Fat. Obese. Who cares? We’re too obsessed by size

When neo-puritans imply that slimness equates to virtue, we’re on dangerous ground

Obese. As a euphemism, it is useless. That big round “o” and that sibilant “s” – just the sound of it makes me think of the fat kid at school who would slyly pinch your arm when no one was looking.

Health minister Anne Milton dislikes the O-word too: she set off a row last week by saying doctors should stop using it and instead tell people they are plain “fat”, to encourage them to take responsibility for their love handles. The prevalent view of health professionals is that calling people fat is insulting, and that using the term “obese” is less of a stigma. I’m not sure about that: obese, to me, suggests more than being just fat, it suggests gargantuan, grotesque, can’t-heave-yourself-onto-a-bar-stool-without-breaking-it fat. People are not said to be obese and jolly, or obese with such a pretty face; they are clinically, or morbidly obese.

Semantics aside, there is no point trying to be euphemistic about fatness anyway, because nobody is taken in.

My own body is a superbly efficient machine – for converting fuel to padding. I even put weight on training for the London marathon, which should be against the law. Despite masquerading for several years as a slim person, I’m a natural fattie. At my peak, when I weighed 13 and a half stone at five feet five, I knew fine well I was fat, however much others tried to gloss over it by using words like curvy or voluptuous. Every time someone attempted what I call a fat girl’s faux compliment – where they praise your skin, your eyes, or your slim ankles – I just wanted to scream: “I know I’m fat. And I know you know I’m fat. So let’s just not talk about it at all, eh?”

The minister is correct that plain speaking might shock some people into losing poundage. I was humiliated into losing several stones when a misdirected email between two former colleagues describing me as “the hippo” landed in my inbox. But using insults as therapy is a risky business. It could just as easily totally flatten someone’s self-esteem – it certainly took me a while to recover.

What is frustrating about this row is the narrowness of the thinking behind it. We’re confused over whether being overweight is “obesity” and therefore a medical problem, or “fatness” and therefore a moral failing. The word fat is preferable, but does it have to be quite so judgmental?

The French author Guy de Maupassant wrote a wonderful story, Boule de Suif. That translates as Ball of Fat – which would not get past a marketing department today. The heroine – the dumpling of the title – is a highly alluring young woman who is fleeing Rouen in a coach with nine other passengers in the hope of escaping the invading Prussian army.

Her fatness is seen by her fellow passengers as an indicator of moral laxity, but her generosity of flesh and spirit is set against their pinched respectability. Today she would be packed off to the doctor and ministers would tell her to get on a diet.

The word fat is a perfectly good one, but when it is hijacked by neo-puritans, with the implication that slimness equates to virtue, we are on dangerous ground. I am not denying that a growing number of people do have real problems, but our society’s joyless obsession with body mass index is pretty unhealthy too. The modern world, with sedentary lifestyles and easily available food, conspires to make us rounder. For those of us who didn’t win the genetic lottery, staying within the prescribed weight zones means permanent vigilance and carefully rationed treats. Plenty of people prefer a bit of a tum to this constant self-denial, and within reason, why not?

Ministers are taking far too much interest in our bodies and should not be trying to shame us into being thin. Fat is not a moralists’ issue, and calories are not the only thing that counts.

Terry will have to work hard to beat this guy

Lothar Matthäus, who led the German football team to victory in the 1990 World Cup and helped knock England out in a penalty shoot-out, has redeemed himself in the eyes of British men thanks to his gloriously un-PC love life.

He is being sued by his soon-to-be ex-wife Liliana, a 22-year-old Ukrainian glamourpuss who wants him to pay nearly €3,000 for her breast reduction surgery. The fourth Frau Matthäus thinks the least he could do is to stump up, since he paid for her original enlargement operation as a school-leaving present. Rather ungallantly, he is quoted in the German press as saying he fails to see why he should pay for this, or, indeed, any other of her plastic surgery.

I find the whole episode very upsetting. We know the Germans are going to beat us at the actual football, but we could console ourselves that John Terry, Ashley Cole and the Wags would triumph for England in the tabloids. How frustrating when a veteran German effortlessly shames our lads on that front too. Herr Matthäus, whose motto is “always look ahead and never give up,” has certainly put the Lothar into Lothario.

Don’t ban Asbos. I still need them

So farewell, then, to Asbos. Home secretary Theresa May reckons it’s time we moved beyond them – which is sad because I could dish out a dozen a day. The Asbo should be kept for the following offenders against polite society:

People who yawn widely without covering their mouth. We don’t want to see your fillings, or your breakfast.

Shoppers who wheel up to the till with an enormous trolley full of stuff, and then spend 10 minutes at the end trying to find their purse or wallet.

People who crack their finger joints.

Women who wear transparent white maxidresses around town. They might have looked good in those Timotei ads back in the day, but a mucky hem is never going to win you any style points.

Men who wear shorts to work. Not you, Rafa, you’re fine.

People who look over my shoulder when they’re talking to me, in case there’s anyone more interesting there.

City types who describe a difficult job as “a big ask”. An Asbo’s not enough for them. They should be sentenced to donate their bonus to the Queen’s English Society.

Groups of blokes congregating on corners. Why is one of you always scratching his bottom?

Sloaney matrons who pause anxiously at the top of the down escalator in Peter Jones before plucking up the courage to get on. It’s an escalator, not the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Mums who drive their pushchairs like Sherman tanks, threatening to mow down innocent civilians. Congratulations, you had a lovely baby, but no one appointed you commander-in-chief of the allied forces.

Men who dive into the hotel pool, thrash up and down vigorously with no technique or consideration for the enjoyment of others before withdrawing exhausted, but self-satisfied, after about three minutes. Are you like that in bed, too?

Builders who wolf-whistle women under 30.

Builders who don’t bother to wolf-whistle women over 40, no matter how many times we walk past.