My children deserve the best. That's why we breakfast at the Little Chef

I haven't been out all week as I'm worried that the villagers might think that I'm one of the obese people that the papers are all talking about.

I haven't been out all week as I'm worried that the villagers might think that I'm one of the obese people that the papers are all talking about. It's not that I think I am - it's just that kids can be so honest and my daughter Parker's morning greeting of "daddy, I love your boobies" got me thinking dark thoughts. I got worried about leaving the manor in case people might drive by and hurl fattist abuse at me. I lasted all week but finally had to go out this afternoon to get more food.

To my delight no one shouted anything remotely fattist. Granted, there were the usual mindless cries of "wanker" and "twat" tossed at me from speeding Land Rovers but nothing about my weight, which was nice. I think that maybe they are slowly taking me to their ample bosoms and making me drink from their milk of welcomeness ... or maybe not. More likely they were all watching Hell's Kitchen huddled over their TV dinners wondering why no one round here looks like any of the people that they see on the telly.

I think that I'm a lost cause to the dieting industry as I tend to be a bit of a trencherman, often enjoying up to 10 meals a day. Luckily I am a little bit more savvy when it comes to my kids. There's no way that I'm going to allow them to have their lives blighted by me feeding them the wrong foods or giving them expensive tastes for things like caviar and smoked salmon. I'm the one that takes on those particular burdens in my household, I'm selfless like that. I know people who cook organic meals for their kids and don't allow them even to enter food shops in case they take a fancy to a pack of chocolate digestives. That's not my game, oh no.

My intention has always been to be like Paul McCartney. Not in the annoying way that he keeps on insisting on playing music and raising a cheesy thumbs up every time he sees a camera. No, I like the way that he sent his kids to a state school and didn't give them any money and then made his friends employ them. That's how I want my kids to grow up: minimum input from me. My worldwide success is not going to ruin them and I'm certainly not going to spend any money on them. They'll be happier that way.

When it comes to food I train them to be normal and not faddy like Apple Martin. Breakfast in our house consists of a quick car ride to the Little Chef on the A40. I've never actually met the diminutive culinary wizard behind this legendary hash house but the fried bread is worthy of a Michelin star all on its own. I reckon if the midget cook got his act together he could kick Gordon Ramsay's pockmarked arse out of London. The idea of not really having a menu but just showing pictures of the food is genius. Who needs readers with that system?

The kids munch on packets of crisps and cans of fizzy delight to tide them through the morning at school. Come lunchtime it's straight down to McDonald's in Cirencester. We love it there. The atmosphere is unbeatable and we gorge on double cheeseburgers and fries and chicken nuggets and big, enormous, cinema-sized containers of fizzy delight all washed down by double helpings of weird pudding.

Nobody, not Paul McCartney nor Apple Martin, is going to tell me how to bring my kids up. They are happy and have plenty to eat and sleep a lot in front of the TV. So what? What's wrong with that? What's so great about books anyway? Who the hell invented salad? Someone trying to break into the rabbit catering industry? Sorry, I'm getting really upset but it's just that it makes me mad the way everyone is so obsessed with obesity. Didn't I pay a fortune to Bob Geldof to sort out people abroad getting hungry and getting them stuff to eat? Suddenly I'm supposed to stop eating and turn into Paris Hilton and look like a whippet so that Africa can have some big concert with Johnny Clegg and Youssou N'Dour sending me over bags of rice? I don't think so buddy. Not me, not here, not my family. We're fine thank you very much. Got to go now, I'm hungry.