Fat is a feminist issue.

Whatever that means. Although I do know that it's quite alright for men to have more to love, but women? Hell no. More than a UK size 12 and you're on yer own love. Size 16 or over and obviously (or at least according to shallow society) you are mentally deficient. Get to the size of someone who wishes to become the world's largest woman, and people feel quite entitled to call you "Utterly gross", "Disgusted, repulsed" or "Yikes", amongst other things. Interestingly, the most vitriolic were fellow females. Are they scared obesity is catching? Is there a weird kind of jealousy that the larger lady doesn't care about conforming to what society says women must be?

I will not make out I know how or why someone sets out to deliberately be that size (though if a picture speaks a thousand words, those words might be "Other half's a Feeder" alert, which many feel is a form of abuse, but who is to say? It's between them, not us.); I'm not a GP, psychologist or emotional therapist - but I'm sure they would have plenty to say on this subject. No, what concerns me is how quickly society de-humanises anyone deemed to be outside the 'norm', and how it's more often than not the female who gets it.

Think of a famous Hollywood actor who is...how can I put this...not exactly Brad Pitt (or in my case, Terry Wogan). He's more cuddly than your average star. Gets lots of leading roles. Think of his female equivalent, a non-size-eight woman who gets all the starring roles. Still struggling? Of course you are, because generally if a larger woman is even allowed on the silver screen she is relegated to 'comedy' roles - i.e. the figure of fun/derision, or the frumpy mother figure who will never get the guy. If an actresses weight fluctuates, she's either let herself go or is anorexic. Yet I can think of several actors who have bigger tits than mine and nobody bats a bloody eyelid.

I am angry with myself for allowing my whole life to have been dominated by body image issues. From bagging myself an eating disorder at 13, to spending my twenties covering up because I was fat (I was a size zero), and now, in my last year of my thirties, a reluctant size 18 due to inertia, boredom, depression and the happy pills. That and the fact that I have four kids obviously means I am lazy, stupid, smelly, greedy and gross, and worth far less than someone who weighs 8stone. Am I happy? No, of course not. I'm in pain every day due to the weight on my already loose joints, can't get lovely clothes and never look nice. Am I stupid? I have an IQ of 159. Next. Do I smell? Only after I've been rolling around in the flower beds. Am I greedy? No. My eating habits are what they were as a Zero (probably healthier; but I've always had a chocolate habit, and would always have two whole slices of toast if some fucker pissed me off). But I did become...inert. Then it became a vicious circle. The unhappier you get, the less you want to go out, the less you move, the bigger you get, the unhappier you get...

But you cannot simply give up food. I tried that at 13, it wasn't pretty. You can stop smoking, knock alcohol on the head, go cold turkey from smack. But we need to eat to live; and there are so many emotional aspects of food. As a child, you fall over, mummy gives you a kiss and a chocolate drop to make it better. You get dumped, you drink two bottles of rose prosecco and inhale three twix bars to make it better. It's not greed - because the goal is NOT the chocolate, but to stop feeling so shite. And as I said, we cannot avoid food. We have to eat to live, yes, even supermodels do, and cannot just avoid it. 

But women - and it does apply to women because no fucker gives a damn about men having slight potbellies or wobbly buttocks - well, our bodies are owned by every one else. By the media, by fashion, by society. By complete strangers who think it perfectly acceptable to dish out the most vile abuse because someone can't fit in a designer sample. By clothes shops who deem anyone over a size 14 as Outsized. By film makers, photographers, authors. The heroine is always tiny and young - but the hero is allowed to be ruggedly chubby and the wrong side of forty. (The painter Rubens however was aces and skills for his celebration of the artistic values of Wobbly)

Don't get me wrong; smaller is better, health-wise. I know I'm not as healthy as I could be - apart from the joint pain, I get breathless and myriad other ailments due to my size. So I'm being brave lately, leaving the house and pounding the pavements with my trusty hi-tec pedometer which not only tells me the steps taken (over 12,000 yesterday), but also distance covered, calories burned, and weight lost (27.2grammes yesterday, which I suspect only matters if one is a hamster). But I am doing this for me. Not to appease the media or society (anyway, I'm forty soon so that would be pointless), but because I am fed up with being uncomfortable and in pain, and pissed off with the grail quests I have to go through to find a decent frock.

So taking all of the above into account, I'm quite happy to admit that although I worry for her health, lifespan and comfort, (I worry about everything) I have a huge admiration for the woman who would be the Largest In The World. For whatever reason, she has challenged this perceived societal norm, gone completely against its expectations of what They think she should be, and is out and proud about it. 

And if you think about it that way, it's quite refreshing really.