If we’re all hooked on Ozempic, why has Britain never been fatter?

Despite 2.5 million Brits using ‘skinny pens’ to manage their weight, the number of people classified as obese is set to rise by almost 60 per cent – something doesn't add up, says Charlotte Cripps

Britain’s appetite for weight-loss jabs is insatiable. According to a recent report, around 2.5 million people are now using Ozempic-style drugs, a sevenfold increase on the previous year.

That means one in 20 adults in the UK is now using injectables to better manage their weight. Sales also spiked over the summer, amid a stockpiling frenzy, when it was announced that the cost of Mounjaro would almost triple – with the highest dose rising from £122 to £330 a month, an increase of 170 per cent.

While the availability of “fat jabs” on the NHS is still limited – despite health secretary Wes Streeting declaring them a “game-changer” for public health – I can see the appeal. I’ve tried it myself, losing two-and-a-half stone in no time at all. As well as finally being rid of the baby weight I’d carried around for years after my two pregnancies, it helped bring my cholesterol levels into normal range.

I took it weekly. I kept it at low doses. I often overrode it with comfort eating. Then I micro-dosed it, spacing doses out – maybe taking it every two, or three weeks. I stopped it. I started it. I stopped it again. I took it in secret. I hid it. I shared it. Eventually, I gave it up.

We are so desperate to be thin – just like Victoria Beckham, who revealed in her Netflix documentary that she’s battled an eating disorder all her life. Now, it seems as if we will go to any lengths to get our hands on these drugs – crack cocaine with health benefits.

And that is precisely why I stopped, because unless you treat the psychological reasons for overeating, when you put the pen down, relapse is almost inevitable.

As a nation, we are now trapped in an endless cycle of injecting ourselves in the stomach while nobody is looking, just to shut out food noise. On the runways, “heroin chic” is back in fashion, reversing years of body positivity. There was little sign of plus-size models at last week’s Victoria’s Secret show, where once they were centre stage.

But if we’re hooked on fat jabs, why have we also never been fatter?

New research this week revealed that millions of Britons with a body mass index (BMI) under 30 – people who have been told they are in the “healthy” zone, or just a little bit overweight – could, in fact, be obese. Changes to the BMI index mean the number of us classified as obese will rise by almost 60 per cent.

According to scientists, the way we have been working it out is not “nuanced” enough – and it needs a total overhaul. At present, a BMI between 18.5 and 25 is healthy, 25 to 29 is overweight, and 30 or above counts as obese.

The new approach means that those with a BMI below 30 plus with two raised “measures” – which include an increased waist circumference, or waist-to-height ratio – will be classified as clinically obese.

And, trust me, a waist circumference that’s larger than your inside leg measurement is not difficult to achieve if you have a sedentary occupation, or are prone to comfort eating.

Obesity is a major welfare crisis. Those that can afford the monthly payments on weight-loss jabs can watch their blubber melt away. Those that can’t, console themselves with a sugary snack.

The UK’s obesity and overweight epidemic costs £126bn a year. According to the breakdown by Frontier Economics for the think tank Nesta, that figure includes the costs of NHS care (£12.6bn), the years people spend in poor health due to their weight (£71.4bn), and the impact on the economy (£31bn).

Over the next three years, the NHS expects to give Mounjaro jabs to 240,000 people. Quite simply, it’s not enough. In fact, it’ll barely touch the sides.