Fat is not a bad word.

Let me first establish that the irony that I am writing this post just after putting up a review of Man v Food is not lost on me.

I think that it has been established to all of those who have read my posts and articles that I am frequently annoyed by many different things. I once tried to compile a list of things (aside from food and anything schadenfreude-related) that make me happy; I got to small fluffy animals, sleep, and showers before I gave up.

However, one of the things that offends me the most is when people judge others for the choices that they make in life, especially when it comes to the matter of weight. Being even slightly overweight, and the things that lead to it is something that is constantly being discussed nowadays, and it comes from all angles - the media, the government, people themselves passing judgement... I'm sick of it.

Personally, I've always been bigger than the majority of others, and my God did people let me know about it. I got so much stick at school I considered a variety of stupid things, and was generally a grumpy bitch until I realised that if I was going to be fat I should at least have the good manners to be jolly. However, since coming to university, I've had a bit of a confidence boost. I know what suits me, I know what things a girl of my design should not be wearing - for example, leggings are not trousers, and you should always check how many of your rolls you can see before leaving the house in that t-shirt - and I have also learnt that fat is not a bad word. If it comes up in conversation, I don't say "I'm fat" in the pursuit of compliments, I say it because it's true. I'm fed up of hearing girls exclaiming how fat and disgusting they are - you know what? I'm fat and brilliant. I don't need you trying to sully my frame by having you insult yourself. I'm not necessarily an advocate of "it's what's on the inside that counts", because you only tell people that when they're hideous, but if you're ugly inside, it's definitely obvious. Just saying.

What is astounding is that in many places, the fatter you are, the richer you are presumed to be; this means that in several places, I'm incredibly desirable as I look to be minted. Yet in Britain, the fatter you are, the poorer, less intelligent, and lazy you are presumed to be. It's automatically assumed here that if you are fat, you do nothing but sit on your enlarged backside all day, eating crisps in between occasionally picking up the remote control to flick between daytime television programmes. Whilst I know that there are many people who fulfill this stereotype beautifully, there are far more of us that don't. I work hard, I walk everywhere, I know what is and isn't good for me to eat. I'm not going to make excuses - I occasionally eat rubbish, and I eat too much of it, but I'm also built like the proverbial brick WC, and given the chance I'd make a fine rugby player. I am not built to be small, the same as a lot of the rest of us fatties.

So with all of this in mind, what is it that fuels peoples' distaste? Simply put: the media. It comes in all varieties - but it's especially the television companies that seem to take great delight in persecution a collection of people who look a little different to the 'norm' that's all slender hips and tiny waists - oh, and who promotes that more than anyone? The media. Isn't that funny. We are constantly bombarded with programmes like 'You Are What You Eat' with Gillian McKeith examining poo in tupperware boxes, giving us rubbish about how eating green food is better for you as you'll have more photosynthesis going on in your body (I may only have a GCSE in double award science, but even I can smell that someone is giving off an air of idiocy), Supersize vs Superskinny, The Biggest Loser... These programmes are constantly telling us that we need to be skinnier to be happier, better people, more attractive; and remember, if you're not stereotypically attractive, you are worthless, no matter what other qualities you may have to offer.

Meanwhile, the newest addition to these programmes 'Secret Eaters' on Channel 4, offers you a Big Brother eye view of a group of overweight individuals who claim to eat little, yet be piling on the pounds for no good reason. So now, not only are fat people lazy, feckless and stupid, they're also liars incapable of making a rational decision about what they stick into their gobs, seemingly so excited to be near a pack of open biscuits that they don't even realise how many they've managed to swallow.

My vitriol also extends to those people, and those campaigns that state 'real women have curves'. No, real women have vaginas, and come in all different shapes and sizes. Stop dictating what we should look like, and stop shaping our opinions. Eventually, there's going to be a backlash.

People, do not listen to it. Pay no heed to the rubbish that comes out of the media hole. It's small-minded, it's prejudiced, and it serves only to sell you more empty promises. Embrace what you are, no matter how many pounds and ounces that may be. Okay, so we might not all be individual, special snowflakes - we are just degenerating mounds of flesh - but it is important that we stop going along with the crowd all the time, and take notice of what we really are, regardless of how fat, thin, curvy (or not) we may be.

Gluttony: the best of the sins.

If you have ever met me or read my articles of late, you'll know that I am a person of simple tastes. I am BBC3 rather than BBC4, Cosmopolitan magazine rather than War and Peace, tinned ravioli with chedar over gourmet cuisine. I am cheap, I am easy to please, and I am proud of it.

However, I do occasionally like to pretend that I'm far more refined than I really am, so I make an attempt to watch something that can improve my life. This generally falls in the realm of the television cooking show; trying to impress upon you that you too can cook like this without the team of home economists that are present on every episode.

My favourite television chef was always Nigella Lawson, unapologetically pouring butter and double cream into the most mundane of recipes. Nigella would stand there slobbering all over herself, making the most delicious looking food which you knew was totally out of your price range, and yet you knew that you would sell your own kidneys and mother if you had the chance to have her larder and look like her. As much as I know I should hate her, I just can't do it.

However, food shows have gotten far more bizarre since Nigella first sashayed onto our screens in 2000.

Perhaps the best example of this is the legendary Man v Food, which has been shown on the Good Food and Dave channels. In every episode, the dashing Adam Richman takes it upon himself to travel around America, eating everything that comes across his path. The second part of every episode has Richman undertaking a food challenge, whereby he must either consume something particularly spicy, or something incredibly big that has usually been deep fried, and then smothered in low quality cheese, in its entirety.

By completing each task, he usually racks up a new picture of himself hung up on the wall of the establishment in which he succeeds at getting closer to the verge of type 2 disabetes. Previous challenges have included burgers the size of full-term babies and chicken wings so spicy that his entire face resembled a puffer fish having an asthma attack after only one bite.

Man v Food is everything that is wrong with the world - it is selfish, self-serving gluttony. It attemps to be funny when it really isn't, and it glorifies binge eating as though it's perfectly natural to regularly shove a lorry load of beef down your intestines. Man v Food is to the food world what transporting pandas to Scotland and expecting them to mate in front of everyone watching is to nature - theoretically sweet, but in reality, hideously disgusting and just plain wrong. Yet for some reason, I still love it. I'm ashamed of myself.

Blind Date

A few weeks ago, I was approached by one of my colleagues at The Waterfront, asked if I could help her out by going on a blind date. Normally, I would never, ever consider doing such a thing. I'm socially awkward at the best of times, and strangers bring me out in a rash, but this time, I had a feeling in my waters that this could go well. So, reader, I did it, and here is the finished piece from the glorious vessel of journalistic greatness that is The Waterfront.

When Catrin met Matt

Catrin Lewis, a 21-year-old Social Policy student and Matt Edwards, a 22-year-old English Literature student, meet for the Waterfront blind date.

Catrin on Matt

What were your first impressions?
When I fisrt met Matt, my first thought was how I wished blind date was a literal term, as a lack of vision would have made being in this man's general vicinity bearable. I was vaguely impressed by his choice of extra hot sauce, though, just because I could use it as a reason as to why I wouldn't be going anywhere near him.

Any striking conversation points?
I was absolutely fascinated by his love of dystopian novels and feminist literature, as well as his devotion to separating the recycling in his house perfectly, every single week. Did you know that Swansea council aren't supposed to take 'tetrapak', but they will if you hide it at the bottom of the bag? Yeah, me neither, but I do now. Great.

Any awkward moments or silences?
I cannot tell you how much happiness I took from the silence that ensued when he went to the toilet; probably to throw up from over indulging in too much extra-hot sauce, or just to cry. Either way, I wish he'd stayed in there a little longer so that I could have escaped like I wanted. He also said how much he loves Big Bang Thory. At that point, I could have easily rested my knife in his eyeball.

If you were to have babies, what would you want your baby to inherit?
What wouldn't I want our baby to inherit? The hat that was permanently glued to his head? The girlish hands? Or maybe the receding hairline that is simply remarkable in a 22 year old. He did have nice eyelashes though.


Any potential for a kiss?
I'm still scrubbing as we speak after our post-Sin City coitus. I'm sure we kissed somewhere along the way, but all I remember is waing up to him calling his mother to tell her he'd finally done it, in a dirty bedroom with a sense of shame and a hangover that can only have been induced by Sambuca.


Would you like to meet again?
Let's just say that I'm rather looking forward to the fact that he'll soon be leaving Swansea, meaning I can finally take off this head scarf and ridiculous pair of glasses.



Matt on Catrin


What were your first impressions?
We met outside Nandos. At first I thought Catrin was looking at me with a hungering lust, but I quickly realised that I was in the way of the door and she wanted chicken. She only had lemon and herb. What's the point of that? That's like going to the graduation ball and deciding 'Actually, I'm just going to stick this panda onesie on and ask people to enter my Love Tunnel.' Poor effort.

Any striking conversation points?
We discovered that true heroes have the highest spice in Nandos. We went to Sin City and we played the fun game of 'Whose Boobs Could Kill The Most Men?' with points given to size and how ill-fitting the dress was.


Any awkward moments or silences?
She said that she dislikes Big Bang Theory. She should've just said that she was Nick Griffin with a big of a paedo side, and I would've been more relieved. I swear to God if I hear her Nessa impression one more time, I may have to jump into a pit of razors.


If you were to have babies what would you want your baby to inherit?
Opposable thumbs, an even number of digits and preferably no webbed feet. I'd like two eyes, hair, ears, and maybe some arms and legs. A superpower or two wouldn't go amiss, but I do not think Catrin has been bitten by any manner of radioactive animal lately (I am not totally sure on this, so don't take my word for it, potential suitors).


Any potential for a kiss?
Waterfront, it's quite bold of you to ask me when this is a profile about how my date went with Catrin! I like it. I like it a lot.


Would you like to meet again?
Put it like this: if she had turned into a zombie at Nandos, I really wouldn't have wasted much time.


Matt is an Editor at the blog Huttstuff, which can be found at huttstuff.net