I have good news for you, Bob Briant. It seems you’ve been right about me all along.

Mr Briant is a regular correspondent, who e-mails me after my columns appear. The gist of his remarks is always the same: I am stupid. I have always taken issue in the past with Mr Briant’s assertion. I liked to think that a degree from Oxford, lecturing at Harvard Business School and Berkeley, working in think-tanks and writing books offered some evidence of a modicum of intelligence.

No. Yesterday I realised that the game is up and Mr Briant has me nailed to the mast. I am indeed stupid. A thicko. A moron. And it’s all thanks to the pizza I had for lunch yesterday, and the pancakes I’ll eat later today.

After studying 1,400 men and women, a University of Boston professor, one Merrill Elias, has concluded that men classified as clinically obese have, as he puts it, “significantly reduced mental agility”. Being an American academic, Professor Elias can’t actually say what he means, lest he face a class action from FATASS — the Fat Association, which campaigns in America to make obesity sexy. I have no such fears: what he means by “significantly reduced mental agility” is, of course, that they — we fatties — are stupid. (I’ve not actually come across the good work of FATASS, but I know in my heart of hearts that it must exist.)

The waitress who served me my pizza had clearly been reading Professor Elias’s study. As she brought my meal, she made to give my friend Katie’s salad to me, and my pizza to Katie. When I said that the pizza was for me, she looked at me as if to say: “With that body, how come I’m not surprised?”

I am not a conspiracy theorist by nature, but I’m sure she must have been speaking to my doctor. This good lady told me the last time that I saw her, when I had just broken two of my ribs, that I needed to lose two thirds of my body weight. Two thirds.

Now take a look at me. OK, I’m overweight. No, let’s not beat about the bush: I’m fat. But two thirds? (By the way, that’s a rhetorical question: there really is no need for you to write in with your suggestions as to how much I ought to lose.) I had just been told about two stick insects (yes, we porkers can hurl abuse too) who had smashed all their ribs by hugging each other too tightly. My padding protected me against such severe damage. See; it might make me a thicko, but at least it kept most of my ribs in one piece.

I owe Professor Elias a debt of gratitude. Thanks to him, I have at last worked out why it is that, despite my attempts to lose weight — I diet, I go to the gym, I skip dessert — it stays on. I am fat, therefore I am stupid. And because I am stupid, I don’t do the right things to lose weight. See. It all makes sense now.

Never again need I waste my time in a pointless quest to lose weight. And who, after all, in their right but, so we learn from Professor Elias, rather small, mind would not wish to enjoy the many advantages of being overweight? Getting one of those “two seaters” on the Underground all to ourselves because there’s no room left for anyone else. Not being able to buy off-the-peg suits and shirts, and having to have them made to measure — the height of luxury to you sad phasmids (the technical term for those of you who can touch your toes) but a necessity to us chubbies.

Then there’s always being asked if we want second helpings, because it’s assumed that if we’re overweight we must be greedy. Being constantly amazed at the number of gorgeous women who prefer being with a fattie to stepping out with an Adonis. Oh, and let’s not forget world domination. Americans are fatter than Europeans. America kicks ass in the world. Spot the link, stupid?

Then there’s today, Shrove Tuesday. The guilt you beansprouts have to put up with to have one stupid pancake. Don’t be brainwashed into that old Lent routine. Religion’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just the old “don’t eat that, it’s no good for you” agenda rolled up into Jesus to make you think it really matters.

Strike out. Act on impulse. If that crêpe suzette smells good, go for it. If you want that Viennese finger, have it. If you feel like a bag of chips, get the vinegar ready now. And if it means you’ll never be able to understand Schopenhauer again, c’est la vie. I’m fat, I’m thick, and I’m proud.

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