Johann Hari in The Independent:
There are moments in life when you feel the universe is telling you – as politely as possible – that you have become a Fat Bastard. For me, the most crucial of those celestial hints came on 23 December last year.
I was jabbering on my phone and hurried into my local KFC to inhale a mixture of lard, salts and chicken corpse when one of the staff exclaimed: “Johann! We have something for you!” And from below the counter, he pulled out a large Christmas card, signed by everybody who worked there. “You are our best customer!” he exclaimed, and – in unison – the staff applauded me. I half-expected Colonel Sanders himself to descend from the back room and smother me with his secret blend of herbs and spices.
This was not an isolated incident. Shortly before, I was watching television late at night, ambling through the channels pointlessly, when I burst out laughing. I had stumbled across a person who looked like a really fat version of me. Chuckling, I texted a friend of mine who is also usually awake at 3am – and then suddenly it hit me. It was a repeat of a programme I had recorded a week before. It was no lookalike. It was me.
Oh, and when I interviewed the Dalai Lama, even he called me fat. When a man revered as an infinitely forgiving living deity calls you a munter, you take the hint.