Poking the porkers with pointed sticks

IT’S FAT KIDS week in the nation’s media folks, so let’s all gather round and poke the juvenile porkers with pointed sticks.

First out of the traps (it was a bit of a squeeze but the cattle prod shifted him) was eight-year-old Connor McCreaddie, troubling the scales at an impressive 14 stone, who narrowly escaped being carted off into care by social workers after a film about him was shown on Sir Trevor McDoughnut’s telly programme. Anyone who saw the film will have quickly realised that it was the poor lad’s feckless, work-shy, hopeless mother who needed taking away, but until the Tories get back in we’re lacking the necessary legislation to jail scrotes simply for stupidity.

Two days later and a new contender fills the ring, or at least Page One of The Sun, this time nine-year-old Samantha Hames, who weighs in at 14 stone two pounds and is a size 18. I’m obliged to the nation’s favourite tabloid for putting Samantha’s size in context: she’s apparently the same weight as two Victoria Beckhams and is a couple of stones heavier than spud-faced nipper Wayne Rooney.

I think what most impressed me about Samantha was her sheer dedication to infant obesity. As well as a dozen family-size bars of chocolate each week and an artery-clogging daytime diet, it’s her after-school efforts that shine through. At 4pm it’s two rounds of sandwiches and a Pot Noodle. At 5.30 it’s a tea (or dinner if you get out of the bath to have a wee) of an Indian takeaway and a bowl of ice cream. At 7pm, with the hunger pangs gathering, it’s another two rounds of sandwiches and a Pot Noodle. And at 11.30pm, it’s 12 yoghurts or another full meal.

Hang on … 11.30pm? This child is nine years old. Why isn’t she in bed at that time? Where are her parents? Ah, I see. A single mother, herself a not inconsiderable 17 stones, struggling to cope with her lard-arsed little one.

And there’s the rub. When I were a lad, we were only allowed one official fat kid per school year. It was called the Bunter Principle. The council kept them in stock and issued us with a new one every time the current incumbent keeled over during a game of British Bulldog or hanged themselves from the banisters after the bullying got too much. Now they’re everywhere, wallowing around like drunken sailors behind their equally enormous parents, and generating enough static electricity from their Lycra leisurewear to power several branches of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

So why is it happening? Our food – even that of the fast variety – is healthier then ever. Low sugar, low fat, low salt, low lard … even a modern Fray Bentos tinned pie knocks nutritional spots off a traditional 1960s meat-and-two-veg. It’s a puzzle. But then I heard a programme on the wireless about Olympic silver medal winner Roger Black spending a term at a school in London in an effort to get children fitter and more active.

Despite getting them better equipment, despite getting them better organised and despite getting them better facilities, his biggest frustration was that many of them just couldn’t be bothered to do PE at all. They just didn’t turn up, or failed to bring their kit. And these days, it seems, you don’t even need a forged note from your Mum to escape the ordeal of the gym.

When I were a lad (again), if you didn’t bring your kit then you did it in your underwear – even if “it” was cross country in a blizzard. It never did us any harm, even if you had to run the gauntlet of the predatory park keeper who wanted you to pop into his hut and view his collection of mucky mags.

Now they can just refuse, point blank. No detention, no lines, no getting flicked by a wet towel in the showers by a psychopathic gym teacher. No wonder they’d rather eat sandwiches and Pot Noodles in front of the telly.

OF COURSE, all these fat kids are going to grow up into fat disableds, complete with blue badges and disability benefits. Well, those who live past 30 anyway.

But even life as a licensed lead-swinger isn’t as easy as it used to be. Just ask Lady Heather Mills McCartney.

Once she announced that she was going to appear on the American version of Strictly Come Dancing, the militant Federation of Disabled People kicked off over her future right to use a disabled badge on her Mercedes. Spokeswoman Kathy Gordon said: “Clearly she has mobility so she should refrain from using the badge. It's not fair on other disabled people.”

Ooh, hang on a minute. The country is awash with so-called disabled people shinning up rock faces, absailing off buildings, playing basketball in wheelchairs – even running the 20 metres in 20 seconds. But when it comes to bagging the best parking space at Tesco, they’re suddenly legless.

Disabled? My foot.

THERE’S SOMETHING seriously odd about this petrol nonsense.

Think about it. The petrol companies are denying that there’s anything wrong with their fuel. But then they would say that, wouldn’t they? And we’ve got car mechanics saying that they’re having to replace bits of people’s cars at great expense. But then they would say that, wouldn’t they?

I blame all those cheapskates who bought their factory-farmed fuel from Tesco and Morrisons, instead of investing in the free range, gamboling-round-the-fields petrol from Waitrose.

AND WE come full circle, with news that the Girl Guides are dumping traditional badges like Homemaker to introduce new qualifications like Circus Skills, Film Lover and … err … the History of Chocolate.

Step forward, Samantha Hames, patrol leader of the future.