It is rare these days that I get so incensed that I stop what I am doing and start bashing out a blog post. Ferociously bashing away at the keys, raging inside so much that the words spill out onto the screen and I hit publish the instant it is finished. But here we are again Giles Coren. Here we are again. I was pissed at you a while ago when you were on your high horse about "tattooed fatties in Plymouth" and now here we are again.
This time you have written in Esquire about, well, here is the headline: "I don't care what my son becomes, as long as he is isn't overweight".
This is the opening paragraph under the photograph of you playing with your son, in your kitchen. And so no, I am not for one second thinking "fat little bastard" when I look at this picture, I am thinking that bloke on the right is a collossal tw*t quite frankly, and that I need to buy some washing up liquid having seen that bottle on your sink. Not for one second did I think your son looked fat. And I bet nobody else has either, because no sane person would.
Now. Can we move on to the next sentence for one minute? Have you really just said that out loud? That your son looks "... a bit retarded because his mum took him for a haircut...". Have you? What exactly does that mean? Actually don't explain it Giles. There is no explanation.
It is one of the most disgusting things I have read this year, and I follow Donald Trump on Twitter.
Well as you might have gathered by now Giles, I am one of those for whom puppy fat was not a passing phase. I am large of arse. "Ample bosomed". "Big boned". "Bubbly". Call it what you like, but I believe in calling a spade a spade and yep, I am fat. And do you know what, whilst I am sure my parents worry about my overall health and would rather I was thinner it isnt their fault that I am this way. They didnt take "their eye off the ball", I left home at 18. This physique is down to me. And cakes. And biscuits. And the packet of Hula Hoops I just consumed.
But as somebody who has gone through a divorce, worked abroad, married again, raised three awesome kids, got a great circle of friends, run a company, realised a dream this week, raised money for charity, lives in a decent house in the south east, I would class myself as midly successful. My parents are, I think, pretty proud of me.
I, therefore, think it is doubtful anybody has ever grabbed a tuba and wanted to play Flight of the Valkries in my direction.
Though I can give you a few ideas for what I would like to do with that tuba if I ever see you on the street, Giles.
This next paragraph is beyond words quite frankly.
Would you, Giles? I was not badly brought up. I can assure you.
in that last sentence you would actually suggest rounding up fat people and burning them for candles would you? Remind you of anybody from history?
I can't even go there. I can't believe you have either
I can safely say in all my times in hospital, having children, visiting A&E with them, seeing sick relatives and friends I have never once broken a piece of furniture. Nor have I have ever sat on someone and killed them. Ever.
What "...uses for a fat woman" are there Giles? Really, I would like to know what that means.
That sentence is all kinds of sinister to be honest, especially in the current climate of sexual abuse allegations coming to light.
So in this paragraph you call your wife a lazy tart.
That's nice.
And yet you then go on to say this:
So who is the lazy one?
Oh that would be you then presumably?
Giles your surname used to be associated with extraordinary journalism. Your dad was a legend. Your sister is lovely.
You though? You are vile. I am sorry but you are. You are writing articles that are simply clickbait, which is fine if the magazines commissioning you are happy to be involved in that. But this time you have gone too far.
And right now I am glad I am fat, and not a Coren.
all pictures are screenshots of Giles Coren's article, which can be found here
This blog originally appeared on Tanya's blog, Mummy Barrow, which can be found here.