“It’s the end of the party, the booze is all finished, almost everyone has gone home, and the rest are too drunk to make conversation. You decide to call it a night and, bidding your host farewell, you step over a pool of vomit and make your way out of the flat, heading for the stairs. It’s then that you hear her. The fat girl half way down the stairs, sobbing her fat little eyes out. You know the one – she’s always there, at the end of every party you’ve ever been to.

One of her friends is drying her eyes with the edge of her Top Shop dress, and asking – more out of desperation than pity – what’s wrong. And the girl is trying, through the tears, to explain. Perhaps one of her other friends said something nasty, or maybe some bastard poured red wine on her. But in truth, the fat, drunk girl at the end of every party you’ve ever been to has no idea why she’s crying. They never do. This week, dear reader, that fat, drunk girl is The Associated Press…”

This week’s column is online.