"Fat" will no longer be a simple physical term. Fat will be a name given to someone who meets a certain description. Someone who needs to actually be deserving of the derogatory term-fat. The other words such as plump, chunky, large are all playful and are tossed about daily. It is vital the world comes to terms to what it means to be fat. I am not fat. You may be a large person, but this does not mean you are fat. Fatness is something that can only be obtained through both a moral and physical judgement. Being physically large no longer determines one to be fat.
I need to clarify what i perceive to be a fat person.
Let's contextualise.
Mrs Jenkins is a widow. A single mother with three children. She runs her own cleaning company which she has an active role in. She works between five and six hours a day, pays her three employees six pounds an hour which they are happy with, then she retires back to her car, picks up her three children all of similar ages at four o clock from school. She returns home. Her wonderfully brought up children sit around the table in her small kitchen in her small but incredibly tidy house and tell their tired but doting mother about their day. Mrs Jenkins smiles constantly throughout the half an hour dinner. Her children all wash up their plates and sit down to do their homework while Mrs Jenkins washes up and puts on the six o clock news. She is sad to learn that a cat has been put into a dustbin by an old lady, she is happy when she learns that the Gulf oil spill has been stopped. After washing up and placing the bowls out for tommorow's breakfast, she hears her children fidgetting around upstairs, thier homework complete. She claps her hands and whistles in a ghostly way, her children start to giggle and she hears them all start to run around the house to hide from "Mrs Ghoul." It takes five minutes for her to find them. They always hide in the same places. She tells them to brush their teeth and get into bed where after reading them a story she says goodnight. All the children share one bigger room upstairs while she occupies the smaller room closer to the bathroom. She tidies her room and then dresses for bed. She stands infront of her mirror, lifts up her top and clasps at her belly and bottom. She comments as she does everynight at her love handles and squidgy bum. She sighs, whispers to her children that she loves them from the door, knowing they are already fast asleep then retires to her little bed, perfectly made.
Mrs Jenkins is not fat.
Mr York awakes at twelve pm. He grunts, scratches at his genitals and slumps out of bed. He calls downstairs to his mother to put on the kettle. His huge frame shakes the landing as he waddles to the bathroom where he defecates loudly. He neither opens the window nor shuts the door. He doesn't shower, he simply slips on his jeans and the t shirt he had on the previous day and plods downstairs. His mother has laid a mug out with a tea bag in it, the kettle is boiling next to it. "Lazy bitch," he grunts.
After sitting in the living room for an hour, eating at the remains of a takeaway pizza, he stands, ditches the cardboard at the foot of the sofa and wanders out the house. He withdraws that week's job seekers allowance from an ATM, after which he goes to his local where he drinks five pints and has a steak and kidney pudding, a few packets of crisps and a twix. He arrives home a couple of hours later at around five. His mother has left him some lasagne out. He can't be bothered to microwave it so he simply removes the cling-film and takes a spoon out of the draw and begins to punch away at the solid cheese topping. He sits at the kitchen table and rolls a cigarette. The evening news comes on the radio. He laughs when he hears a cat has been tossed into a bin and mutters "fucking mexicans" when he learns that the oil spill has been stopped.
Mr York is fat.
I hope this goes someway to help you think what it truly means to call someone fat. It's a way of life, not just a physical phenom. I loathe those who sling the term at those who they know nothing about.
Indeed bastards exist.
Mr Lear.
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