A TEXT came through on the train ...

... It was from Justin, my former best friend, brother-like figure, the one who I could stuff for Britain with and not give a damn.

Do you have a friend like that? You know, one that allows you to be yourself, in all your colours, no matter how dark and shady and self-destructive they appear?

Justin was my FBF, my Fat Best Friend. We shared everything, just not chocolate, the two of us coming to the conclusion from a very early age that we are both weak around any M&S food halls, and rubbish at portion control.

It started with chicken in a basket in the ’70s, and we’ve never looked back (or over our bellies).

We ate fast and lived precariously when it came to Sunday dinners on other days of the week, pizzas from Geoff’s in Ebbw Vale and extra onion rings down the country (that’s valleys for a posh meal in a Crickhowell pub, for those north of Abertillery).

But unlike our love for carbs, we drifted apart.

One thing has remained steadfast though, and that’s our battle with ourselves and our honesty with each other when talking about it on the rare occasions that we chew our respective fat.

Justin is the only person I know who would never, ever, ever judge me about my take on body image, the notion of which is wrapped up like a hot chicken fajita with how I feel I look.

On the text the other day, he said he was once again trying to stay on the Straight and (let’s be frank, it’s never gonna happen) Narrow by watching what he ate.

Bemoaning the fact that I feel so unsightly that I now measure 38-26-36 (and that’s just the left arm) and therefore eat to comfort my unease, my FBF was able to top it.

No, not with melted cheese and a side of nachos, but honest to goodness fast fat facts.

“That’s nothing,” he said.

“You’re talking to someone who can’t walk up Queen Street without having two breakfasts. One in McDonald’s and then a bacon bap in BHS. I was so depressed by my lack of will power by the time I got to work, I self-medicated with M&Ms.”

Oh, how I know the feeling.

It turns out, though, that up until this slide into the calorific abyss he had been trying to be good, as per his second text.

“So I went home and did some lunges, at least tried to do them anyway.

“In my pants, as you can’t get Jabba the Hutt sized pantaloons in JB Sports.

“I managed three before my back gave out. It took three cans of Deep Heat to get me out of bed the next morning.”

So Justin, like every failed or yo-yoing dieter I know, thought to hell with it and the difficulty or trying to be good and nose-dived into a nosebag of breakfasts.

I may have trouble counting how many pieces of bread I’m allowed a day, but I don’t have any trouble relating to this story.

When we were little (there’s a laugh) we used to spend hours drawing up diet and exercise plans, convincing ourselves that if we were thinking about it we were one step towards sorting it out once and for all.

Thirty very odd years later, we’re both bigger than ever, and still talking about it, still trying to come up with some plan we can follow.

But for all our brains, we don’t seem to realise that it kind of defeats the object to ponder the uphill challenge while dipping garlic bread into bolognese sauce.

Another text came through yesterday morning which read, “Awful day so far. So hungry, I ate dessert from the bin lid. Fancy going to the gym? We can do it this time, Han.”

Yes, I thought to myself, we can. If only we were just that little bit smaller and that little bit smarter to get out of our own ways.

And just like I imagine my scales would say if it was able to talk back at me, I think our story is forever To Be Continued.