The other day I saw this gem on twitter:

Anyone who says ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ does not know where to eat.

On the one hand, a very fine meal can indeed surpass the buoyed feeling of gentle elation one gets from feeling attractive. I’ve enjoyed such meals and they are better than sex, religion and adrenaline. There’s this sushi place in York I could just eat at until I explode or go broke or pass out; I once ate a steak somewhere in Cornwall that I didn’t shut up about for weeks.

In short, it’s a perfectly valid statement.

Now, I want to believe that the reason you’re a big tubber is because you enjoy a life of epicurean delight. You sample only the finest wines and cheeses, platters of exquisite chocolate truffles, the finest cigars, beef ravioli such as can make a grown man weep, consumed by the trough full. It’s not true though, is it? The reason you look in the mirror and weep buttery tears is more mundane: you’re stuffing yourself to the oily gills with utter crap. Cheap biscuits, noxious sugary cocktails, fist-sized hamburgers made from special offer bread and mechanically extracted meat, topped with a slice of elastic cheese.

Feeling thin and pretty may not match up to the joy of eating a perfectly prepared sirloin steak, but it knocks the shallow, fleeting delight of stuffing yourself with cheesy wotsits into a cocked hat.

Or at least that’s what I hear.

Pass the malteasers?