Kept awake by goats...

As I lay awake in my yurt in the foothills of Turkmenistan's Kopet Dag mountains, dangerously close to the Iranian border and, therefore, within range of Trump’s and Netanyahu's missiles which might at any moment rain down upon me accidentally if the ceasefire doesn't hold, I can hear the gentle sound of bells tinkling quietly and likely coming from a herd of goats either passing through or simply milling around a few yards away. It's early evening, the sun has yet to go down and the noise, if you can call it that, has the desired soporific effect. At some stage I fall asleep and when I find myself awake an hour or two later, the bells are still there but now they are becoming irksome and I wish they would stop. I am lying on my back staring up at the conical roof of my albeit temporary home, but when I turn my head to the right and notice police siren blue lights I remember that I am only yards away from PNC Park, the Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium in, yes, you guessed it, Pittsburgh PA. I am lying in bed, room 412, of the Residence Inn by Marriott.

All week I have enjoyed the delicious sleepiness brought about by jet lag which has seen me in bed by nine o'clock every night, waking briefly, perhaps, in the early hours, but then eventually drifting off and regaining consciousness at a decent hour; but not tonight. The bells are non-existent and so are the goats and while Pittsburgh isn't London and the sound of traffic is not the issue as the streets of this city are empty, I know for a fact that as the flight-induced sleepiness of the past few days has gently lessened, the reason I am restless and awake has plenty to do with sugary drinks, greasy fries and oversized portions which I have been subjected to, a far cry from a delicate mushroom risotto or a dainty plate of Indian dahl and rice, my usual midweek cuisine.

Where the bells were coming from, I didn't know until I started an investigation which led me to the hotel room's bathroom; it might have been dripping water or something to do with the pipes, that I don't know, and if I'm honest I have gotten rather used to it: there's nothing better than a subtle distraction to send me off to the Land of Nod.

All week I have succumbed to everything the doctor says is bad: the fries, the fatty burgers, the sugary drinks, the oversized portions, and today was arguably the breaking point. As always, it starts with breakfast (on disposable plates, not exactly showing off the Marriott brand in a good light). Pork patties, scrambled egg, custardy pastries and a nod towards healthy eating, a banana.

At lunchtime in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square, a place where I thought I would be safe, the portion sizes were ridiculous. My lunch companion ordered the calamari as a starter and I'm kidding you not, he was presented with a plate piled at least 10 inches high. Klaus looked at the waitress flabbergasted as if she must be mad. My polpette arrived next and there were easily 10 meatballs when five would have sufficed, it was a starter for heaven's sake! I made matters worse by ordering a sugary soda (as they call fizzy drinks in the USA) and then another when, to be honest, the bottle of Pellegrino would have been enough, but I enjoyed the former a few nights ago and decided to relive the experience. When the main courses arrived, both were extra-large portions and once again, my friend came off worse. I can't remember exactly what we ordered, but both dishes were chicken-based and mine had an unpleasant vinegary after taste. We left roughly half of what was on our plates.

I have visited Pittsburgh half a dozen times over the past 10 years and what I can say is that, on a good day, it's a great place if you like walking. This week, I have notched up a daily tally of between 15,000 and 20,000 steps and I'm sure that, combined with the jet lag, those steps have been a contributory factor to my aforementioned delicious sleepiness.

The strain was beginning to show yesterday when I ordered, foolishly, a burger and chips from an upmarket Pittsburgh restaurant, Eleven. I should have known better having spent most lunchtimes in Bill's, a lairy sports bar inside the Westin Hotel, but then I did order from Eleven's Tavern menu, no doubt reserved exclusively for the proletariat. I can't even mention or think about Bill's without grimacing as every day I've had a burger and fries of some description. Every day! And bear in mind that back home I NEVER eat burgers and I avoid fries like the plague and as my week here has progressed I added insult to injury by consuming something else that I NEVER touch back in the UK: fizzy drinks! So now, as my week in Pittsburgh draws to a close (and don't get me wrong, I love Pittsburgh) I find myself in bed wishing I was in a yurt listening to the goats in the foothills of the Kopet Dag mountains as they gently induce much-needed sleep, but I'm brought down to earth with a bang when I realise there are no goats, I'm not in Turkmenistan and the reason I'm totally wired is the cappuccino, the two large English breakfast teas from Starbucks in the Strip region of the city and, dare I even mention it, a fried chicken sandwich and a sickly bottle of root beer made with cane sugar.

It's 1240hrs and I should be in bed, but, feeling wide awake, I decided to get up and pen this article in the hope that, by now, the effects of my food intake today might have subsided and that I could now head back to the Kopet Dag mountains and get some sleep.

 

Pandering to the needs of fat people

Back in the day, when I went to school, fat people were, if you like, a rarity. You didn't see that many on the streets; and at school, well, everyone knew a 'fatty' and had fond, early memories of the phenomenon now affectionately known as 'moobs', or 'man boobs'. I remember 'our' fatty during games lessons running around self-consciously in a string vest with his arms folded, but he was a nice guy and nobody went further than calling him 'fatty' or 'fatso'.

"Thank the Lord for plus-sizes! Make that two doughnuts, Fred."

Today, of course, the number of fat people is expanding at a rate of knots and this morning I read that a quarter of UK women are now size 18 or larger – and that's big! I always thought that bingo wings were reserved for aunties and school dinner ladies, but obviously not; nowadays, they're everywhere. Who knows, perhaps one day fat people will be able to fly!

During the week I was on a train travelling from Preston through to Leeds. It's a lovely, scenic route going through some amazing parts of Yorkshire, like Hebden Bridge, but one thing that will stick in my memory more than the rolling hills of the Pennines and the quaint houses nestled in the valleys around Halifax and Sowerby Bridge, was a huge woman, not a very old woman I hasten to add, but she was huge, massive, enormous. She had the proportions of a nuclear power station and had somehow managed to stuff herself into the seat by the window, leaving little in the way of room for a petite young woman who was perched precariously on the edge of her aisle seat.

Being a chauvinist, I felt sorry for the husband, although he did have tattoos. I imagined he had a rough time in bed, not in the sexual sense, but just grabbing his share of the duvet and mattress. Perhaps he sleeps on the sofa, who knows, although I figured it would be easy to mistake his wife for a sofa. If she covered herself in a flowery printed material and sat very still, perhaps with a prop, like a standard lamp, next to her, I began to wonder how many people would unwittingly take a seat?

As I sat there, a carriage full of young toddlers who must have collectively soiled their nappies because the train reeked of shit and everybody sat there with sour expressions on their faces, I had the urge to lean over and whisper, "Excuse me, listen, I don't know you, but please, for your own sake, stop eating cakes or whatever it is that is making you the size of a dust cart," but I reckon the guy with the tattoo would probably have leaned over and whacked me so I said owt (as they say in the Pennines).

When she got off the train, I realised that I was not travelling on one of those tilting 'Pendolino' trains after all and that the woman in question had been putting all our lives at risk by not standing in the centre of the carriage to even out the weight. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but you get the picture.

So, over a quarter of UK women are a size 18, thanks to doughnuts, burgers and a sedentary lifestyle and you know what really gets me about fat women? They never consider exercise as an option; it's always Weightwatchers and going on a diet when a decent cycle round the block every morning would be a tremendous help to lessen their bulging frames.

Market research company Mintel is behind the staggering fact that over a quarter of UK women are absolutely huge and they estimate that the women's 'plus size' market has grown (like the women themselves) by 45 per cent and is now worth £3.8 billion – that's £200 million less than the UK's pub grub market, but catching up fast!

A quarter of adults in the UK are now classed as 'obese' and that is broken down as follows: 66 per cent of men and 57 per cent of women – and all they have to do to rectify the problem is eat less and exercise more. But no, they would rather adhere to the view that obesity is a disease or that they are in some way genetically predisposed to resembling the stock of a DFS store or, indeed, the warehouse itself.

In 1993, claims Mintel, the proportion of adult men classed as 'obese' was 13 per cent. In 2008 that figure had almost doubled to 24 per cent. For women, the figure was 16 per cent to 25 per cent.

Now we all know what a burden these people, with their self-inflicted condition, put on the NHS, but what amazes me is the way society makes way for them. Wouldn't it be better if clothing manufacturers simply refused to make plus sizes? I don't know about you, but if ever I nip out to buy a pair of trousers and discover I need a higher waist size than before, I refuse to admit defeat and instead buy my normal size and then make every effort possible to lose the additional weight. Buying that bigger size is an admission of failure and I'm only talking a rise from a 32in waist to 34in.

According to Mintel's senior fashion analyst, Tamara Sender, 'plus-size consumers' (she means fat people) are looking for more fashionable plus-size garments. Fed up with looking like Sizewell B, they're expecting clothing manufacturers to do their level best to disguise their fatness and make them look a little bit more acceptable on the streets of Britain. "Please, hide my bingo wings!"

Fair enough, you might think, but again it reeks of accepting their obesity and doing nothing to rectify the matter. "Make that two doughnuts, Fred."

Mintel's Sender urges the clothing industry to no longer look upon fat people as 'niche' or a 'minority', and 'wake up to the growth potential of this market'. Well, she's right about the 'growth potential' as these people are expanding faster than one of those emergency inflatable rafts you see in nautical disaster movies.

A far better solution, I think, would be for clothing manufacturers to make a stand and say: "Enough is enough! We're clothing manufacturers, we don't make marquees, we're not in the intermediate bulk container market, let fat people stay indoors until they're thin enough to come out and buy normal-sized clothes."

But no, if there's a market, there's money and who cares if people simply eat themselves into an early grave if there's profit to be made. Nope, clothing manufacturers are rubbing their hands together with glee while exclaiming, 'Let them eat cake!'