Diet blogs are usually as interesting as reading about homemade enemas, organic childbirth or wounded baby animals. No one gives a shit about how fat or how thin you are and no one wants to look at pictures of injured fluffy pigeons.

We just don’t care about the biochemical meat paste you’ve been ingesting in your secret pagan moonlit weight-loss rituals and we definitely don’t want to see pictorial evidence. Diets suck. Who wants to read the ugly truth about the tedious daily grind of starving yourself in your bid to fit into your skinny jeans? People really only want to hear about miracle cures and then look at pictures of cats dressed as humans.

This makes me a terrible hypocrite because, for the next few hundred words, I’m going to wow you all with the tale of One pitta one pot. In my defence, I’ve got sod all else to write about right now because I’ve been working really hard and it’s winter. Look away if dietary tips don’t shake your tail feather. At least I’m not posting pictures of dead sparrows.

Not to be confused with Two girls one cup, One pitta one pot is the sexy new diet that has inadvertently changed my life. Okay that’s a total lie. But it has affected me enough to persuade me to write a whole blog about it. It must be really sexy.

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Sexy food

 I loathe people that go on about fat loss and I try really hard not to read magazines that encourage us all to agonise about our weight every month. I like people of all shapes and sizes and I really don’t give a shit about the size of your ass.

But the fact is I am much happier when I am not fat. I feel good about myself, my clothes fit better, I look hotter naked and I get laid more. My eternal pursuit of not being fat makes good business sense. Being a short-ass with a stubborn metabolism, I gain weight if I so much as sniff a chip, so staying slim has always been a bit of a challenge. This is why running is so important to me. Not being able to run cocks everything up. Death to the evil IT band and its all-consuming powers.

I’ve been plagued by my recurring leg injury for months now and haven’t been doing very much running. Combine that with riding my new scooter everywhere, having to squeeze all of my flesh into a pathetic 5 foot 3 inch frame, and being in a relatively new relationship which always comes with additional weight, and I was slowly morphing into a little fat girl.

Nine months into my new country life (NINE! That’s nearly a year off soul-geldingly evil fashion magazines, sweaty tube journeys and £8 pints of lager, Rhalelujah) and my transformation into ultra fit country girl was long overdue.

Step in Ultraboy and his obsessive approach to pretty much every area of his life. It comes with the territory; you have to be a bit fanatical to run ultra marathons. He’s recently been recovering from shoulder surgery and has also started to get a little bigger round the middle. I think he’s still sexy as all hell, but I understand the motivation to keep fit.

In his words: “You just can’t do any of the sports I enjoy and be fat.”

Along with running, kayaking and rock climbing are his two favourite pastimes, so he does kind of have a point. So when Ultraboy decided to inadvertently put me on a diet, because basically I eat what he eats, I was forced to stick to the rigidity of his routine.

Ultraboy does nothing by halves. When he runs, it’s a 100 miles across the dessert, when he kayaks, it’s grade 5 waterfalls, and when he diets, it’s lentils and thin air all the way. Fortunately his latest fanatical project has actually worked, so I’ve decided to share it with you all. I haven’t been this happy about my body since discovering the rave scene back in 1995. Oh those halcyon days.

One pitta one pot is pretty straightforward. Basically, every night for dinner we only eat food that fits inside a wholemeal pitta and is cooked using one single pot. Theoretically you could squeeze whatever the hell you like in there, but we happen to be vegetarian (me 100%, Ultraboy 96%) and we actually like healthy shit, so our diet has mainly consisted of vegetables, beans, pulses, quinoa and some eggs and cheese.

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Rhalou looks really good in a bikini since starting the One pitta one pot diet

We follow this routine to the letter every night from Monday to Friday and then come the weekend, we eat whatever the hell we like. Apparently the rest days are integral to the diet, as that way your body doesn’t grow accustomed to the reduced calorie intake and start adjusting. This might be bollocks though, I’m no expert. I couldn’t see how I could lose weight and still eat pizza and cake for two days a week, but the extra pounds I grew on my ass have disappeared and I haven’t once felt hungry or even thought much about food for weeks now.

It helps that Ultraboy does most of the cooking. It’s easier to eat what’s in front of you if you don’t have to think about it. So I recommend followers of the One pitta one pot diet find a willing love slave or fanatical extreme sports enthusiast to produce your pitta-sized dinners for you.

Admittedly this diet might suck if you were running a lot, which we’re not currently, but otherwise it is brilliant and everyone in our house looks well sexy with their clothes off.

Please note: Rhalou is not a dietician or a miracle worker. If you follow the One pitta one pot diet and do not achieve the desired results, sorry about that.

After an intense Christmas and freezing cold New Year, things are seriously hotting up in Rhal-land. 2012 turned out to be a tricky year, so towards the end of it I was feeling fed up. Relocating to the wilderness 400 miles away from friends and family with no reliable income, no transport and no idea was bound to be challenging. But then my one saving grace (running) started playing up (dodgy knee) and I really began to lose hope.

I rely on running a great deal to sort my shit out. It makes me feel good about myself, look better naked, and I find the process meditative and incredibly healing. Not being able to run is a bit like having a limb removed or losing your iPhone. IT JUST MAKES EVERYTHING HARDER. Pray for my poorly leg, dear friends.

Add an injured Ultraboy into the mix (he recently had arm surgery following a kayaking accident, and can’t even tie his own shoes right now) and you get a serious case of cabin fever. But aside from a limp limb and an armless ultra runner, I’m pleased to say that, thanks to Divine Providence, Chaka Khan and the back up of some truly excellent girlfriends, things are on the up. Okay, Chaka Khan didn’t actually do anything. But her mere presence in the universe makes everything better.

I was recently offered a job at The Hawick News, my local Scottish Borders newspaper, and it has made the world of difference to Operation City Chick in the Sticks. Writing for a weekly paper is immensely challenging, fun and interesting and a great way to get to know the area and the lovely people in it. Plus it gets me out the house and away from those chickens. Learning to communicate with human beings again has been fun… Bekerrrr.

I’m also delighted to have been asked to speak at Write This Run, a cool new running blogger event in May. You can still get tickets Here so come on down to London and listen to me crack jokes about chickens, err, I mean talk expertly about hill running. And by May my bloody leg is bound to have healed, so I’ll be running about the fields with the baby lambs and will have loads to say.

Running = sexy

On that note, I should probably write a blog about running too. But I caved in and bought a scooter instead. Balls to running up hills, from now on I intend to breeze up them at a comfortable 30 mph. In the absence of anything useful to say about my favourite sport, go out and buy the latest issue of Women’s Running magazine instead. I heard a rumour that someone might have managed to persuade the editor Chris to publish an article on the two greatest pastimes ever invented, sex and running. Oh yeeeeah.

 

There’s been a lot of talk on Twitter lately about Page 3. I’ve seen various posts by (articulate and very lovely) women, many of whom are good friends of mine, campaigning for the removal of Page 3 from The Sun newspaper, on the grounds that it objectifies women. They’ve made some very good points, and I can see why many people find the ‘national institution’ of nubile naked girl boobies on show in our newspapers to be offensive and outdated. But despite being a feminist, I disagree.

I agree that the way women are portrayed in the media is flawed. But inspired by Stephen Gough, the naked rambler who spent the best part of the past eight years in solitary confinement because he likes to swing in the wind, rather than banish naked breasts from the press altogether, I’d like to propose an alternate universe to Page 3. Get your kit off and put the kettle on, this may take a while…

Ultraboy has given you permission to view my naked bum, but only in comic form

I’m a university educated 33-year-old woman from East Anglia living with my partner in Scotland in a monogamous heterosexual relationship, and I love looking at pictures of naked tits. And vaginas, and penises, and bottoms. I just love naked people. I love being naked, I like looking at people who are naked, and I like the idea of being naked. I think everyone should spend more time with their kit off appreciating the fascinating human form in all its gorgeous glory.

I enjoy looking at naked bodies of all shapes and sizes, because it turns me on. But I also like looking at naked bodies because I’m fascinated by human beings. I like big people, little people, athletic people, hairy people, tattooed people, anatomically precise people, and every different variety of naked people on the planet. Not because I’m a sexual predator. The naked person I like looking at best of all is my lovely boyfriend Ultraboy (sigh). I don’t get off on viewing bare flesh because I want to hump everyone in sight. I have those needs well attended to at home. I’m a voyeur because I’m interested in human beings, the world, and what lies beneath all that Lycra.

I’ve always been this way. Perhaps it’s something to do with my liberal upbringing. As long as I can remember, I’ve been taking my clothes off and encouraging everyone else to do the same. As a child, you could always locate me by the trail of garments I’d hastily removed in my bid to achieve a more freeing state of attire.

Aged 16, I realised I could cash-in on my nudist attitude and started life modelling. Between the ages of 16 and 20, I modelled nude for all the local art colleges in Cambridge, and made an absolute killing. Probably because I was the only person under 30 willing to get my kit off. I imagine 16-year-old naked flesh was a novelty for the artists.

There are probably thousands of naked paintings, drawings, photographs and even the odd bronze statue of my naked arse floating around the world. It was never in any way sexual. It was all about art. It made me feel sexy, but I didn’t lie about with my legs splayed. I mostly lounged artistically, pretending to be from the Renaissance period, and occasionally tried to emulate a cherub.

I even modelled for my own art college, albeit at night so my fellow students didn’t have to see my vagina. Although a boy I had a crush on did once walk in unexpectedly when I was standing starkers on a table modelling for a night class (the classic ‘naked in school’ nightmare come to life). I went bright red from my nose down to my toes, but he painted such a beautiful picture of me, that I soon forgot to feel embarrassed and went home feeling slightly smug.

I’ve got a lot to thank my naked ass for. When I went to university, I paid for most of my studies by life modelling for the local art school. I basically got to sleep naked on a bed for a few hours a week for twice the wage I’d earn anywhere else. Sometimes I went straight to work having not been to bed at all, and slept off my hangover in front of strangers for cash. (Lord knows how those pictures came out).

Naked people: brilliant

It was never about ego. At 5 foot 3 with a naturally curvy frame, I’m not without my hang-ups. I’d love to tone up a bit and lose a few inches. I’m also a natural redhead, so I’m as white as milk and glow in the dark. But take a short, freckled, awkward girl out of her clothes and drape her on a chaise longue, and I suddenly feel like a goddess. It’s one of the few occasions in life when I am completely at peace. I was built for nudity. I suspect I was a rich Grecian layabout in a previous life.

In my late twenties my thirst for nudity led me to an even more questionable career, editing adult magazines for a living. Not Razzle (I’m not sure if it has any words to edit) but Penthouse Forum magazine. Think literary filth. (Alistair Campbell used to write for them). Again, this wasn’t through a sense of perversion, but absolute fascination. I was genuinely interested in pornography, erotica and naked flesh. I confess, I also thought it was a little bit hilariously funny. I have a really dark sense of humour inherited from my eccentric family and I find humour in the perverse and the macabre, which does on occasion get me into a bit of trouble. But if you can’t laugh your arse off at everything, what’s the bloody point?

And laugh my arse off I did. During my Penthouse Forum days I visited porn shoots, interrogated adult babies, crept into the odd dominatrix dungeon and even interviewed Buck Angel, the infamous female-to-male transsexual porn star with a huge ginger mangina (the sweetest man I’ve ever met).

These days I’ve toned it down a bit and prefer to write about running and fitness, while saving my nudity for the back garden (aside from the odd rambler, there is no one in the Scottish wilderness to see what I get up to). But while I spend more time with my clothes on these days (it is a bit cold up here) my move into fitness journalism was no mistake. There’s something decidedly sexy about people in tight Lycra, and the healthy, happy attitude of runners and fitness fanatics definitely lends itself well to my naked hippy mindset. I like being around people who are pleased with their own bodies. It makes me feel good.

Anyhoo before I start penning my memoirs, there is a point to my pro-nudist ramblings. I really don’t think we should do away with Page 3. Admittedly their captions need work; it’s a bit off to insinuate the pretty naked girl of the day would never get a chance to be a physicist if she applied herself. But otherwise, I would like to campaign for the complete opposite. I’d like to see MORE Page 3. But I’d also like to see Pages 4, 5, 6 and 7.

Why must we hide our vaginas away all the time? Are they really so threatening? Will you get lost up there, swallowed whole by the great lady garden devil woman in the sky? And what’s the big deal about tits? Is the subconscious fear of being eternally dependent on your mother’s breast milk so all-consuming that you must continue to both venerate and condemn those milky bags of flesh for time immemorial? In my alternate universe, in celebration of the female form, let’s give every damn page of every newspaper a naked woman, vagina and all! Let’s fill the world with bare naked ladies of all shapes and sizes and accept that we are all nude under our clothes. Boobs and bums are not scary, or intimidating, or otherworldly. We all have them, and they’re brilliant.

But let’s not stop there. To even out the playing field I want to see naked men too. Lots of them. I want juicy buttocks, bare naked abs, exposed chests and even a bit of cock please. Hell, let’s swing some balls out too (starting with Alcide the hunky werewolf from True Blood). Why not? It’s only fair. We’re all so bloody repressed. If everyone was naked a bit more of the time, then perhaps we’d all be a bit less obsessive about it and get on with the important things in life, like reading good books and running marathons.

Nudity is wonderful. Naked people are beautiful and sexy and interesting and should be celebrated, not clothed, hidden away and sneered at. Stephen Gough the naked rambler, I salute you! I’m off to dance naked in the field with the chickens (again. Yes that naked bum at the top of this blog really does belong to me).

After several months of meticulous planning, I finally made it to Scotland to begin my new life of hill running and romancing under the stars. I always knew the transition from Shoreditch to The Borders was going to be a tough one. Not least because I’m used to living in zone two with six billion other people and 24-hour hummus on tap (yes I know, there are probably far more exciting things one can acquire after-hours in the great city of London, but hummus is the distilled essence of the Gods). So what’s the real reason the big move to the wilderness was bound to be particularly challenging? My new rural abode is located in the ass end of nowhere, an hour from the nearest train station, and I don’t actually know how to drive…

Not only am I clueless to the rules of the road, but I don’t have a bicycle, or a helicopter, or a unicorn. And there just aren’t enough people living on this particular hill out here in the sticks to justify a frequent bus service. We do live near a really nice donkey sanctuary with 71 different funky donkeys to choose from, but after three days of country life, I haven’t quite plummeted to donkey-riding depths just yet. If cabin fever really starts to set in, I’ll wait until Christmas Eve and charter an old donkey to carry me to a local barn, so I can lie down in the hay and give birth to Jesus Christ. But if miracles do occur, I’d prefer to have a driving licence and a snazzy new car than the trials of mothering the new messiah. Plus I have only just moved in with the boyfriend, so one step at a time.

So until I learn to master the art of driving, I’m not going anywhere. And before anyone suggests running to the nearest hummus shop, I’ve knackered my knee (great start to my hill running career) so basically I’m stranded in no man’s land like a fish without a bicycle, or a driving licence. But curiously, despite my concerns when I was back in the heaving metropolis, living in the wilderness without any reliable transportation is actually the least of my worries. After living in Hackney for the past six years, I’m really enjoying the peace and quiet. The biggest obstacle to my future happiness is in fact much smaller, fluffier and more inherently evil than any of life’s transportation woes. I’m talking about my new nemesis, my boyfriend’s cock, Monty.

Monty the evil ginger cock

No I haven’t christened my boyfriend’s manly cluster in homage to Judy Bloom’s Forever, (my first foray into early sexuality when Jackie magazine couldn’t provide the answers. What did she call his willy? Roly?) When I say cock, I mean cockerel. A Polish Frizzle to be precise. But not just any Polish Frizzle. Monty is a mean ass cockerel who wants my blood. I swear the frizzly little fucker is out to get me.

As with most cockerels, Monty likes to make the first morning call. Except he thinks 4am is an acceptable time for the world to wake up (that’s when I used to go to bed, oh how times have changed). Despite his antisocial timekeeping, Monty is actually hilariously funny to watch in action. He minces about the garden in a stately manner and parades in front of his hens with one wing raised like a bull fighter, whipping his red cape about in preparation for battle.

But despite being a fortuitous comedian, Monty is one vicious chicken and he rules his roost with a steely resolve. In the pecking order, he’s the top dog, and everyone must obey him, including me. Consequently, if I try to cross the garden to do something really ghastly, like feed him or clean out his water tray, Monty will go for me, wings, talons, beak and all. He’s drawn blood twice now. If he came in human form, he’d be Dorian Gray and hide a picture of his evil tarnished soul inside his chicken coop.

Even though Monty is only ankle-high, I confess I’m secretly terrified of the evil little rooster. I’ve been avoiding the garden at all costs, but he still stalks the outside walls and seems to know exactly which window ledge to jump on in order to stare through the glass and straight into my soul. I swear to God he’s out to get me. Arguably I should just drop kick the little bastard into the ether, but I’m a vegetarian and I don’t possess the fighting spirit. Plus I’m already rather attached to the lovely organic eggs his girlfriends have been laying and fear assaulting their alpha may put them off the job in hand.

The only individual in our manor that Monty does not bully is Ultraboy. But I imagine a six-foot Scotsman striding through the morning mist brandishing a bucket of seed would be an imposing sight even if you’re not a seemingly innocuous but secretly evil cockerel. Or perhaps Monty is locked in some ancient love rival battle, and believes that Ultraboy is his one true love?

Whatever the sadistic chickens’ intentions, now that I live here, it’s time for me to man up. I didn’t emigrate to the wilderness without a driving licence only to get beaten by a vicious little cock with a chip on its wing. So step two in this city chicks assimilation into country life, vanquish the vicious chicken before it gets me! Then all I have to do is book a driving lesson, learn the local lingo and become an expert hill runner. Not sure which is scarier actually…

Hello and thanks for reading what I hope will be the first of many blogs about running, disco, rogue chickens, romance, moonlight and my adventures in the hills.

After nearly three years, several hundred miles, a dozen halves, two wholes and one ultra marathon, I’m sad to announce that, as of next week, I’ll be stepping down as Online Editor at Women’s Running magazine. It’s been an amazing journey, I’ve made some great friends along the way and I’ll be very sad to leave. But due to a series of events that led me to one rather handsome ultra runner, I’ve decided to quit the rat race and emigrate to a little cottage in rural Scotland…

Like most good stories, this one begins with a girl and a boy and a bit of romance. But to set the scene, I probably need to go back a little further. Back to the days before running and carbo loading and compression gear consumed my life. Bear with me; this may take a while…

It all started long ago in a little city called London. I was living in a house with a boy. Not THE boy I might add, but another boy, who it turned out wasn’t destined to be the boy for me. But ever the optimist, at the time I thought maybe he was. I was slogging away for peanuts editing Penthouse Forum magazine at a grimy publishing house in East London, believing my destiny was spread-eagled (teehee) before me and all I had to do was hang on.

I spent my days penning articles on S&M, interviewing adult babies and reviewing saucy porn films, and my nights pretending to be happy with the wrong boy. Having been estranged from my Dad for nearly 20 years, I suspect I was lacking decent male role models. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that perhaps I deserved more than this boy was capable of giving.

Fortunately Lady Fate knew that my fortunes lay elsewhere. So she decided to step in and clear the decks for me in a very painful, dramatic but ultimately necessary fashion, so that I could start all over again (if only I’d seen it this way at the time).

As with all good life changing events, in a trilogy of drama I lost my boyfriend, my job and my house in the same week. They do say bad luck comes in threes. Homeless, jobless, dumped and utterly distraught, I relied on the kindness of friends while pondering the impossibility of my utterly fucked up life. But then, just when I needed it the most, a little thing called running came into my life…

At this point I should probably make a confession. Before the whole running epiphany started, I wasn’t remotely interested in fitness. I’d spent thirty years veering between chubby, skinny or depressed depending on the state of my love life. The only thing I hated more than running, was my fat arse (go figure). But then one day, a particularly awful day when I had no idea what the hell I was doing with my life or where my next meal was coming from, a friend told me about a job on a new running magazine, and that’s when everything changed.

To prepare for the job interview, two days before, I tentatively took up running. I say running, I hobbled round the block a few times, hated every second of it and showed up at the interview swearing blind that I was an avid runner with a bright future on the magazine. Against the odds I got the job, so I was forced to keep on pretending to be a runner.

At around this time I also lost an important uncle to cancer and a much-loved granny to old age. Struggling to comprehend the shitty cards I’d been dealt, I decided to focus all of my energies on pretending to be good at running. Right through the deepest darkest winter I plodded around the park, gradually building up strength, stamina, and mental determination. I ran through the stresses of house hunting, heartache, bereavement and injury. I would not advise the last one. I had a particularly nasty arm operation following a run in with my bicycle and a black cab, and tried to continue running with my arm in a sling. (Turns out you actually need all of your limbs to run. Who knew?)

It didn’t happen over night, but I gradually fought the sweat, the tears and some rather persistent shin splints to become a runner. Despite what I told my boss, I wasn’t immediately a die hard fan; running can be tough going for the best of us, and I found it particularly rough on my spindly knees (and don’t get me started on the dodgy shoulder) but I kept on going and every week I got a little bit faster and grew a little bit stronger. I ran through the rain, I ran in the dark, I ran weighed down by tears and bone heavy with sadness, regret and fear. But even during my darkest hour when I didn’t know what life was going to throw at me next, I kept on running.

I have a lot to thank the open road for. I shared my heart with the sky every night and whispered my problems to my pounding feet, until gradually, one step at a time, my fears began to dissipate. And to my surprise, when I’d told my story to the road a hundred times until even the trees were dog tired of hearing it, I was left with nothing but boundless energy and miles of unchartered territory ahead.

It’s probably worth mentioning at this point that these profound running moments all occurred within the 5K circumference of Victoria Park. Running can be an amazing, life-changing, moving meditation, capable of healing all of life’s woes, but it’s still bloody hard. The big miles didn’t come until much later.

But what did happen quite quickly was the impact running had on every other aspect of my life. I discovered that if I was running well, everything else in my life seemed to fall into place. Before long I had a nice flat, a great group of friends and a job involving writing about my new favourite hobby all day long.

As is the case for most runners, my regular plod round the park soon got tedious, so the pursuit of running events took over and within a year I’d conquered my first marathon. Many people complain about the arduous side of marathon training, but I discovered that I respond really well to structure, plus I often need an excuse to hit the road, so I set about signing up to every race that came my way.

But running can be a solitary sport and as most of my friends were party kids, when my miles began to increase, I started to get lonely. But then one night I met Run Dem Crew, a collective of East London runners who take to the streets en masse every Tuesday night, and my fate was sealed. The first time I ran with the crew, I felt like I’d come home. Run Dem Crew really shaped my running, and my favourite hobby quickly blossomed into a love affair. It’s more of a family than a running club and I feel blessed to have met and ran with so many amazing and inspirational people.

After a summer of running fun, that September I was due to review The Great Scottish Run for Women’s Running magazine. It was an important weekend for more than one reason. I was also going to stay with my Dad, who lives in The Scottish Borders and was just out of hospital after having a heart bypass operation. We were in the very early stages of rebuilding our fragile relationship after twenty years apart, and I was nervous about seeing him.

And then when I least expected it, I met an interesting gentleman (let’s call him Ultraboy) and once again everything suddenly changed. It’s funny how when life finally feels complete, someone can suddenly appear and knock you off your feet. Ultraboy (an ultrarunner, funnily enough) also lives in The Borders, and kindly offered to pace me round the half marathon. At the time I didn’t realise that in run world ‘can I pace you?’ is the new ‘can I take you out?’

I boldly accepted, and so on a perfect summer’s day in early September, we went on our first date, a half marathon around the streets of Glasgow. I figured if he still fancied me after 13.1 miles of sweat, he had to be a keeper, and I was right.

After nearly a year of running up and down the country, we figured it was time to leap into the void, so I’ve decided to follow my heart, escape the rat race and take on The Borders! The only problem being, I’m a die-hard London girl with no clue about country life and our nearest neighbour is a chicken coop. So will this city chick survive in the wilderness? Watch this space…