I’ve come to my Brando Moment: that life defining line in the sand when a man of a certain age checks out his swollen, dangling boobs, wearily squeezes the solid rolls of flesh upon his barely discernible hips and faces two clear options: A) He lies tohimself and says, ”I’ve still got something to work with, I can turn this around and become a God again.” Or B) he simply stands before a mirror, as Brando once surely did, imagines his younger, fitter, leaner self reflected before him and tells this youthful apperition: “Goodbye. You’re dead. I don’t have the energy or will to try and be you anymore. I can accept looking like a flabby obscenity, because I am a flabby obscenity. I don’t visit disco’s or clubs anymore and have nothing to worry about. I’m safe.” 

Or perhaps you simply come clean and say: “I’m tired of trying to live up to you. I’m not you and I’m never going to be you again. Please go and f**k yourself.” 

The evidence of my own body would suggest this is the option most men of a certain age opt for after confronting their own version of Obese Marlon. 

 I suppose you’re wondering what bought me to my own Brando moment? Here it is: A couple of weeks back, in then sunny Beijing, I was standing in a small sweet shop when a tall, athletic Chinese male rubbed my belly and grinned as if he had just laid hands on the Bhudda’s much admired fleshly treasure.  

I found the faces and forms of the Beijing populace around me being replaced by thousands of men who all looked suspiciously like younger, leaner versions of myself from years gone by: I saw tall-freakishly thin Sam aged sixteen run by the sweet shop; I saw the brooding, magnificently sculpted Sam, aged thirty or so, jog by at a fearsome pace without pausing for breath - and my  perenially chubby cheeks burned with shame.

“Here it is,” I said to myself. “You either do something about this or you give up."

Finally, I came to the conclusion that there’s no reason I can’t  at the ripe old age of fifty be a different even healthier me.   

More walking, less eating, more press ups, less sugar, less salt - and anything is possible, right?

So, for now, Obese Marlon is going onto my Mac and Ipad as the default screen saver to serve as a constant reminder of what will surely happen to me if I fail to grasp hold of my last remnants of will-power, hold onto some vestige of positive vanity, and begin to shed some weight, but I do fear my naturally indolent nature and an abiding life-long love of ice cream too closely mirrors the appalling food habits of my beloved patron saint.

(Ye-e-s, you can hear the excuses already.)