said Jo with a smile. ‘You weren’t well. You weren’t in control. But you’ve turned things around now, and that’s all that counts.’

  My trusted colleagues had witnessed my lows, so it was only fair that they shared in the highs. In December 2017, when I’d lost my first 50 pounds (23 kilos) in weight – and in doing so reached a physical and emotional milestone – Jo and Sarah were the first people I told. We were walking along a Commons corridor at the time, and I recall looking to my left at Jo, and then looking to my right at Sarah, and noticing their eyes glistening with tears.

  ‘Don’t set me off as well,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a committee meeting in five minutes’ time, and I can’t exactly walk in there blubbing, can I?’

  As my weight dwindled and my suits sagged, I began to look a bit like Talking Heads’ David Byrne in his ‘Once in a Lifetime’ video. Indeed, following my frontbench appearance at Prime Minister’s Questions, a good friend of mine – a Labour Party councillor, Bill Gavan – turned up at my constituency office in West Bromwich bearing two black bin bags.

  ‘Can you make sure Tom Watson gets these?’ he asked my bemused staff. ‘He looked like he was wearing a six-berth Scout tent at PMQs, and he clearly hasn’t got the time to go clothes shopping, so I’ve dug out some of my old gear for him to wear.’

  I really appreciated Bill plundering his wardrobe – his classic suits were a near-perfect fit – and for the next four or five months I turned up to PMQs wearing these stylish, second-hand clothes. When they eventually became too baggy I boxed them up and donated them to a fellow Labour Party member, who had just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes and who was beginning his own weight-loss journey. The handover gave us the opportunity to sit down over a coffee and talk things through. One good turn deserved another, I reckoned.

  Walking around in Bill’s snazzy suits had given me a tremendous buzz, but buying my very first off-the-peg suit from Marks & Spencer proved to be a hugely pivotal moment. I had spotted this summery, light-blue linen suit dangling on the sale rail for a bargain £90, and when I’d tried it on I’d felt like a million dollars (my brother Dan had told me how amazing he’d felt when he’d squeezed into a pair of Levi’s 501s for the first time; this was my equivalent). Like a kid desperate to wear his brand new shoes straight away, as soon as I’d paid for the suit I returned to the dressing room and changed back into it, stuffing my other clothes into the M&S carrier bag.

  I gave my new blue suit its first public airing at the 2018 Ivor Novello Awards, which took place at the Grosvenor House Hotel. I had been asked to present Billy Bragg with his Outstanding Contribution to British Music award – a great privilege for me, since he was a music hero of mine – and I walked onto the stage feeling on top of the world.

  ‘Billy’s political lyrics challenge us,’ I said to the assembled audience, ‘but his songs of love reach deep into our souls. And for my generation, who have grown up with him from the early beginnings of his career, it is a genuine pleasure to see him recognised by such distinguished colleagues from all sectors of the music industry today.’

  The cameras began to click, and Billy and I flashed our smiles. I remember thinking that, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to worry about looking like a sack of spuds in the following day’s newspapers.

  The print and broadcast media soon began to use my weight loss as an angle for their reports and features, perhaps prompted by a photo that I’d posted for a laugh on my official blog after an engagement in central London.

  ‘One of these is a Neanderthal skeleton held under close security by the Natural History Museum,’ I wrote, alongside a picture of me next to this ancient relic. ‘The other has lost 86lb in weight.’

  Some lobby journalists, many of whom worked under a great deal of pressure and may well have had their own health and lifestyle issues, began to quiz me about the whys and wherefores of my weight-loss journey. What most piqued their curiosity, however, was my Bulletproof Coffee intake. I remember taking part in an interview with the BBC’s Nick Robinson for his Political Thinking podcast, and as he kicked off proceedings he proudly presented me with a paper cup of insipid black coffee, complete with a yellow pat of butter floating on the surface. It looked nothing like a bona fide Bulletproof, and it tasted absolutely revolting.

  ‘One lump of butter or two?’ he said, laughing, before enquiring how this crazy coffee had curbed my sugar cravings and rid me of my brain fog.

  ‘It’s like mainlining saturated fat into your physiology,’ I said. ‘I just stopped being hungry, Nick, and it’s really helped me.’

  Tellingly, I chose not to mention my type 2 diabetes diagnosis. Perhaps it was superstition on my part, or maybe even a lingering sense of shame, but until I was certain that I was in long-term remission, and that it wasn’t a blip, I thought it wise to keep schtum.

  A few weeks later, early one morning, I found myself at Four Millbank, the Westminster-based office block in which many TV companies housed small studios. I visited the cosy little café there, the Atrium, and was delighted to see that they’d started serving proper, blended Bulletproof Coffee, complete with Dave Asprey’s Brain Octane Oil.

  ‘Hey, it’s fantastic that you’re doing this,’ I said to the waitress as I ordered my own frothy mugful. ‘You must be one of the few places in London that sells it.’

  ‘Well, we’ve had so many journos requesting this Bulletproof stuff, we thought we’d add it to the menu,’ she replied. ‘Apparently there’s been some MP bloke banging on about it, and everyone wants to know what all the fuss is about.’

  I handed over the cash, took receipt of my coffee and allowed myself a little smile.

  During the first half of 2018 I remained pretty disciplined with my ketogenic eating programme, but as summer approached I began to relax the parameters and become a little less stringent. I allowed myself to slightly exceed the strict 20g of carbohydrates per day, and followed something more akin to a Mediterranean diet, albeit a loose-ish version without the pasta or the bread (I was pleased to find a great online recipe for a wheat-free loaf made with almond flour). I had no qualms about serving up some brown
rice or sweet potato alongside a salmon steak or a chicken breast, although, when my kids weren’t looking, I’d often nick a few chips from their plates. Whenever I dined out I’d opt, for example, for a tuna salad with tomatoes and green beans (the tomatoes and the beans were slightly higher on the glycaemic index and weren’t strictly keto). These tweaks definitely took me beyond the 20g limit, but I was nowhere near the 150–200g that I’d consumed in the past.

  During the summer recess I went on holiday to Italy with Siobhan, the kids and my in-laws, Paul and Karen. The week before we jetted off I had to buy a whole new set of shorts and trunks from my favourite sports outlet in West Bromwich, since the 2017 versions would have fallen down around my ankles, like some fella on a Donald McGill seaside postcard. Compared with bygone holidays, though, this one was a revelation. My new and improved fitness meant that I was able to spend hours in the swimming pool, diving in and splashing around with Malachy and Saoirse – arrivederci, flying whale – and, unlike previous years, I was able to comfortably walk around in the heat instead of docking myself permanently on a sunbed.

  However, while the kids loved being around their hale and hearty dad, I’m not sure that was the case with the adults. Even though I was on holiday, I was still incredibly mindful of what I ate and drank (far too mindful, in retrospect), since I was very anxious about veering off course and unravelling my good work. When everyone else tucked into some speciality pasta or gelato in a hillside restaurant, for instance, I’d stick to a simple cheese salad or a piece of fruit, before meticulously keying my choices into the MyFitnessPal app. When Paul cracked open some local Italian fizz back at the villa, I’d politely decline and continue sipping my iced water, before retiring to bed with my latest nutritional science book for company.