Oh my days, I'm exhausted. Since 2011 began I've obediently followed every newspaper, health club and food retailer's kind recommendations. I truly believe they care about my wellbeing. The headlines began the day after Christmas (kind of them to wait that long), and the main strategy was one of infantilising guilt, with a followup of overblown motivational superficiality. So, if you were "naughty" over the festive season, then get on a treadmill, magically transform your entire existence and enter 2011 brighter, faster, hotter, sleeker. No more big-bumpered dumptruck, much more Maserati.

It's as though there's something more to dieting than the obvious approach, which would be to listen to your body, eat well, stop when you're full and enjoy a daily stroll. But like all con artists, the diet industry's fad makers move so fast that your common sense gets fried … deep fried … yum.

Anyway, I sampled the options in the name of research. No carbs, high-fat: anal gale force 10 and halitosis I'm afraid, but it certainly makes you thin. Hearty pasta and rice choices: straight to sleep, and believe me, you won't be waking up to do a number two any time soon. Smoothies, soups and juices: you'll definitely shed pounds by vomiting in revulsion as you hand-scrape pulped banana out of the blender. The French way, that of cheesy, creamy indulgence: what's French for mucus? The Hollywood sweeties-only diet: ten neon-pink Wham chew bars later, you're high as a kite and skinny as its string, but toothless and gingivitis-stricken.

Seeds, pods and beans: edamame's had its day, gojis are over, pomegranate's passe. What next? Urban squirrels' toenail shavings?

I'm now feeling all bunged up with bogus "advice" on how to rectify my blubbery failings. Still, it's nothing a brief but deep colonic won't sort out.