Giles Coren on fa­thers (him) and sons (Sam, aged four). This month: another weighty co­nun­drum

Esquire (UK) - - Contents -

In his lat­est dis­patch from the sharp end of fa­ther­hood, he pon­ders a weighty new ques­tion

I know what you’re think­ing. You’re look­ing at that pic­ture of my son and you’re think­ing, “Fat lit­tle bas­tard”. Sure, he’s cute. He’s got a nice lit­tle face. He looks a bit re­tarded be­cause his mum took him for a hair­cut on the morn­ing of the photo shoot (com­pletely fail­ing to grasp the first rule of shoots which is, “never have a hair­cut closer than two weeks be­fore, or you’re go­ing to look like a chump”) but on the whole he is a good-look­ing boy.

Ex­cept he’s fat. Arse on him like Vanessa Feltz and a full frontal pre­sen­ta­tion at bath time that puts one in mind of a Gavin and Stacey-era James Cor­den or a well-waxed Christo­pher Big­gins, all gig­gly on too much rosé.

It’s all very well to say that it’s puppy fat. It’s all very well to pinch his cheeks and go, “Who’s a cheeky chubby-chops? Awww, wit­tle fatty boom-boom…” and nuz­zle your face in his tummy and blow rasp­ber­ries and feel how they rip­ple through him like a fart in the bath, but what if… IT DOESN’T GO AWAY?

You know what I’m say­ing? Adele’s par­ents prob­a­bly thought it was puppy fat too. And Paul Hol­ly­wood’s. And Rus­sell

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