I must say that when I saw that Malta had placed second in the worldwide child obesity stakes, I wasn’t all that thrilled. I thought to myself: “Second? Can’t we place first in anything?”

OK, I’ll agree second is pretty good, but to come second to... the Greeks! Ridiculous! I mean, I thought they were all skint; where do they get the money to feed their population up to gold medal standard?

For heaven’s sake! I didn’t cram my 10-year-old Justin full of Twistees, timpana and tiramissu for him to come second! We are a very competitive family... as well as a very fat one, and we don’t take kindly to being upstaged by Greeks!

Between you and me, I think it’s a fix. I personally believe that all those obese Greeks are that way because they are full of air... not food. Blown up like barrage balloons. I say put them on the scales and then put some Maltese on. I know who’d weigh the most, and it wouldn’t be the impecunious mousaka munchers.

Just the other day, my heart swelled to bursting point with pride in my bulbous, bouncing, bundle of blubber, when my wife reported a remark made by one of the other mothers when picking my son up from the summer-school minibus.

I didn’t cram my 10-year-old Justin full of Twistees, timpana and tiramissu for him to come in second!

This lady apparently observed that my son, my Justin, was an absolute dead ringer for the Michelin man. What about that, eh? My missis told Justin to say thank you to the kind lady, but unfortunately he was unable to do so since he was filling his face with pastizzi at the time.

The Greeks are the fattest people on earth? No way! Listen! I have been pouring food into that child since the day he was born – and I didn’t do all that, just to see our islands come in as poor runners-up in the corpulence stakes.

We are Maltese right? And as a race we are short – and if you don’t like the word fat – stocky – and extremely well-fleshed. I myself am five-foot, seven inches tall and five-foot, six inches wide – and my wife is similarly proportioned. So I reckon we are in the box seats when it comes to begetting equally bonny brats.

And that has been the pattern down the generations. Sadly my own parents... both of extremely ample proportions... have departed for that great fast-food outlet in the sky. But my mother-in-law is still around to decimate our pasta and potato stocks at home.

And can that woman eat! You should see her demolish a whole dish of lasagne in less time than it takes me to type the fact. She is living proof that grossness and gluttony are hereditary. As I keep telling my son: “Nanna should be a source of inspiration to us all.”

And as I type, I can see him waddling towards me, thighs slapping together like an applauding sea lion. That’s it lad, sit down, get your breath back. You must have covered, ooh... 12 metres there... unaided. No, no stay put a minute, no need to rush. We’ll soon continue our journey to Burger Queen. Here you are, here’s a jumbo-sized packet of ‘krips’ to tide you over till we get there. And yes, of course you can have your usual order of four monster burgers... each with treble fries... and coke.

Just between us, the boy... my Justin has set his heart on aspiring to be just like Tony Zarb. He’s not there yet, he’s only managed to acquire nine chins, and his stomach doesn’t quite reach down to his kneecaps, but it’s just a matter of time... and calories.

No, whatever those English researchers say, we are the champions of chubby, the aces of adipose, the pinnacle of portly, the kings of corpulence.

So let’s hear no more of all that false Greek superiority, let’s hear it for Maltese body-mass. And if they persist in their spurious claims... then I, yes, I personally will demand a re-weigh.