The news that fat men may lose their sensual charm has made my eyes bulge as well as the rest of me.
The statement at a Melbourne conference titled Towards a Slimmer Australia was made by a stern and well-meaning doctor who said that obese men could be romantically impeded.
This brought local sniggers and coy looks over our morning eggs.
“And how’s my lard and master today?” said the siren of Smithfield (who needs no introduction).
My daughter brought out her guitar and began singing, “My Pop is a roly-poly Romeo.”
For those of us who think big the fat could be well and truly in the fire, but if you expect me to reduce you’re in for a long weight. So there!
People don’t just say to me, “You are looking well.”
They shift the emphasis and say, “You are looking, w-e-l-l-l…!
Their sneaky eyes tell the rest. Be sure your chins will find you out.
Yet my doctor is cheerful: “I know what I’ll do about your weight. Get stronger chairs for the surgery.”
Yet I remain a passionate man when I see my wife waiting for me. Romance is still part and parcel of our lives. In fact, she romances more about parcels than any woman I know.
“What have you brought me tonight,” she’ll whisper, “apart from eight kilos of blubber?”
How many great lovers of the past have been thin? Henry VIII quickly had the measure of anyone who called him a big fat ruler. Charles II probably ran to portliness but Nell still approached him with a cheeky Gwyn.
But if I’m obese am I not amiable? When I kiss my loved ones goodnight I hold out my arms and fold them into my folds.
Of course I’m scolded by secretaries who snatch sugar—and other secretaries—from my path.
When I go to my trouser-makers, my measurer shakes hands with his colleagues and says, “Well goodbye, men. I’m just leaving for the front.”
Tyre manufacturers beg me to make commercials. That width, that grip, that heavy tread.
And all those spares.
Yet, I’ll let you into a secret. There still beats a warm heart in these old ribs. The young moon above the dark quilt of the ranges, the star-struck night still remind me of the elemental forces and the passionate activities of the human race. Such as supper.
Come winter, I have not lost my fire—even if I prevent most other people from sitting near it.
Well might my wife cry: “Which do you love best—me or a cream bun?”
Please… don’t make me choose!
Max Fatchen