Thursday, April 09, 2009
Christina Patterson, presumably desperate to fill out her column for a week, launches a vile and unprovoked attack on NHS nurses for their all being huge overweight trolls in the Indy.
I'm sitting reading a book when a gargantuan creature comes lumbering over, and marches me to what might or might not be a scaffold. After a few adjustments... the creature nods.
The creature is, of course, a nurse and yes, my BMI is OK. Hers, however, is not. But we are not here to measure her BMI...
Other normal-sized friends have been told by giant doctors that they are fat... Because it is surreal, I'm afraid, to be lectured on your weight by someone whose mass of accumulated adipose tissue is considerably greater than yours.
No one expects nurses to look like supermodels, or lap dancers, or air hostesses, or even like anything that might ever have inspired an erotic fantasy... but you don't expect them all to look like Hattie Jacques either. And at least Hattie Jacques knew how to smile. You might, however, reasonably expect the custodians of the nation's health not to look as though they were about to consume the GDP of Iceland in medication for diabetes, and you might expect the custodians of the nation's health to at least have glanced at some of the leaflets on obesity they so lugubriously hand out.
Between this, their hysterical about-face on the legalisation of Cannabis and their continued employment of Deborah 'immigrant homosexuals follow me around to have gay sex in front of my children' Orr it does seem this once great paper is now slowly trying to position itself as the broadsheet Daily Mail.
I'm sitting reading a book when a gargantuan creature comes lumbering over, and marches me to what might or might not be a scaffold. After a few adjustments... the creature nods.
The creature is, of course, a nurse and yes, my BMI is OK. Hers, however, is not. But we are not here to measure her BMI...
Other normal-sized friends have been told by giant doctors that they are fat... Because it is surreal, I'm afraid, to be lectured on your weight by someone whose mass of accumulated adipose tissue is considerably greater than yours.
No one expects nurses to look like supermodels, or lap dancers, or air hostesses, or even like anything that might ever have inspired an erotic fantasy... but you don't expect them all to look like Hattie Jacques either. And at least Hattie Jacques knew how to smile. You might, however, reasonably expect the custodians of the nation's health not to look as though they were about to consume the GDP of Iceland in medication for diabetes, and you might expect the custodians of the nation's health to at least have glanced at some of the leaflets on obesity they so lugubriously hand out.
Between this, their hysterical about-face on the legalisation of Cannabis and their continued employment of Deborah 'immigrant homosexuals follow me around to have gay sex in front of my children' Orr it does seem this once great paper is now slowly trying to position itself as the broadsheet Daily Mail.
Labels: fat, fatism, journalists, NHS, The Independent
