lard-arse

lard-arse

A disparaging term for an obese person. Primarily heard in UK.
References in periodicals archive ?
You know, the way you can just light candles, binge-watch watch box-sets and be a complete lard-arse until spring but pass it off as a fancy Scandinavian philosophy.
AND TLC's My Fat Saved My Life telling how four people cheated certain death because they're chubbers, including one lard-arse whose obesity cushioned his 17th-storey hotel fall.
What IS humiliating is other kids calling them fatty and lard-arse.
No worries mate - the slow-moving lard-arse deserved it.
Yes, my day job is sedentary and my commute just a flight of stairs, but I'm not so much fretting about becoming a complete lard-arse as sold on the idea that if I walk a daily 10,000 steps, something magical will happen and all manner of things shall be well and unicorns will once again walk the Earth.
That's it out in the open now - and if I'm forever known as Il Duce of dough-based snacks and hanged by the neck outside a petrol station by lard-arse, deep crust pizza fans, then so be it - I'll have died happy.
While "Shut your face, you potato-headed lard-arse," would of course be perfectly suitable, whether it was Ian Hislop or Paul Merton who manages to get the first dig in, I fear she'll have to come up with something altogether snappier to stand any real chance against these two.
Fast forward 24 hours and the beer-swigging lard-arse tells me: "Colin Murray and Edith Bowman thought they were going to get the job, but they didn't have a look in.
In this unintentionally comical series, (at least I think it's unintentional - I don't think programme-makers could be that cruel) he aims to transform some of the nation's lard-arses "one massive family at a time".
Watching the two lard-arses trying to down double vodkas and treble Bacardis is a classic.
We are turning into a nation of lard-arses and it's all our own fault.
Yes, that dreaded time is round the corner when lard-arses and lushes, punters and puffers around the UK feel obliged to keep telling friends and colleagues how its been three days, 12 hours and 23-and-a-half minutes since their last flapjack/filter-tip/Fosters or flutter (delete accordingly).
And the truly disabled won't be able to get a parking space because they'll all be taken up by fat, lazy lard-arses with a disabled badge.