When I look back on my life, with its multiple disappointments ranging from a failure to play golf professionally to the alarming disappearance of that old friend I used to call my hair, the one thing that has kept me going through the years has been the comforting knowledge that I would never be fat.

It's my genes. My father was thinner than two-ply wool and my mother looked like Sophia Loren after she'd been trapped in a Turkish bath for a couple of weeks. My grandparents were even skinnier, though that might have been down to the fact they had 10 children to feed and a weekly household income of approximately three shillings.

When I was growing up, everybody called me a lanky get - or, if they were good friends of mine, a long streak of misery.

But I preferred the description svelte. It make me feel like I was Cary Grant.

If I'm honest, I'd have to admit I was slightly worried about my lack of muscles, especially when I was in my teens and everyone around me - by which I mean the 12-year-old twin girls who lived next door - was able to lift a phone book above their head. The best I could manage was a copy of the Beano, although not the bumper-sized Christmas edition.

I vowed to correct this physical deficiency and embarked on a rigorous programme of muscle-building exercises. Sometimes I even did as many as seven press-ups in one week. I'm sure that one day I would have developed a bicep but I went off to university and, like most male students, wasn't able to find the time to do anything other than drink cheap lager and stare at unobtainable women in the library.

While my lack of physical stature meant I would never be picked for the university weight-lifting team, I consoled myself with the fact that we didn't have such a thing. In any case, being a skinny weakling had its benefits. Grannies would get up and give me their seats on the bus. "You look ill," they would say. "Are you all right?"

Another benefit was that I didn't go short of money.

That's because I didn't have to spent it on new clothes on account of growing too fat for my old ones. If I bought a pair of trousers in one decade, I could guarantee I would still be wearing them in the next. There was one pair of drainpipe Lee Cooper jeans which lasted me right through from the New Romantic era to the suicide of Kurt Cobain.

With that in mind, I always presumed I would go to my grave in a pair of extremely expensive 30-inch-waist Romeo Gigli trousers I bought in 1989 when I didn't have to divert 93% of my annual GDP into subsidising the world's biggest handbag collection. But something terrible happened a couple of months ago. I was planning to go clubbing with my posse of homeboys - okay, I was going out to a half-decent restaurant with the handbag collector - and I thought I'd better wear my one pair of smart trousers. Alas, when I tried to fasten them at the waist the button popped off, and when I say "popped" I mean in the way a bullet pops off the end of a gun barrel.

My beloved girlfriend has a way of soothing my personal insecurities. It is unique, and when I say "unique" what I mean is "cruel".

"Am I fat?" I asked her as I searched the far end of the street for my missing button.

"Depends what you mean by fat,'' she replied.

My mind was made up. I decided to do something I had never done before: I went on a diet. Even though I say so myself, things went well. I managed to find my button and sew it back on to the trousers. Three weeks later - shazam! - I was back in my trousers again and looking as good as new. My funeral attire plans were back on track.

But that was before I flew into Augusta at the beginning of the week to cover the US Masters. Some of you may know that this is a very prestigious golf tournament. The best golfers in the world come here every April to show off their skills. Unfortunately, the best chefs don't. The local speciality is deep-fried well, anything.

Admittedly, I don't pack a measuring tape when I go on a job, but even I think it is safe to assume my diet is in trouble. So far this week, I have had four deep-fried burgers, 11 deep-fried hot dogs, three platters of deep-fried shrimp and one plate of deep-fried corned-beef hash. There is also an Augusta favourite, something called a pimento cheese sandwich, which is not deep-fried - though I sincerely wish it was.

I can't begin to capture the full vomit-induced horror of pimento cheese with just a paragraph left to go, so instead I will leave you with this question: does anyone know where I can get a pair of expensive Romeo Gigli trousers with a 38-inch waist?