I don't need to breathe.

A few weeks ago I went out and got myself Control Pants. To be honest I did not even set out to get myself the pants. It was in a charity store still in its original package. For 50p. Because I am not even dedicated enough to go and get the pants at its original price which might have been £20. In a minute I will try and explain why the pants might have ended up in the charity store.

Control Pants, as in Underwear to those of us in UK, not shorts for those of you outside. Hint: Yanks. At this point of time when we are getting Siberian winds and I have mates posting about moving their clocks forward for Spring, I want to be a Yank. Let them English twats talk shit about me. I am a Yank and One Direction is made up of musical prodigies instead of a bunch of young, annoying twats.

I digress. My Control Pants are to be worn on the inside and will never see the light of day. It will make its journey after being plastered to my arse straight into the washer and then it will be dried Indoors on top of the bedroom radiator. It will not even be seeing any other toilet other than my own because there is no way I am battling to stick it back on when I am in a foreign place while at the same time worrying about my own mortality. You see, in my own bathroom I know which corners to avoid and how to position myself so that I don't take a wall out and end up in the living room covered in rubble with pants halfway up my thighs.

When I first took the pants out of package I laughed. It was a weird laugh. Bordering on physical and psychological anguish kind of laugh. It looked like bicycle shorts for 6 year old girls. No wonder it went straight to Goodwill. If I were to stick that in the bin for things that will be given away it will be for Illwill. I couldn't even bring myself to look at that thing outside the package so let's see some tight, insecure, fat fucker try and squeeze into it.

If you were going to tell me that I just need to watch my diet and do some exercises, you can kill yourself. I am fucking lazy and that is why I subject myself to such torture.

A tip for those who secretly owns such a pair of pants. Don't stick in on after a bath or a shower. It is like Velcro on damp skin. If it slides on easily without you breaking out in sweat and hives, it is too big and it will do fuck all.

I will come clean now and say it was not good luck that the pants were in my size. It was not. I am a size 16 and the pants were a size 8. My thighs were bigger than the waistband. But this is like I said, Lycra. 

I made it happen. I plastered in on. I am now wearing pre-pregnancy size jeans. It doesn't matter that I cannot breathe. I don't need to. I just need to suck it in and smile. As I scrub the bathroom floors. In my new jeans. Because I don't go out much. Which is a good thing really because all that squeezing of internal organs makes me want to pee a lot and since I am on the bathroom floor, scrubbing, I just have to get up, pee and re-battle to pull the fucking pants back up.

Fancy Tickler hasn't noticed. I asked. He said No, you don't look any slimmer. Because he is an honest bloke with a death wish like that.