Forgive me, I’m going to divert briefly from the familiar territory of body confidence and use my blog to share with you a terrible and traumatic story. It’s the story of a 31 year old woman who just this minute had a gigantic screaming row….with a mouse.
They say, in London, you are never more than 6 metres away from vermin. When I first moved into our flat in the city, my flatmate assured me that the occasional mouse citing was a normal facet of London living. Like congestion charges, constant sirens and 24 hour Vietnamese food. I put her casual dismissal down, in no small part, to the fact that my flatmate has never actually seen a live mouse in our flat. BodyGossipRuth has a theory that mice only like human women with gigantic boobs (hence their insistence on terrorising me). Or that my flatmate has terrible eyesight. Or that she is suffering from a very specific form of mouse-related denial.
I started to think perhaps the problem was me- Maybe I was suffering from mouse-related delusion. Mouse hallucinations. Or Mousillations, if you will. What people who’ve never had the pleasure of vermin in their house don’t realise, is that they’re fast little fuckers. It isn’t like Tom and Jerry, where a mouse stops every few paces to poke its tongue out cheekily at an assailant feline. You hear the tell-tale pitter patter of tiny mouse feet and see the briefest flash in the corner of your eye. For about 3 seconds it’s terrifying, but then it’s quite easy to convince yourself you imagined it. We continued this way for weeks. With me banging on my flatmate’s bedroom door at 1am, stage whispering “sweetie….. I just saw the mouse!” and her replying “it’s okay, it’ll be gone by now. Go to sleep” – I’d meander off to bed wondering how on earth she could be so calm about what was clearly an apocalyptic, Pied Piper of Hamelin style situation which would somehow herald our untimely deaths.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back (well, it gave me the hump, anyway) was when I was watching the infamous ‘Mr Jengles’ scene in ‘The Green Mile’ one evening. I suddenly noticed a flurry of movement beneath the television. There’s a mouse ON my TV and a mouse UNDER my TV! I fumed. For some reason this struck me as unacceptable. Mice were entirely taking over my world. I would not have it.
“We’re getting a cat.” I told my flatmate.
“Noooooooooo!” she said (she has an aversion to all things furry and four legged – apart from mice which appear, uninvited, it would seem) “remember when you wanted a cat before, and then you changed your mind?”
“Yes, but that was a post-break-up, rebound cat” I said. “That was a cat which would have been purchased to give me unconditional love in the way that only a dog, or highly trained human man ever could. That was selfish and wrong. But THIS time I just want a mouse killing machine”.
The next day, cat dialogue unresolved, BodyGossipSarah came to stay. The mice hadn’t been forwarned of this development. It seems they’d gotten into a routine of waiting until myself and the flatmate had gone to work. Then the crafty little buggers were running riot in our kitchen, having a little party, looking at my Bowie calendar and lapping up my Nando’s sauce (probably). Little did they know that Sarah would come waltzing into the room at an unscheduled time.
I was on my way to a school in Oxford when I got the call. “Tash. Three mice have just…..just JUMPED at me!”
“Erm. Do mice jump? Are you sure they’re not using hoummus pots as tiny trampolines?” was my first question, before I realised how insensitive I was being. I quickly formulated a plan. “Okay, okay. Go downstairs. Knock on the door of the ground floor flat. A fit man will answer. Ask if you can borrow his cat” I instructed.
Two hours later, I was informed that the cat had to be cajoled from my bedroom, where it had inexplicably insisted on going, twice, before entering the kitchen, pouncing on the mouse, and letting it go again.
So much for my cat plan. It’s all a myth, them being good at mouse catching. It was time to call the professionals.
Over the next two weeks, a very nice man by the name of Wayne frequented our house wielding various weapons designed for the mass slaughter of mice. He laid traps and they caught things. Things which subsequently ended up dead. “Wanna see?” he’d ask, waving the offending trap under my horrified nose.
“Yeah, alright” said my flatmate, once. I peered at her quizzically, trying to ascertain if this was all bravado.
“woah! Cool!” she said, peering into the trap “it’s head’s come right clean off!”. A lengthy discussion ensued, in which Wayne the mouse man and my flatmate peered into various small boxes containing various small dead things and discussed the contents thereof, seemingly equally fascinated and neither of them remotely grossed out. I began to wonder whether this might be a match made in heaven, characterised by a mutual love of trapping and murdering small, furry creatures.
One day, Wayne announced he had caught seven of the little blighters to date (SEVEN. Ick), and had cleverly ascertained from whence they were springing. “I’m going to fill in your holes” he announced, in a way which immediately made me wish that it was my flatmate he was addressing, rather than me (I believe she may have rather enjoyed it, she’s definitely crushing on the mouse man).
Wood was hammered, holes were filled, white stuff was sprayed. I mean none of this remotely euphemistically. All entry points were sealed. Phew. The end of all the mouse drama.
Or so I thought.
Over the weekend I saw a familiar flash in the corner of my eye, as I made a cup of tea. “It’s post traumatic mouse syndrome” I told myself. Only it wasn’t. It was a baby mouse. Sighing, I speed dialled Wayne the mouse man, who agreed that perhaps his hole-filling efforts hadn’t quite been up to scratch and he’d return during the working week (tomorrow afternoon).
Which would have all been fine, if it weren’t for the fact that I just went downstairs to take my washing out of the machine and saw a gigantic bloody great mouse run out from behind the recycling.
I screamed.
It, check this, SCREAMED BACK AT ME.
Well, it squeaked in a way that suggested that it was screaming.
A ridiculous mutual screaming scenario ensued. I shrieked at the ruddy, great giant mouse. It shrieked back and thrashed about slightly.
OH GOD MY HOLES ARE FILLED! I’M STUCK IN THE CHUFFING HOUSE WITH IT! I thought, before pegging it to the uncertain refuge of my room on the second floor.
Where I now sit, trembling, waiting for BodyGossipRuth because between us we might have a shot at confronting the beast.
Feminism has bought my gender an awful long way. I can now earn my own wage, cast my own vote. I can change a light bulb and I’ll have a good crack at putting up a shelf. But I’m still incapable of doing anything other than screaming pathetically when confronted with a mouse.
And for that, female race, I apologise.
Yours, defeated by a mouse.
BodyGossipTash
p.s. Since writing the above, BodyGossipRuth has gallantly assailed my kitchen, removed my washing, fetched me a glass of calming water, helped me plug in a mouse deterrent plug-in device and looked out of the window in a menacing fashion when some neighbourhood yob types looked like they might be trying to steal her bike. She is now officially my boyfriend.
Monday, 21 May 2012
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Liz Jones -v- Gok Wan
So, it appears that once again Gok Wan has found himself in the firing line, pelted with the word-bullets which are Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones’ self-righteous wrath. One might have thought she would have found someone else to pick on by now. But no. It appears Gok has really got her goat. This is the third time Ms Jones has inflicted a column on the Daily Mail reading world which brands Gok ‘patronising’.
How to Look Good Naked: “Patronising!” says Liz.
Gok’s Fashion Road Show: “Patronising” Liz choruses once more.
And today, Gok’s comments regarding Mums on the school run are….yep, you guessed it….PATRONISING.
In case you’re reading this, Liz, just FYI – “condescending” means the same as “patronising”. You may wish to do a little word swap to introduce some variety into your writing.
I’ve done a rudimentary Google search on the whole Liz-v-Gok debacle and read as much as I could without falling asleep.
It seems that the bulk of Liz’s argument centres around the (somewhat misguided) notion that men would not be subjected to the same language and treatment as part of a TV show branded ‘light entertainment’ and that Gok’s efforts to style the nation are a thinly disguised, yet catastrophic blow to girl power. (Aw, bless. She thinks she’s being all feminist.)
I haven’t been able to find Gok’s comments on the attire of British mothers (rather suggesting that Liz Jones works really hard to find reasons to be suitably column-ready in her rage), but I should imagine they are something along the lines of : If you make the effort to look lovely, even if you’re a busy working Mum, your life will be a little more fabulous.
And he’s right. I don’t have children, granted, so to avoid finding myself being subjected to that most tedious of all arguments “but you are not a mother! You JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND!” (it’s been used on me during countless, less directly relevant debates), I shall use the example of my own mother. I cannot remember my Mum being ever being less than groomed and well-presented, despite having, in addition to myself, two boys born so close together everyone thought they were twins (my brothers are 10 months apart), working within the family business and all the usual demands which many women cite as the reason they’ve been unable to dress themselves sensibly in the morning.
And of course, I would have loved her just as much if she wore a uniform of sagging-at-the-knees leggings and an egg stained cardi. My point is, it’s obviously possible to work, bring children into the world and ultimately avoid this particular wardrobe destiny. It undoubtedly required a considerable amount of effort each day. But I believe my mother would argue that it was worth it: It was about expressing her own self-worth. People who dress to suit their shape and size are giving the message that they respect their bodies, and themselves.
Gok has taught women throughout the UK how to do that exact thing, ON A BUDGET, no less. Wearing clothes that flatter your figure puts a spring in your step, even if they cost £3.99 from Primark, or were fashioned using a sheet of glitter paper and some pritt stick.
As for Gok’s tone and manner which Ms Jones apparently finds particularly objectionable, I can only say this: Liz is obviously lucky enough never to have suffered from cripplingly low self-esteem, or to know anyone who has.
Some women’s egos have been left so utterly dented by endless pressure to aspire to an ever-changing and very narrow idea of beauty, by ‘fat talk’ within their peer groups, or by partners who make them feel worthless, they literally do need to be cajoled into a pretty frock.
A new outfit won’t magically transform you into a different person, but if you have ever seen the look on someone’s face when they’ve been given a makeover and see themselves in the mirror, you’ll know that it can easily be the catalyst someone desperately needs to set them on the path to confidence.
True confidence is about emotion, it’s about ‘feeling it’…… but isn’t it easier to ‘feel it’ when you are beautifully accessorised? When you are celebrating your individuality by showcasing your body shape? When you’re wearing a bra that actually fits?
I think it is and that is why, Gok Wan, I salute you.
How to Look Good Naked: “Patronising!” says Liz.
Gok’s Fashion Road Show: “Patronising” Liz choruses once more.
And today, Gok’s comments regarding Mums on the school run are….yep, you guessed it….PATRONISING.
In case you’re reading this, Liz, just FYI – “condescending” means the same as “patronising”. You may wish to do a little word swap to introduce some variety into your writing.
I’ve done a rudimentary Google search on the whole Liz-v-Gok debacle and read as much as I could without falling asleep.
It seems that the bulk of Liz’s argument centres around the (somewhat misguided) notion that men would not be subjected to the same language and treatment as part of a TV show branded ‘light entertainment’ and that Gok’s efforts to style the nation are a thinly disguised, yet catastrophic blow to girl power. (Aw, bless. She thinks she’s being all feminist.)
I haven’t been able to find Gok’s comments on the attire of British mothers (rather suggesting that Liz Jones works really hard to find reasons to be suitably column-ready in her rage), but I should imagine they are something along the lines of : If you make the effort to look lovely, even if you’re a busy working Mum, your life will be a little more fabulous.
And he’s right. I don’t have children, granted, so to avoid finding myself being subjected to that most tedious of all arguments “but you are not a mother! You JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND!” (it’s been used on me during countless, less directly relevant debates), I shall use the example of my own mother. I cannot remember my Mum being ever being less than groomed and well-presented, despite having, in addition to myself, two boys born so close together everyone thought they were twins (my brothers are 10 months apart), working within the family business and all the usual demands which many women cite as the reason they’ve been unable to dress themselves sensibly in the morning.
And of course, I would have loved her just as much if she wore a uniform of sagging-at-the-knees leggings and an egg stained cardi. My point is, it’s obviously possible to work, bring children into the world and ultimately avoid this particular wardrobe destiny. It undoubtedly required a considerable amount of effort each day. But I believe my mother would argue that it was worth it: It was about expressing her own self-worth. People who dress to suit their shape and size are giving the message that they respect their bodies, and themselves.
Gok has taught women throughout the UK how to do that exact thing, ON A BUDGET, no less. Wearing clothes that flatter your figure puts a spring in your step, even if they cost £3.99 from Primark, or were fashioned using a sheet of glitter paper and some pritt stick.
As for Gok’s tone and manner which Ms Jones apparently finds particularly objectionable, I can only say this: Liz is obviously lucky enough never to have suffered from cripplingly low self-esteem, or to know anyone who has.
Some women’s egos have been left so utterly dented by endless pressure to aspire to an ever-changing and very narrow idea of beauty, by ‘fat talk’ within their peer groups, or by partners who make them feel worthless, they literally do need to be cajoled into a pretty frock.
A new outfit won’t magically transform you into a different person, but if you have ever seen the look on someone’s face when they’ve been given a makeover and see themselves in the mirror, you’ll know that it can easily be the catalyst someone desperately needs to set them on the path to confidence.
True confidence is about emotion, it’s about ‘feeling it’…… but isn’t it easier to ‘feel it’ when you are beautifully accessorised? When you are celebrating your individuality by showcasing your body shape? When you’re wearing a bra that actually fits?
I think it is and that is why, Gok Wan, I salute you.
Saturday, 21 April 2012
The Body Confidence Awards
On Thursday 19th April 2012, the Government hosted the first ever national body confidence awards. Body Gossip were nominated in two categories (campaigner and education for Gossip School) and so off I trotted in my 4 inch high, hot pink, suede stilettos to Parliament (if I ever stop maintaining that it’s possible to be an advocate for inner beauty AND wear what Ruth Rogers would term ‘ridiculous shoes’ then you must shoot me, for Tash has already left the metaphorical building that is my soul and to keep me alive would be a cruelty).
There’s still a widely held misconception that body image is a ‘fluffy’ subject, fodder only for badly made, reductive prime time television shows, or the pages of weekly glossies, and not really worthy of attention from people who consider themselves to be remotely intelligent or important. The very fact that this event was taking place was testament to the gradual shift against the tide of this truly antiquated and misguided stance.
Last week, I wrote an article for the Times Educational Supplement in which I cited Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and encouraged anyone dubious about the importance of self-esteem to ‘ave a look and use their noddle’ (as one says in Essex. I may have used slightly more elegant language for the Times, however). Michael Gove (or ‘the Anti-Ken’ as I like to call him, in deference to the genius that is ‘right about everything to do with education’ Ken Robinson) has dramatically slashed PSHE budgets, cut huge swathes of vocational qualifications for teenagers and argued that we need to refocus education to ‘traditional academia’. Fortunately, I was inundated with emails from teachers seconding my opinion which, in a very small, pistachio sized nutshell, amounts to “Gove’s stance is tosh”.
Maslow’s hierarchy states that there are a number of basic human needs which need to be fulfilled before an individual can focus on anything else – in this instance before they can achieve their academic or physical potential. These include all the ones you’d expect (like food and shelter), but also include comfort, security and, crucially, confidence.
The work being undertaken by Gossip School, and other wonderful organisations like Young Body Image and Girl Guiding UK, is an acknowledgment of the fact that, if we can provide young people with a foundation of self-esteem and comfort in their own skins, they will have a much better chance of fulfilling their potential, whatever that might be. There’s nothing fluffy about that. It’s about empowering a generation.
We work with 13-18 year olds at Gossip School. It’s the time during which we take our exams, perhaps go into employment, or go to college/university, have our first romances, start to care about the outside world, form opinions on stuff and are trying to establish ourselves as a young adult. It’s a time when you need a good sense of self and the armour to tackle anything negative which might come your way, as you explore what it means to be a human and a citizen. However, I’m also more than aware that self-esteem issues span all ages.
On Thursday, the speeches given by Chair Jo Swinson focussed heavily on how lack of self-esteem is having a devastating impact on children at a younger and younger age. And of course, at the opposite end of the spectrum, it doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to see the impact that our insane, consumer-driven, image-focussed culture is having on a generation of adults (botox anyone?).
Somewhere along the line, fashion and glamour stopped being fun, frivolous and fabulous, and became sinister, sexist and extreme. Our bodies became a commodity, something to be whipped mercilessly into our desired whims, which aren’t even our own but based on an ever-changing arbitrary beauty ideal, dictated by multi-national corporations who line their pockets with our desperate attempts to combat our feelings of low self-worth.
We’re told we need to be attractive in order to be loved, valued and successful – The fact which stayed with me was that a significant number of young people won’t even go into school at all, if they don’t feel attractive on a given day. How can we expect teenagers to go on to solve future economic deficits, find a cure for cancer, fix the environment and combat poverty if they’re too crippled by lack of body confidence even to get out of bed?
If body image were, as some still persist in believing, a ‘fluffy’ topic, there would not be a multi-billion pound cosmetic surgery industry, people would not stick lumps of plastic under their skin, inject their faces with poison and undergo potentially life-threatening procedures in pursuit of an imagined body ideal. The time, money and energy that an ever-growing army of individuals are prepared to sacrifice in order to look different, believing that they will then feel different, is testament to the magnitude of our problem.
One only had to look around at the assembled guests at last Thursday’s event to see how body image bleeds into so many different areas – disability, racism, sexuality, feminism, education. My own experience as a self-esteem teacher bears this out. Start a conversation with a teenager about how they ‘feel fat’ or ‘no one fancies them’ and within five minutes you’re invariably into broken homes, pending unemployment stress or racial sensitivity territory.
I’m all for makeup. Anything you can wipe off/peel off/unzip or unclip at the end of the day is fine in my book. I also have two tattoos. Because, for me, tattoos are an expression of my desire not to conform, to be a little different, whereas the permanent or semi-permanent procedures I object to are symptomatic of an inexplicable wish to aspire to one, uniform look. It isn’t an anomaly to be an advocate for inner beauty AND condition your hair. It’s the reason I subscribe to Cosmopolitan Magazine: I can care about the pay gap between men and women, and the state of the health service, and what’s happening in the Middle East AND have enough room left in my head to get excited about a handbag.
But only because I have the foundation of self-esteem to realise that the handbag is not my ticket to happiness.
If you think you can spot the feminist, the body confidence campaigner, the flag-waver for inner beauty: Think again. We’re everywhere. And it’s about time you joined the revolution.
Here are some other things which happened on Thursday, in no particular order:
Caitlin Moran winked at me (at least I think she did. It could have been the trademark eyeliner);
Kiss FM DJ AJ King read out my statement about young people and body confidence in a speech, raised his fist in the air and said "amen";
Susie Orbach, author of Fat is a Feminist Issue, eminent Psychotherapist and arguably the cleverest woman on the Planet, called Ruth and I "ballsy and brave" in her speech;
I got a teeny bit tiddly with the gorgeous and lovely Rosie Mullender, Features Editor at Cosmopolitan and we might have talked about boys a bit. In a room full of feminists. But then again everyone was a teeny bit tiddly by then (apart from Jo Swinson who managed to remain incredibly poised and elegant throughout) so I think we were forgiven.
To read Susie Orbach’s article on Thursday's happenings go to: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/apr/20/body-confidence-new-line-on-beauty
To read my Times Article go to: http://www.tes.co.uk/article.aspx?storycode=6207168&s_cid=tesmagazinehome
Below are some photographs, for your viewing pleasure:
Ruth and I outside Parliament pre-event (and pre-wine)
With 'How to Look Good Naked's Shona Collins (Body Gossip Ambassador)
With Rosie Mullender of Cosmopolitan and all-round Legend
There’s still a widely held misconception that body image is a ‘fluffy’ subject, fodder only for badly made, reductive prime time television shows, or the pages of weekly glossies, and not really worthy of attention from people who consider themselves to be remotely intelligent or important. The very fact that this event was taking place was testament to the gradual shift against the tide of this truly antiquated and misguided stance.
Last week, I wrote an article for the Times Educational Supplement in which I cited Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and encouraged anyone dubious about the importance of self-esteem to ‘ave a look and use their noddle’ (as one says in Essex. I may have used slightly more elegant language for the Times, however). Michael Gove (or ‘the Anti-Ken’ as I like to call him, in deference to the genius that is ‘right about everything to do with education’ Ken Robinson) has dramatically slashed PSHE budgets, cut huge swathes of vocational qualifications for teenagers and argued that we need to refocus education to ‘traditional academia’. Fortunately, I was inundated with emails from teachers seconding my opinion which, in a very small, pistachio sized nutshell, amounts to “Gove’s stance is tosh”.
Maslow’s hierarchy states that there are a number of basic human needs which need to be fulfilled before an individual can focus on anything else – in this instance before they can achieve their academic or physical potential. These include all the ones you’d expect (like food and shelter), but also include comfort, security and, crucially, confidence.
The work being undertaken by Gossip School, and other wonderful organisations like Young Body Image and Girl Guiding UK, is an acknowledgment of the fact that, if we can provide young people with a foundation of self-esteem and comfort in their own skins, they will have a much better chance of fulfilling their potential, whatever that might be. There’s nothing fluffy about that. It’s about empowering a generation.
We work with 13-18 year olds at Gossip School. It’s the time during which we take our exams, perhaps go into employment, or go to college/university, have our first romances, start to care about the outside world, form opinions on stuff and are trying to establish ourselves as a young adult. It’s a time when you need a good sense of self and the armour to tackle anything negative which might come your way, as you explore what it means to be a human and a citizen. However, I’m also more than aware that self-esteem issues span all ages.
On Thursday, the speeches given by Chair Jo Swinson focussed heavily on how lack of self-esteem is having a devastating impact on children at a younger and younger age. And of course, at the opposite end of the spectrum, it doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to see the impact that our insane, consumer-driven, image-focussed culture is having on a generation of adults (botox anyone?).
Somewhere along the line, fashion and glamour stopped being fun, frivolous and fabulous, and became sinister, sexist and extreme. Our bodies became a commodity, something to be whipped mercilessly into our desired whims, which aren’t even our own but based on an ever-changing arbitrary beauty ideal, dictated by multi-national corporations who line their pockets with our desperate attempts to combat our feelings of low self-worth.
We’re told we need to be attractive in order to be loved, valued and successful – The fact which stayed with me was that a significant number of young people won’t even go into school at all, if they don’t feel attractive on a given day. How can we expect teenagers to go on to solve future economic deficits, find a cure for cancer, fix the environment and combat poverty if they’re too crippled by lack of body confidence even to get out of bed?
If body image were, as some still persist in believing, a ‘fluffy’ topic, there would not be a multi-billion pound cosmetic surgery industry, people would not stick lumps of plastic under their skin, inject their faces with poison and undergo potentially life-threatening procedures in pursuit of an imagined body ideal. The time, money and energy that an ever-growing army of individuals are prepared to sacrifice in order to look different, believing that they will then feel different, is testament to the magnitude of our problem.
One only had to look around at the assembled guests at last Thursday’s event to see how body image bleeds into so many different areas – disability, racism, sexuality, feminism, education. My own experience as a self-esteem teacher bears this out. Start a conversation with a teenager about how they ‘feel fat’ or ‘no one fancies them’ and within five minutes you’re invariably into broken homes, pending unemployment stress or racial sensitivity territory.
I’m all for makeup. Anything you can wipe off/peel off/unzip or unclip at the end of the day is fine in my book. I also have two tattoos. Because, for me, tattoos are an expression of my desire not to conform, to be a little different, whereas the permanent or semi-permanent procedures I object to are symptomatic of an inexplicable wish to aspire to one, uniform look. It isn’t an anomaly to be an advocate for inner beauty AND condition your hair. It’s the reason I subscribe to Cosmopolitan Magazine: I can care about the pay gap between men and women, and the state of the health service, and what’s happening in the Middle East AND have enough room left in my head to get excited about a handbag.
But only because I have the foundation of self-esteem to realise that the handbag is not my ticket to happiness.
If you think you can spot the feminist, the body confidence campaigner, the flag-waver for inner beauty: Think again. We’re everywhere. And it’s about time you joined the revolution.
Here are some other things which happened on Thursday, in no particular order:
Caitlin Moran winked at me (at least I think she did. It could have been the trademark eyeliner);
Kiss FM DJ AJ King read out my statement about young people and body confidence in a speech, raised his fist in the air and said "amen";
Susie Orbach, author of Fat is a Feminist Issue, eminent Psychotherapist and arguably the cleverest woman on the Planet, called Ruth and I "ballsy and brave" in her speech;
I got a teeny bit tiddly with the gorgeous and lovely Rosie Mullender, Features Editor at Cosmopolitan and we might have talked about boys a bit. In a room full of feminists. But then again everyone was a teeny bit tiddly by then (apart from Jo Swinson who managed to remain incredibly poised and elegant throughout) so I think we were forgiven.
To read Susie Orbach’s article on Thursday's happenings go to: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/apr/20/body-confidence-new-line-on-beauty
To read my Times Article go to: http://www.tes.co.uk/article.aspx?storycode=6207168&s_cid=tesmagazinehome
Below are some photographs, for your viewing pleasure:
Ruth and I outside Parliament pre-event (and pre-wine)
With 'How to Look Good Naked's Shona Collins (Body Gossip Ambassador)
With Rosie Mullender of Cosmopolitan and all-round Legend
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Bricking It
Okay, so you forced me.
There was I, thinking that the mildly diverting story of journalist Samantha Brick (some say) deludedly believing that she is the dog’s doo-dahs was going to hold our attention for the thirty seconds it deserved and yet here we are, days later, still rabbiting on about the chuffing thing. This is why Britain is still in a recession, you know. We’d rather point and laugh at people we believe to be physically or psychologically inferior to us than sort out the deficit.
Sigh….Anyway......
So, here is my two penneth. For what it is worth (2p, presumably):
Firstly, the public reaction to Brick says far more than the original story ever will. She believes she is gorgeous beyond sense and,if her anecdotes are to be credited, the people around her have bought into this belief and treated her as such. There is nothing wrong with this. I’m forever telling my Gossip School students “if you believe something is true, your mind will find a way to make your life fit that belief” and Brick’s rather extreme example bears this out (excuse the pun) beautifully.
For what is beauty if not in the eye of the beholder? If Brick believes she is sensationally good looking, and so do the people around her, is that not the definition of attractiveness? Whether or not she measures up to some arbitrary, society-created, ever shifting, plastic beauty paradigm is largely irrelevant.
Secondly, the public backlash epitomises the British “don’t get too big for thy boots, young lady” attitude. We are never allowed to boast. We can’t say “hell yes, I was born to do this task!” we must say “well, I’ll probably be a bit crap but let’s give it a go”.
This is particularly true of women. We self-deprecate all over the gaff. This is apparently the most ‘attractive’ quality in a woman: to sit demurely, ankles crossed, with one’s head cocked slightly to the right and, in hushed, breathy tones, list all your shortcomings and foibles. “She doesn’t know how beautiful/talented/intelligent she is” is the highest accolade we can bestow on a female person.
Accept it’s all bollocks. It’s all just another mechanism by which women are quashed, trampled and kept in check. It’s also bloody annoying. If we spent less time bleating about our fat ankles and more time running the world, that Beyonce song might have an iota of truth in it.
I’m not suggesting for one minute we should be blind to our flaws. But self-acceptance is all about embracing and celebrating the things that make us brilliant, as well as acknowledging the things we’re less good at. Humility has its place, just as the occasional “waaay haaaay! Go me!” moment does.
So, whether Samantha Brick is a few root veg short of a bushall, whether or not she is guilty of ‘narcissism’ or whether or not she is objectively ‘beautiful’ are all utterly beside the point. The point is, if we lived in a society where women were allowed to have a good old gloat every now and then this story would be exactly what it should be: A non-story.
There was I, thinking that the mildly diverting story of journalist Samantha Brick (some say) deludedly believing that she is the dog’s doo-dahs was going to hold our attention for the thirty seconds it deserved and yet here we are, days later, still rabbiting on about the chuffing thing. This is why Britain is still in a recession, you know. We’d rather point and laugh at people we believe to be physically or psychologically inferior to us than sort out the deficit.
Sigh….Anyway......
So, here is my two penneth. For what it is worth (2p, presumably):
Firstly, the public reaction to Brick says far more than the original story ever will. She believes she is gorgeous beyond sense and,if her anecdotes are to be credited, the people around her have bought into this belief and treated her as such. There is nothing wrong with this. I’m forever telling my Gossip School students “if you believe something is true, your mind will find a way to make your life fit that belief” and Brick’s rather extreme example bears this out (excuse the pun) beautifully.
For what is beauty if not in the eye of the beholder? If Brick believes she is sensationally good looking, and so do the people around her, is that not the definition of attractiveness? Whether or not she measures up to some arbitrary, society-created, ever shifting, plastic beauty paradigm is largely irrelevant.
Secondly, the public backlash epitomises the British “don’t get too big for thy boots, young lady” attitude. We are never allowed to boast. We can’t say “hell yes, I was born to do this task!” we must say “well, I’ll probably be a bit crap but let’s give it a go”.
This is particularly true of women. We self-deprecate all over the gaff. This is apparently the most ‘attractive’ quality in a woman: to sit demurely, ankles crossed, with one’s head cocked slightly to the right and, in hushed, breathy tones, list all your shortcomings and foibles. “She doesn’t know how beautiful/talented/intelligent she is” is the highest accolade we can bestow on a female person.
Accept it’s all bollocks. It’s all just another mechanism by which women are quashed, trampled and kept in check. It’s also bloody annoying. If we spent less time bleating about our fat ankles and more time running the world, that Beyonce song might have an iota of truth in it.
I’m not suggesting for one minute we should be blind to our flaws. But self-acceptance is all about embracing and celebrating the things that make us brilliant, as well as acknowledging the things we’re less good at. Humility has its place, just as the occasional “waaay haaaay! Go me!” moment does.
So, whether Samantha Brick is a few root veg short of a bushall, whether or not she is guilty of ‘narcissism’ or whether or not she is objectively ‘beautiful’ are all utterly beside the point. The point is, if we lived in a society where women were allowed to have a good old gloat every now and then this story would be exactly what it should be: A non-story.
Sunday, 1 April 2012
The Blame Game
When bad things happen to good people, our first instinct is to look for someone to blame. In doing so, we'll often willfully ignore the facts and eschew all knowledge of the notion that there might be two, or many, sides to a story.
For example, I'm almost irresistibly tempted to blame the tabloids for this very phenomenon. It isn’t actually entirely their fault. But they love a scapegoat, and, partially because of this, so do we.
This is particularly true when it comes to eating disorders. Because eating disorders are baffling. And being able to point the finger at ‘parenting’ or ‘the media’ or 'fashion' or 'bullying' or ‘celebrities’ makes us feel as though we’re making sense of them.
You may be surprised to hear that I like to think of the rise in eating disorders as being a little like the evolution of life on this planet. At the beginning of documented time, conditions were exactly right for Earth and all its living beings to flourish – the temperature, the humidity, the air pressure, the soil, the sea, other things which clever scientist type people understand……..all these things were exactly as they needed to be to give rise to life as we know it today. If the Earth was a few miles further away from the sun, we might all have one eye, located slightly to the left of our belly buttons (may I stress once more that I’m not a scientist and will not, under examination, be able to explain how this causal link would ever arise. But you see my point).
In the same way, conditions are exactly right for low self-esteem to flourish, in the western world. The reasons for the body confidence crisis are manifold, and the only thing you can do, in attempting to tackle it, is to address these contributory factors one at a time.
What you shouldn’t do, though, is claim that contributory factor is solely to blame, or make villains of people, when your beef is, in reality, with an attitude, or an industry, or an ignorance, or a prejudice. This is what is known as “oversimplification” (or “Tash will throw nearest objects to hand at her television and shout the word ‘bollocks!’ repeatedly to the surprise and alarm of her flatmate”). It happens all the time.
“New study finds Mums responsible for body confidence issues in daughters!”
“Angelina Jolie: Frail frame gives damaging message to young girls!”
“Call to ban airbrushing to end body insecurity!”
Sound familiar?
It’s headlines like these which promote the idea that it’s only teenage girls who suffer from eating disorders, that they’ve all had trauma in their childhood (or have terrible mothers), that celebrities want us all to stop eating and that the media is one huge ogre, chasing us around all day bellowing at us relentlessly until we feel like shit about ourselves. They also represent the sort of social attitudes which gave birth to the inexplicable need for Supersize-v-Superskinny to assault our television screens every Tuesday. And I don’t think any of us can forgive them for that. But of course I cannot just blame the headlines, or Dr Christian (however tempting that might be) because that would run counter to my argument.
So, imagine my delight when an article came out in the Daily Mail Online today in which "she of the fabulousness", Body Gossip ambassador Zaraah Abrahams said “I don’t want to be anyone’s thinspiration!” and defended celebrities against our tendency to blame them for promoting anorexia. Hurrah yippee etc. Read it here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2123257/Zaraah-Abrahams-fights-disturbing-trend-spurs-weight-loss.html
Tomorrow my delight will continue, as a new book hits the shelves: ‘Hope with Eating Disorders’ by Lynn Crilly. It’s a guide for friends and family who may be concerned for someone with an eating disorder and want some unbiased advice. If you read it, and I hope you do, you’ll see that Lynn is determined we stop playing 'The Blame Game'. Her message is consistent: Blame makes us bitter and exhausted. We’re all trying our best. Here is some support.
To find out more about Lynn’s book go to: http://www.lynncrilly.co.uk/MyBook/HopewithEatingDisorders.aspx
For example, I'm almost irresistibly tempted to blame the tabloids for this very phenomenon. It isn’t actually entirely their fault. But they love a scapegoat, and, partially because of this, so do we.
This is particularly true when it comes to eating disorders. Because eating disorders are baffling. And being able to point the finger at ‘parenting’ or ‘the media’ or 'fashion' or 'bullying' or ‘celebrities’ makes us feel as though we’re making sense of them.
You may be surprised to hear that I like to think of the rise in eating disorders as being a little like the evolution of life on this planet. At the beginning of documented time, conditions were exactly right for Earth and all its living beings to flourish – the temperature, the humidity, the air pressure, the soil, the sea, other things which clever scientist type people understand……..all these things were exactly as they needed to be to give rise to life as we know it today. If the Earth was a few miles further away from the sun, we might all have one eye, located slightly to the left of our belly buttons (may I stress once more that I’m not a scientist and will not, under examination, be able to explain how this causal link would ever arise. But you see my point).
In the same way, conditions are exactly right for low self-esteem to flourish, in the western world. The reasons for the body confidence crisis are manifold, and the only thing you can do, in attempting to tackle it, is to address these contributory factors one at a time.
What you shouldn’t do, though, is claim that contributory factor is solely to blame, or make villains of people, when your beef is, in reality, with an attitude, or an industry, or an ignorance, or a prejudice. This is what is known as “oversimplification” (or “Tash will throw nearest objects to hand at her television and shout the word ‘bollocks!’ repeatedly to the surprise and alarm of her flatmate”). It happens all the time.
“New study finds Mums responsible for body confidence issues in daughters!”
“Angelina Jolie: Frail frame gives damaging message to young girls!”
“Call to ban airbrushing to end body insecurity!”
Sound familiar?
It’s headlines like these which promote the idea that it’s only teenage girls who suffer from eating disorders, that they’ve all had trauma in their childhood (or have terrible mothers), that celebrities want us all to stop eating and that the media is one huge ogre, chasing us around all day bellowing at us relentlessly until we feel like shit about ourselves. They also represent the sort of social attitudes which gave birth to the inexplicable need for Supersize-v-Superskinny to assault our television screens every Tuesday. And I don’t think any of us can forgive them for that. But of course I cannot just blame the headlines, or Dr Christian (however tempting that might be) because that would run counter to my argument.
So, imagine my delight when an article came out in the Daily Mail Online today in which "she of the fabulousness", Body Gossip ambassador Zaraah Abrahams said “I don’t want to be anyone’s thinspiration!” and defended celebrities against our tendency to blame them for promoting anorexia. Hurrah yippee etc. Read it here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2123257/Zaraah-Abrahams-fights-disturbing-trend-spurs-weight-loss.html
Tomorrow my delight will continue, as a new book hits the shelves: ‘Hope with Eating Disorders’ by Lynn Crilly. It’s a guide for friends and family who may be concerned for someone with an eating disorder and want some unbiased advice. If you read it, and I hope you do, you’ll see that Lynn is determined we stop playing 'The Blame Game'. Her message is consistent: Blame makes us bitter and exhausted. We’re all trying our best. Here is some support.
To find out more about Lynn’s book go to: http://www.lynncrilly.co.uk/MyBook/HopewithEatingDisorders.aspx
Monday, 19 March 2012
Gossip School in 'Hurrah, Yippeee' Style News
Last week, I returned to my Essex homeland to teach more than 1,000 (COUNT EM, ONE THOUSAND) local students my ‘Gossip School’ class. For those unfamiliar with Gossip School a) where have you been? and b) it’s a one hour self-esteem class aiming to make 14-18 year olds feel confident, valued and blinking gorgeous.
What is now ‘Gossip School’ actually started off as ‘I-haven’t-yet-been-reunited-with-Ruth-Rogers-of-Body-Gossip-so-my-campaign-doesn’t-have-a-name’ project in early 2008. I remember distinctly telling my boss I wanted to day off to try this loopy idea I had for a body image class, which I was going to trial in my old school (who had kindly indulged me on this one). He looked suitably uncomprehending and just said “well, you’re entitled to holiday” before sauntering off to get a coffee.
Luckily, teachers ‘got it’ straight away. Then came ‘Gok of the Fabulousness’ and now the nation has been enlightened as to the virtues of body confidence education. Four years on, Gossip School is virtually my full time job (I have a ‘portfolio career’ which, I’m told, is a wanky word so if you can think of a better one then please do let me know) and I’m no longer met with blank stares and ‘that’s nice, dear’ style comments when I tell people what I do for a living at parties (which is fortunate because, as discussed at Christmas, I have no boyfriend, babies, or plans for interior design to talk about).
So, back to last week. On Saturday we had to pretend it was Mothers Day (which, for my American Cousins, was actually on Sunday over here in Blighty) owing to the fact that my ickle wickle (now strapping, six foot plus, mixed-race-Johnny-Depp looking) brother decided to go travelling on the actual day (to which me and my other (strapping, six foot plus, mixed race Will Smith looking) brother said “dude! Please by all means Find Yourself but can you not do it on a less emotive occasion?” But apparently the tickets had been booked).
So, there I was on Saturday, cooking for five – Something my mother manages to do without breaking into the merest hint of a sweat, at regular interludes throughout an average week, with the sort of vaguely annoying elegance which can make even a pinnie look stylish. Half an hour in, I had one foot in a pan of mashed sweet potato, which the dog was attempting, messily, to lick from my ankles and I’d overheated the passata, which had proceeded to leap out of the pan and hit me square on the cheek, giving me the sort of ‘interesting’ blusher one wouldn’t usually spy outside the Spring catwalks. I had also discovered that the ability to make a pinnie look stylish is not hereditary (take note, geneticists). I looked a bit like a less attractive version of Miss Tiggywinkle. (I must get onto Pepperberry and beseech them to design a flattering apron for curvaceous people).
It was then that I saw my blackberry twinkling benevolently in my peripheral vision. Purging my clothes and hands of food (much to the dog’s delight) I thought ‘I’ll just take a calming few minutes to have a wee look at my emails before returning to the whole mashed potato/passata debacle’.
There, awaiting me, was an email from very important people who judge the prestigious Mental Healthy Awards, telling me that Gossip School has been shortlisted for an award in the ‘Business Hero’ category.
There is a moral to this story and it is this – If you’re a student, or teacher who wants someone to come into your school and make you feel all fantastic about yourselves them I’m your girl. If, however, you’re in need of someone to make you some mashed potato, then may I suggest Yellow Pages?
Here is a picture of me with some students I taught in North London this morning for no other reason than I really like it and it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling, not unlike when one has recently consumed a bowl of Ready Brek:
What is now ‘Gossip School’ actually started off as ‘I-haven’t-yet-been-reunited-with-Ruth-Rogers-of-Body-Gossip-so-my-campaign-doesn’t-have-a-name’ project in early 2008. I remember distinctly telling my boss I wanted to day off to try this loopy idea I had for a body image class, which I was going to trial in my old school (who had kindly indulged me on this one). He looked suitably uncomprehending and just said “well, you’re entitled to holiday” before sauntering off to get a coffee.
Luckily, teachers ‘got it’ straight away. Then came ‘Gok of the Fabulousness’ and now the nation has been enlightened as to the virtues of body confidence education. Four years on, Gossip School is virtually my full time job (I have a ‘portfolio career’ which, I’m told, is a wanky word so if you can think of a better one then please do let me know) and I’m no longer met with blank stares and ‘that’s nice, dear’ style comments when I tell people what I do for a living at parties (which is fortunate because, as discussed at Christmas, I have no boyfriend, babies, or plans for interior design to talk about).
So, back to last week. On Saturday we had to pretend it was Mothers Day (which, for my American Cousins, was actually on Sunday over here in Blighty) owing to the fact that my ickle wickle (now strapping, six foot plus, mixed-race-Johnny-Depp looking) brother decided to go travelling on the actual day (to which me and my other (strapping, six foot plus, mixed race Will Smith looking) brother said “dude! Please by all means Find Yourself but can you not do it on a less emotive occasion?” But apparently the tickets had been booked).
So, there I was on Saturday, cooking for five – Something my mother manages to do without breaking into the merest hint of a sweat, at regular interludes throughout an average week, with the sort of vaguely annoying elegance which can make even a pinnie look stylish. Half an hour in, I had one foot in a pan of mashed sweet potato, which the dog was attempting, messily, to lick from my ankles and I’d overheated the passata, which had proceeded to leap out of the pan and hit me square on the cheek, giving me the sort of ‘interesting’ blusher one wouldn’t usually spy outside the Spring catwalks. I had also discovered that the ability to make a pinnie look stylish is not hereditary (take note, geneticists). I looked a bit like a less attractive version of Miss Tiggywinkle. (I must get onto Pepperberry and beseech them to design a flattering apron for curvaceous people).
It was then that I saw my blackberry twinkling benevolently in my peripheral vision. Purging my clothes and hands of food (much to the dog’s delight) I thought ‘I’ll just take a calming few minutes to have a wee look at my emails before returning to the whole mashed potato/passata debacle’.
There, awaiting me, was an email from very important people who judge the prestigious Mental Healthy Awards, telling me that Gossip School has been shortlisted for an award in the ‘Business Hero’ category.
There is a moral to this story and it is this – If you’re a student, or teacher who wants someone to come into your school and make you feel all fantastic about yourselves them I’m your girl. If, however, you’re in need of someone to make you some mashed potato, then may I suggest Yellow Pages?
Here is a picture of me with some students I taught in North London this morning for no other reason than I really like it and it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling, not unlike when one has recently consumed a bowl of Ready Brek:
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Loving Your Tum
Ask most women which part of their body they least like and invariably they’ll say their stomach. We’re a nation obsessed with flatness, when it comes to our middles (but not when it comes to our mammaries. Then, flatness becomes something to be avoided at all costs). Tummies must be taught, toned, if possible concave. Carbs will be eschewed, sit ups will be struggled through, gym sessions endured, contraptions will be strapped to us and in between times we’ll do an awful lot of sucking-in. When a good looking man walks into a room, there’s almost always an audible intake of breath from any assembled women as they attempt to force their recalcitrant midriffs into compliance with their whims. There’ll be no jiggly-ness here, thank you.
When something doesn’t conform to our arbitrary idea of ‘perfection’, we automatically perceive it as a ‘flaw’. We’re told to ‘embrace’ these flaws, as if a mole, or a wrinkle, or a roll of fat is inherently distasteful, and we’re therefore obliged to acknowledge that they make us an imperfect version of ourselves.
Some people have flat tummies. Some people have round tummies. Some people, like me, inexplicably have quite a flat bit around the rib area but then a great mound of flesh in the lower portion. Look, this clingy dress showcases my inelegant tum to perfection:
I am told I can brand my tummy shape an 'evolutionary thing' – My body still thinks I'm a cavewoman, apparently, and is protecting my womb from the elements. My body doesn’t know that there’s feminism now, you see, and that I’m no longer automatically destined to be a baby making machine. It thinks its doing me a favour. The poor, deluded thing.
At Body Gossip HQ, we’ve been asking ourselves – Who ever said that the flat tummies were the loveliest of them all? Has it always been this way? Greek statues have rounded tums and they are a physical manifestation of the artist’s purely conceptual imagining of beauty (i.e. they could make it look however the heck they wanted, with no reference to reality), so one would assume not.
Our fixation on that little area betwixt chest and pelvis has become so aggressively all-consuming that even BodyGossipRuth - she of the athletic, sporty, healthy, size 10 figure - has had a long-standing issue with her tum. Whereas I, who had pyloric stenosis as a baby and have a whacking great scar in the middle of mine that looks like a zip, have long since reconciled myself to the idea that I’ll always think mine is a little bit lame.
Then, we thought ‘enough! This is ludicrous! We are grown, educated women, with degrees and careers and mortgages! Why are we doing this to ourselves?’ Which just happened to coincide with BodyGossipSarah launching her ‘cyber March’ on Twitter – a challenge to the public to declare to the world that they think a part of their body not traditionally perceived as beautiful is blooming marvellous and they don’t care who knows it.
BodyGossipRuth started posting a picture of her naked midriff on Twitter each day, using the hashtag #lovingmytum. And you’ll never guess what? People only started joining in! Now, everyone’s at it.
So, if you feel so inclined, pick up your phone and point it at your tummy. Now take a picture. Now look at it. That is yours, that is. Own it. Your stomach works very hard every day, processing food, hosting yards and yards of intestine, rumbling to remind you it needs feeding and sucking itself in when good looking people come into the room. Without the scar on mine, I'd be dead. So, say a little thank you. Love your tum. Go on, I dare you.
When something doesn’t conform to our arbitrary idea of ‘perfection’, we automatically perceive it as a ‘flaw’. We’re told to ‘embrace’ these flaws, as if a mole, or a wrinkle, or a roll of fat is inherently distasteful, and we’re therefore obliged to acknowledge that they make us an imperfect version of ourselves.
Some people have flat tummies. Some people have round tummies. Some people, like me, inexplicably have quite a flat bit around the rib area but then a great mound of flesh in the lower portion. Look, this clingy dress showcases my inelegant tum to perfection:
I am told I can brand my tummy shape an 'evolutionary thing' – My body still thinks I'm a cavewoman, apparently, and is protecting my womb from the elements. My body doesn’t know that there’s feminism now, you see, and that I’m no longer automatically destined to be a baby making machine. It thinks its doing me a favour. The poor, deluded thing.
At Body Gossip HQ, we’ve been asking ourselves – Who ever said that the flat tummies were the loveliest of them all? Has it always been this way? Greek statues have rounded tums and they are a physical manifestation of the artist’s purely conceptual imagining of beauty (i.e. they could make it look however the heck they wanted, with no reference to reality), so one would assume not.
Our fixation on that little area betwixt chest and pelvis has become so aggressively all-consuming that even BodyGossipRuth - she of the athletic, sporty, healthy, size 10 figure - has had a long-standing issue with her tum. Whereas I, who had pyloric stenosis as a baby and have a whacking great scar in the middle of mine that looks like a zip, have long since reconciled myself to the idea that I’ll always think mine is a little bit lame.
Then, we thought ‘enough! This is ludicrous! We are grown, educated women, with degrees and careers and mortgages! Why are we doing this to ourselves?’ Which just happened to coincide with BodyGossipSarah launching her ‘cyber March’ on Twitter – a challenge to the public to declare to the world that they think a part of their body not traditionally perceived as beautiful is blooming marvellous and they don’t care who knows it.
BodyGossipRuth started posting a picture of her naked midriff on Twitter each day, using the hashtag #lovingmytum. And you’ll never guess what? People only started joining in! Now, everyone’s at it.
So, if you feel so inclined, pick up your phone and point it at your tummy. Now take a picture. Now look at it. That is yours, that is. Own it. Your stomach works very hard every day, processing food, hosting yards and yards of intestine, rumbling to remind you it needs feeding and sucking itself in when good looking people come into the room. Without the scar on mine, I'd be dead. So, say a little thank you. Love your tum. Go on, I dare you.
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