JOAN COLLINS
America's South West Airlines are now insisting that their seriously overweight passengers must pay the price of two tickets when they fly, for which they will be entitled to sit on both seats. I believe all will benefit from this stance. On a recent flight from LA to NY, I was installed beside a lady of — to be kind — gargantuan proportions. Parts of her avoirdupois oozed on to my seat as I scrunched closer to the window in a desperate effort to avoid contact with her flesh, inappropriately clad in purple Lycra bicycle shorts and a sleeveless top. When the flight attendant inquired if we wanted a hot breakfast, I said yes, but my companion growled, 'No, thank you,' vehemently recoiling as if she had been offered a bowlful of asps. I devoured my scrambled eggs, croissants and jam (not bad for earlymorning plane food) as my next-door neighbour sniffed disdainfully while delicately quaffing bottled water from a sort of baby's dummy, and, as she glanced at my repast, occasionally emitted a tiny sigh — whether of disapproval or hunger, I couldn't tell. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like anything, ma'am?' the FA inquired solicitously. 'I never eat breakfast,' barked my seatmate. 'Never.' I stuffed my croissant into my mouth and looked away guiltily.
AKennedy Airport, after a stop off at the powder-room en route to baggage collection, I passed a coffee and doughnut shop, and there was my fat friend sitting at a table with a double-chocolate malt and a cardboard box containing four doughnuts in assorted colours, which she was wolfing down as if it were her last supper. To me, this sums up the tragedy that obesity now affects over 40 per cent of Americans, and Britons are not far behind. In a country where lighting a cigarette is tantamount to setting fire to the Oval Office, overeating is acceptable, snacking a hobby — nay, an art form — and fast-food joints and hot-dog stands proliferate on practically every corner of all the major cities. In spite of the angry denials from Naafa (National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance — yes, it exists), being overweight is a serious burden to the individual, and in this country the NHS is spending millions each year to combat health problems associated with obesity, such as heart disease, emphysema and diabetes, which are just some of the scientifically proven effects of excessive weight. Stamped on every cigarette packet is the Surgeon General's warning to the effect that 'Smoking seriously damages your health' — should that not be stamped on certain fatpromoting foods? The tip of the iceberg was revealed last week when a 56-year-old, 20stone New Yorker filed suit against McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Burger
King, blaming them for his illnesses and two heart attacks. How long before thousands of other fatties follow his example? If they do, the courts will be as clogged as their arteries.
Weddings are often amusing, but traditional Jewish weddings are often more amusing thanmost. I attended one in a grand hotel in Las Vegas where everyone at the reception was having a grand old time dancing the hora and belting out 'Havana Gila-. Then, with gleeful abandon, the happy young couple was hoisted on to two chairs, lifted high into the air and whirled dervishly around by the chanting revellers. Then there was a shriek and, to everyone's horror, the bride toppled head first on to the floor, fortunately snapping nothing except her tiara. Then it was her parent's turn to be summarily honoured. Up in the chair went the blushing mother of the bride, soon turning green with nausea, as if she'd just heard Gordon Brown's Budget proposals. 'Let me down!' she bleated. 'Don't you dare drop me!' But her pleas were in vain as the chanting guests threw her even higher until she, too, plummeted to the floor and limped crossly away. The festivities continued until it was time for the bouquet to be thrown. Ten giggling bridesmaids and a bevy of the bride's girlfriends formed a tight posse on the dance floor, jockeying for best receiving position. The bride turned her back to the girls and with her well-toned arm hurled the flowers into the girly throng
with a mighty heave. The bride's father, a benevolent mixture of Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin, sat at his ringside table behind the girls, beaming proudly. The bouquet sailed over the girls' heads and, with the effortless ease of a baseball pro, the father of the bride found himself clutching the bridal bouquet bemusedly as the crowd cheered in some surprise.
The St Tropez silly season is in full swing. Massive gin palaces pull into the tiny port with their cargoes of hundreds of social mountaineers in full OTT gear, not to mention a liberal smattering of Eastern European hookers and a large dose of Eurotrash. There are parties galore packed with people you spend all year avoiding, but, for my sins, I attended one last week. We arrived early to avoid the crush of queuing cars, in which we'd been stuck for over an hour the previous year, and were greeted by the security mafia, a phalanx of six stone-faced girls who wouldn't have looked out of place at the gates of Alcatraz. 'Carte d'identite,' a moustachioed virago demanded of me. I looked puzzled, as she was holding my invitation with my and my guests' names clearly printed on it. An altercation ensued between us and the guards, observed inside the gates with some amusement by the local photographer, who threw me sympathetic Gallic shrugs and rolled his eyes at the obdurate guards. He eventually came to vouch that we would check all heavy artillery at the door, and we were ushered into Eurotrash heaven, as a despairing line formed behind us, none of whom probably possessed an identity card. But the setting was beautiful and we took a table at the balcony to survey the scene from afar. On each table were two bottles of warm wine, marked in clear block letters on white labels. One read 'Chardonnay' and the other was similarly emblazoned `Syrah' — no other identifying marks were to be found. They tasted so suspiciously of paint-stripper that we all quickly switched to vodka. After admiring various quaint costumes, and being told that Mary J. Bilge or Puff Daddy' would be arriving soon, we watched the superb firework display, danced a bit and legged it. The cult of celebrity reigns supreme in this neck of the woods, and the 'paps' lie in wait everywhere, hidden like crocs at the riverbank. I made the mistake of taking a dip in the murky waters of the Med the other week and in a trice I was `papped' as snappers appeared, popping out of the sand like prairie dogs. 'Mat cu/pa,' I sighed resignedly when some less than flattering pictures of myself, accompanied by fairly rude captions, appeared in several Sunday tabs. Ah well, I'm off to slave in the TV saltmines of Manhattan now, where at least if I get papped I'll have my clothes on.
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