Fat-shaming works. Why else would I heave myself up and down hills for hours every day?

We have been contemplating moving to the North, for a variety of unassailable reasons. One is the chance to gloat on a daily basis. I will immediately become the thinnest and richest man in the village, which will do my flagging middle-aged self-confidence no end of good. Indeed, on the weight issue I could cease worrying completely and really pile on the pounds, simply moving another 100 miles north every time I reach the average weight of the indigenous population. Begin at 14 stone in, say, Coventry. When I reach 16 stone, move to Sheffield — and immediately become the thinnest man around once again. By the time my gut is so large I need a crane to drag me to McDonald’s and back I’ll be living somewhere near Paisley, or perhaps Oban. It used to be said that for every 50 miles you travel from London, you go back in time five years. Perhaps — but it is also true that for every 50 miles you can add a stone to the average weight of the population. In Oban, then, it is roughly 1965 and everyone is 25 stone. Suits me on both counts.

I work hard to stay well below 14 stone — ten miles a day walking up and down hills, heaving with exertion, all so that I am not ‘fat-shamed’ by the generally lithe smug-monkeys of the south-east, who are also much richer than I am. How they keep so thin and affluent is a mystery to me, because I almost never see them out exercising when I’m panting like a recently gassed badger, the dog yapping at me to keep up. Perhaps their thinness is genetic, much as is their money. But whatever, ‘fat-shaming’ has become a sort of pastime or form of political activism in this region, and especially in London.