fat and famous

All that time I had eaten no rich food or meat, had drunk no wine, and had used no fragrant oils. (Daniel 10:3)

Tonight I caught a programme on BBC3 that has sent me on two linked but very disparate tangents: famous people and fat people. The programme was Fuck Me, I'm Fat! presented by the comedian Ricky Grover. I met Ricky a few years ago. We chatted for ages and he is a very funny guy. I had hoped to book him for a University gig but our budget was limited to student bands and a six-piece funk troup from the next county. I have also got weight issues: I am a 10, sometimes an 8 on my upper half, with a neck and collar bone that has made me seem waif-like in the right light. But have a very stocky lower body, with hips that sometimes need a 16 and calf muscles that will only wear boots from Evans. A few weekends ago I wore a short denim skirt, my first ever in public without it being part of some fancy dress party. Tonight, sitting with my impromptu cocktail of Polish vodka and cranberry juice, I found that seeing Ricky on tv and women in size 20s and with far slimmer, more attractive legs than mine, set me thinking.

Famous people first. A friend of mine was in a film last year. It was huge and she featured on the poster plastering tube stations across London. I was, and still am, so proud. Her ex-boyfriend is in a nationwide advert at the moment, which always prompts me to say that I know him, but leaves me biting my lip when I know in reality he's a bit of a wanker. Meanwhile an ex of mine has just appeared on another nationwide advert and it feels even stranger.

I sent him an e-mail to say well done. Although now in my paranoia I worry it sounded patronising. Thing is, I always felt we could have been friends, except he's as weird about that kind of thing as me. The last time we ever met, at a club at Uni, we hugged and chatted and he told me he hoped to be famous. I said that I knew that already and wished him the best. He begged that I never "kiss and tell" to the papers. I laughed, because in my mind the girls that kiss and tell are money-grabbing whores with no sense of self-respect or the impact of their avarice and insensitivity. Now I see him every few hours on the plasma screen at work, helping marketing gurus to sell their product to teenagers. He looks good.

Thing is, I don't want to go out with him, I just want him to be happy. It's weird, but all of the guys I've slept with I want to be happy, find love, find success, whatever it is they need or desire. I'd quite like to bump into them in a bar and hear about it all, without any feeling of being uncomfortable. In many ways I'd like to reel off right now the guys I could pinpoint the ambitions of - for someone who talks too much, I'm surprisingly good at listening! Maybe a few: Roly wants to matter in the world, ideally as a comedian, more realistically as a favourite staff nurse; Andy wants to be rich, with a penthouse apartment, all mod-cons; Lee wanted to be an Aussie Rules footballer, but he felt too pressured by his Dad to make it his life; Tom wants to be famous, maybe as an actor but only one who's infamously intelligent; Matt would love to play football, but it's too late and he hates what he's doing right now.

Embarrassingly there are names I've forgotten, how awful is that! My "number" is hardly of record-breaking proportions, but when you can remember everything else except their damn name, it doesn't reflect well.

Fat people, now there's a topic of subjective proportions. My Dad reckons he's fat and while his BMI isn't healthy, he's only on the cusp of fat, and always has been. The guy in The Full Monty is apparently fat and yet he's much like the average 30-something man, with his beer gut and mini-jowls. When I look in the mirror I see fat, but my friends - and strangers - see slim. Although I don't know how they see my legs. You see, they're disproportionally huge. I saw a woman the other day, fat by anyone's standards, with pins that could rival Heidi Klum's. Meanwhile I've tried not eating, and throwing it up, with little to no change at all in my lower-body.

The reason I've chosen to rant is because superficially it matters. In the BBC3 programme, 2 girls who were a size 20 stood outside Miss Selfridge's with "No Fat" banners, exclaiming that they "didn't care" what people thought, as passers-by stared. Good on you, girls! Except that sometimes you do. Two weekends ago, when I walked in my high heels and short skirt (iPod blaring, because it drowns out reality) I strutted through pride, but cringed at every down-turned glance. Here is a girl with a slim, conventionally attractive upper-half, and legs that could serve you cold Kronenburg of a night. A month ago I decided to wear a short skirt I'd bought at Oxfam, only to have my Dad tell me that I looked awful. While I may never have been his princess in terms of looks and pretty blonde locks, that hurt. I changed into jeans, like always.

I can't sympathise with people who are fat because I'm not. I will literally starve myself before I reach anything that could be seen as overly chubby. I have habitually eaten cake to cheer myself up and then flushed it down the toilet an hour afterwards in fear of getting fat. And yet, even at my skinniest weight, when I was eating just 2 pieces of toast a day, my legs would not fit into the most generous of Topshop boots and my arse could find the bare minimum of room in size 12 jeans.

With that in mind, I can't help but attempt to sympathise. Perhaps, like me, they cannot lose that particular weight. Like me they dream of wearing the outfit they saw in Vogue without feeling like a fashion fraud, it's just that the focus is different. Passing someone and thinking that they shouldn't be wearing that is not a unique thought, they probably had it first. And they're probably reciting the mantra "I don't care," even if, every once in a while, they do.

The quote from Daniel is rather apt, when you think of the diets that famous Hollywood types adhere to. Apparently restaurants in LA no longer serve bread as a side dish, or indeed as any dish. Vegetarianism is on the up because it is less fattening. Fragrant oils are probably still popular, but nothing too greasy, we wouldn't want spots. I hope my friend doesn't become like that, it's so difficult eating with someone skinny. It's also difficult eating with someone famous.

While few of us woud wish to fade away in anonymous obscurity, nor waddle into heart-threatening obesity, fame, infamy and the inevitable fear over love-handles that translate onto tabloid-size photos are equally distasteful. What to do?

Fuck knows. I know that if I ever have the capital I might actually resort to surgery, although there are risks I may never walk again, so deep the insecurity runs. Other than that, there are no conclusions as of yet. Fat people, famous people, rarely do the twain meet. For now.