Beliiiiieve .....

I sit and watch Richard Dawkins comprehensively debunk religion. Now, I don't want to offend vast tranches of my massive readership *inserts tongue firmly in cheek*, but it strikes me that he makes a powerful case for not believing everything you are told just because you are told it by an Authority. Faith is the belief in anything you can't prove to exist. Bear with me on this, it will become important later.

While sitting there, I have a sudden, immediate urge to gag. I can't breathe. I'm going to barf on the sofa cushion. The most noxious odour has spread across the room and crept up on me. If it had a colour, it would be pale greeny-brown. Texture? Watery slime. With lumpy bits in. Quickly, before the metaphors become too graphic, I pull the front of my O'Neill hoodie (yes it is new, thanks for asking, only twenty quid instead of fifty in the sale) over my nose and stare at the only possible culprit. She looks at me with her big brown eyes in a 'who, me?' manner. And wags her tail. It appears that the long-established playground law of Only Your Own Smell Good applies to dogs as well. I'm definitely locking her in the kitchen tonight.

Mind you, oftentimes I could give her a run for her money. I can fart for Britain, me. I have an, ah, slow digestion. I bloat, bluntly. My abdomen goes in and out like a ..... actually, I was going to put a rude sexual metaphor there, but it's too early in the morning. Fill in the blank for yourselves. This means I can blame Wind for the size of my stomach, justifiably citing the fact that it will be half the size in the morning.

Trouble is, that even at half the size, it's still too big. The LOML and I see a thing on the news that most people in the this country are in denial about their body size. I pontificate that I am Overweight but not Obese. So then nothing will do but that we calculate our Body Mass Indices (plural; spelling). So .... my height squared is a tadge over 3, being on the short side of average, and my weight is hrmmhrmmhah, and carry the four and take off a bit for my shoes and ..... there's no getting over it, I am over 30 on the BMI scale. I can't get it down to less than 30.4. And any reading over 30 is Obese. (The LOML, by the way, cruises in at 27).

Bollocks. I am NOT obese. I Will Not Have This. I play rugby nearly every week (and I'm not one of those super fat waddly boys who still abound in amateur rugby - I play back row and you have to be the Duracell bunny to play there). I ski (and indeed, am doing so next week, hurrah). So, in true Richard Dawkins manner, I decide not to believe everything I am told by Authority and find some Evidence. And I find out in short order that, and talking of rugby, Lawrence Dallaglio and Jonah Lomu both have a BMI higher than mine. It was in the paper last week but I can't find the link now, sorry. Something to do with army admission criteria being extended up to a BMI of 32 for just this reason.

It becomes clear. BMI is calculated by taking your height and then suggesting what weight you should be. There is a gross assumption here - that any extra weight you have over the average consists of fat. Hah. I am a stocky sort of chap - I have broad shoulders and a big chest. I can run (slowly, but proper running) for well over an hour without stopping even a little bit. I know this because I did so on Sunday. Obese people could not do this. I can therefore state with some conviction that I am Not Obese, just a bit muscly. I will be the first to admit that I am overweight, I do have love handles (what are valley girls calling that now? Oh yes, 'muffin-top') and a bit of a tummy. But I do not have man-boobs, or happy knees (you know: how fat people's knees look like they are smiling?). I am not obese.

So, having tenuously but successfully linked last evening's three most pressing subjects: the dog farting, Richard Dawkins debunking religion, and my BMI, I reach for another biscuit.