Washboard abs? Over my dead body

He's promoting some sort of protein powder; fat-shaming passers-by who can but dream of inhabiting his Adonis-like physique.

The image is an assault on the senses; an invocation for men of all ages to deny the unsaintly pleasures of fish and chips, Ben & Jerry's and the exotically glamorous but undeniably calorific Garibaldi biscuit.

The billboard is a challenge to buy a 12-month membership at the local gym and pump iron. I walk past it, unimpressed, resolving to stop at Sainsbury's Local on the way home and stock up on lard. How else am I supposed to perfect my very own version of Heston BloomingChef's triple-cooked chip?

In another life, I was surrounded on a daily basis by men with ripped torsos. And no, before the wag at the back shouts: 'Woz ya the bag carrier for the Dudley Dreamboys?' it was pictures, rather than men, that were secreted on my desk.

I worked at a magazine called Men's Health, off Oxford Street, in a city called The Big Smoke. The magazine's mission was to persuade ordinary fellas to ditch their diet of Ginster pasties, Greggs' doughnuts and Stella Artois lager in favour of a macrobiotic version consisting of whole cereal grains, barley miso and umeboshi plums. They were to forsake evenings in front of the TV, or at the dog track, and spend the money they saved on their own private Nordic Track Auto Strider. To be honest, I didn't fancy it. You can take the man out of Tipton, but you can't take the pork crunch from his diet.

At Men's Health, three renegade writers – John, Nick and I – danced to a different beat. While experts would tell us we needed to eat our chicken poached, we'd cry: 'but you can't crisp the skin unless you fry it'. While nutritionists told us to eat bulgar wheat, we'd say: 'is it alright if I have that with chips and a pickled egg?'

Each lunchtime, office swot Stuart pounded out seven-minute-miles at a salubrious Soho gym while John, Nick and I opted for a liquid lunch at the Pillars of Hercules. At office meetings, star designer Catherine discussed the merits of such yoga techniques as hatha, vinyasa and Bikram, while we passed each other notes asking who should play up front for England. In truth, I've never been so unwell as when I worked at Men's Health. My diet consisted of an evening M&S ready meal – oh how I wish they'd bring back their chicken, almond and apricot curry for one – and a bottle of half-decent red wine. I'd breakfast on Lucozade and eat a box of McVitie's cereal bars if I needed a snack.

I joined the gym; well, it was free to members of staff. But my stomach didn't make it to anything that even vaguely resembled undulating oak. It was more wet washing than washboard. And I was more James Corden than David bad-abs Beckham. I couldn't have been happier.

This summer, my road to Damascus has helped me to shed two stone of flab. Woop woop. And I haven't touched a pumpkin and tahini millet ball yet, nor gone near a sauerkraut cabbage roll. At no point have I denied myself chocolate in favour of aduki bean truffles, though I hear they're pretty tasty. Nor have I harvested stingers to make myself a satisfying bowl of nettle soup.

My shed-some-weight-fatso diet has been of my own creation. It's mostly involved looking at a mirror, shaking my head and saying: 'nah, you're not done yet – no biscuits tomorrow'. And it's worked a treat. My fine-knit Neil Barrett cardigan has been dusted down and given unexpected airtime. The third notch on my belt has been put back into use, after two years of fat-dom. And I can now eat a lamb burger without fearing that my trousers will be so tight that they'll compress my lungs like an 18th century corset. Hey, I've even discovered the delights of coconut water. Who knew that stuff tasted so good? I've still got a long way to go and the running machine keeps calling my name. Maybe I'll respond, but not until I've finished my twin pack of Jaffa Cakes.

I don't suppose I'm likely to get a gig anytime soon with the Dudley Dreamboys, either as a performer or bag carrier for that matter. But I can live with that. The rules of exercise are simple: you work harder you look better. And the rules of losing weight are even easier: you ingest less calories than you burn. Nobody needs a man with a washboard stomach to tell them that.