Are fat people’s faeces bigger than thin people’s faeces? This was the quandary that Bob and I mulled over in the pub last night, in between discussing the outcome of my court case and the feasibility of submitting a screenplay to Universal Pictures in which the protagonist, a serial-killing rapist, revisits his victims to finish off what he has started. Fuck first, fell later. The script may well be a non-starter, as are my chances of avoiding jail next month, but shit size is undoubtedly a winner. If you don’t believe me, try broaching the topic the next time you’re at a social gathering, be it a post-work piss-up, a stag night or Aunt Maggie’s 50th birthday party. Within minutes, sphincter size, feculence frequency and plop rate will be analysed in such ass-numbing detail, you’ll feel obliged to go to the bathroom and twist one off yourself, just to stretch your legs. The conclusion that Bob and I reached, or rather would have reached had Stella and serial-rapists not clouded our collective mind, was this: Fat people eat more than thin people, and should therefore have more shit to shovel out. Conversely, however, fat people put on more weight than thin people, presumably because only half of their super sized meal gets turned into colonic peanut-butter - the rest goes straight to their hips, whose need for calories is even greater than that of their not-so-small intestine. If it’s true that you are what you eat, then by extension, you aren’t what you excrete. So, for instance, I may be many things but I am not a piece of sweet corn. Neither am I a peanut. And I am certainly not a blood-encrusted stool. I may write shit, talk shit and shit shit, but that doesn’t make me a piece of shit. In fact quite the opposite. I’m thin, I have a good metabolism and my bowel movements are regular, well-proportioned and of a good consistency. And if that tag doesn’t win me a shit-load of female admirers then I may as well give up now and start eating and excreting for Scotland. Literary diarrhea? I’m full of it.