This isn't a before-and-after. It's a life — messy, funny, painful and still going. Here's how I got here.
I was the fat kid at school. In the eighties that meant being teased — openly, relentlessly — in a way that would rightly horrify people today. I didn't understand why I was bigger than the other kids. Nobody did. We just thought that was me.
Looking back now, I can see exactly what was happening. My diet growing up was a daily parade of ultra-processed food — Findus Crispy Pancakes, TV dinners, and Mr Bacon the fizzy drink man who delivered to the door. This was the dawn of UPFs, and we didn't know what we were eating. It was quick, it was cheap, it was convenient. It was also quietly wiring my brain and body to crave the wrong things.
"We thought it was just food. We didn't know we were the first generation to grow up on ultra-processed everything."
Then I found alcohol. Early teens, because I looked older and the world was more relaxed back then. Pubs became my social life. A daily habit, usually finished off with chips or a kebab. And so the pattern was set before I even knew it was a pattern.
I yo-yo'd with diets through my teens and early twenties. Lost a bit, put it back on, lost a bit, put it back on. Then in my late twenties things came to a head. I was running two pubs, my wife was pregnant, and I had access to whatever food I wanted at whatever time I wanted it. We both massively overindulged during her first pregnancy — we each put on over three stone.
Then our youngest daughter was very ill from birth. The stress of a seriously sick child combined with running a pub was through the roof. The drink, the poor diet, and zero exercise were my way of coping — and it wasn't working.
At my worst I was around twenty stone. I told myself I carried it well. Looking back — I really didn't. Chest pains walking up the stairs. Struggling with the easiest tasks. I thought that was just life. It wasn't. It was a warning I wasn't ready to hear yet.
My wife decided she needed to get fitter and joined a running club. That was the nudge I needed — if she was doing it, I had to. Then a friend mentioned he'd joined a triathlon club and asked if I wanted to enter a race with him. That was it. Not a gym. Not a diet plan. An event. Something to train for.
I'd always hated the gym — bored of the treadmill inside five minutes. But training for three sports kept everything fresh. Running was brutal at first. Cycling came easier. Swimming was slow but I could do it. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't training to look better. I was training to cross a finish line.
"I didn't need motivation. I needed a reason. The triathlon gave me one."
Then my competitive side woke up. I started looking for marginal gains, training harder, getting faster. I was hooked. The weight started coming off — not because I was dieting, but because I was moving so much it didn't really matter. I'd do a race then enjoy a beer and a meal after. It worked, for a while.
By 2018 I was genuinely fast. The London Triathlon in around 2 hours 20 minutes for the standard distance — a time that in the sport's early days gave a famous triathlon magazine its name. I weighed just under 14 stone, had a 34-inch waist, and had gone from barely making it up the stairs to competing seriously.
Then in 2019 I did an Ironman. Austria. 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, then a full marathon to finish. One of the hardest endurance events in the world, and I did it. It wasn't pretty. But I got there. From twenty stone and chest pains on the stairs, to the finish line of an Ironman in Austria.
"From struggling to climb the stairs at twenty stone, to crossing the finish line of an Ironman in Austria. The same person. Just different choices."
Covid changed everything. I started work as a warehouse picker — physical, demanding — because it was needed when the shops went crazy. But I didn't stop training. Joe Wicks every morning, then still cycling and running for up to eight hours a week on top of a physical job.
My body transformed. Six-pack. 32-inch waist. Under 13 stone. I looked incredible. I felt incredible. What I didn't know was that I was pushing my body beyond what it could sustain. The physical stress was enormous — layered on top of a pandemic and everything that came with it.
My consultant believes the kidney tumour had been growing for three or four years — right through the Covid period, when I was at what I thought was my physical peak. I felt great. I looked great. The cancer was hiding behind the performance, and I had no idea.
I also had skin cancer around 2020, dealt with quickly. A warning I perhaps didn't take seriously enough. My body was sending signals. I wasn't reading them.
In 2024 I had a massive haemorrhage on my kidney. I nearly died. The scans revealed kidney cancer — stage 4, spread to my lungs. My consultant believed it had been there three or four years, growing silently while I was completing Ironmans and doing daily Joe Wicks workouts.
On 31st December 2024 I had my kidney removed. I went into 2025 unable to train, unable to do much at all, facing the fight of my life. The disease is currently incurable. I'm on immunotherapy.
"Cancer picked the wrong bloke. But it did make me think very differently about what health actually means."
I did what I always do when faced with something I don't understand — I researched obsessively. Diet and muscle mass both emerged as genuinely significant factors in cancer outcomes and longevity. I wasn't going to ignore that.
After surgery I was at over 17 stone, fatigued, and had lost a lot of muscle. So I did something about it — the right way this time.
Bodyweight programme built around lean muscle, not aesthetics. Mountain bike when my body allows. Back in the pool. Short sessions — 30 to 60 minutes — that work with my energy, not against it.
High polyphenols. No ultra-processed foods. Low sugar. Anti-inflammatory. Every meal is now a decision about longevity. The boy who grew up on Findus Crispy Pancakes — eating to extend his life.
Down to around 14 stone from over 17. Stronger every week. Still have the pot belly and the moobs — I'm not pretending otherwise. But I'm alive, I'm moving, and you don't need to train for hours to feel the difference.