Britain is putting on weight and the evidence is all around. The most cursory of glances up and down the cake aisle at Tesco will reveal a gaggle of bloaters jostling for the cream buns – men with gargantuan T-shirts stretched tightly over a precipice of gut and women so impressively bingo-winged they probably spend their weekends catching thermals off Beachy Head.
The media is gleefully portraying an epidemic of Stateside proportions in which no-one is immune to the lure of the supersize McWhopper. Judging by his ever-widening face, even Jamie Oliver is clearly reluctant to practice what he preaches. Maybe the only reason he’s so militant in his efforts to dissuade school kids from their Turkey Twizzlers is so he can snaffle them all himself when he’s not hovering around the tuck shop brandishing a fiver and emerging gleeful with a fistful of Curly Wurlys.
Even so though, there is an entirely disproportionate amount of programmes about obesity on telly, including You Are What You Eat with Gillian McKeith (who, if the title of her show is true, must spend her days munching bags of spanners) Celebrity Fat Club, Help, My Dog’s As Fat As Me, Freaky Eaters and The Eight-Tonne Teenager (bizarrely, only one of these is made up). I reckon this is to make the rest of us feel vindicated in cracking open that second bar of chocolate or indulging in a second helping of ice cream.
If I was a paranoid conspiracy theorist I might assume that the food marketing boards and TV programme makers are in cahoots in order to make us buy more of their products. But I’m not. So I won’t.
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