Rangy Manatee

I once spent a drunken evening arguing with a room of men, my friends, as to who was the skinniest. Now what does that tell you? This wasn’t any macho contest, well certainly not in the traditional sense of the term. The words “I’m the skinniest, easily” were uttered, profoundly. It never quite got to “I’m definitely the skinniest, fatty” but probably because that would have not only been unkind, but been a gross misinterpretation of the truth, which is that we are all quite wee bastards.

I know for a solid fact that I’ve weighed the same since I was 16 years old. Sixteen! Jesus! I’ve eaten enough pies, chocolates, pizzas and drunk enough beer to make Maradonna proud. Or should I say, make him want to take me by the scruff of my neck, thrust my face into his man boobs and go “watch it, matey”.

So when does the weight gain start? I’ve seen Will Oldham recently. He’s a right chubba! Look at him ten years ago. I mean he was always a baldy so and so but that was that. Now he looks like some kind of pirate, only wronger.

Needless to say I won the contest. Oh yeah. This is true. Someone (me) even went to the trouble of going upstairs to get the bathroom scales to prove this. I looked around the room knowing full well that their masculine, bulky, muscular bodies were no match for my pathetically skinny, ribs-akimbo, slight frame. Ha! I weigh a full stone less than you, you fat bastard! I am the skinniest. Yeah! Oh yeah! Skinniest motherhubbard in this room.

Does anyone else think perhaps that masculine roles are changing? I know I shouldn’t idolise Paris Hilton, but she’s just so talented.