Penguin Books

FEBRUARY

By now any worthy intentions I had in the New Year about eating less, better, healthier, have pretty much fizzled out and I am having that interesting internal dialogue which goes like this:

Deluded Me: Oh damn, I’ve forgotten to have a mind for my physical well-being and my lips just accidentally fell on to a deep-pan pizza …
Very Deluded Me: That’s fine, because it’s still sort of Winter, and we all need extra blubber to keep out the cold, don’t we? Even cavemen knew that. Otherwise I will DIE.
Deluded Me: Yeah, but I have central heating … so I’m not entirely relying on body hair and fat to keep me warm, if we’re honest.
Very Deluded Me: Hmmn, maybe … but there’s also the added thing which is that, unlike every other human woman, I tend to look better and yes, even feel better, the fatter I am. So. Please just pass the clotted cream, please, and thank you.
Very Very Deluded Me: Oh yes, I’d forgotten just how great I can look if I just bother to put more effort into eating lard and treacle. I mustn’t be so darn lazy, I must walk to the fridge more often. And to avoid that freezing to death outside option, I really must mainly sit down, inside, on a sofa watching telly and ridding the world of chocolate.

(APPLAUSE AND WHOOPS OF APPROVAL FROM ALL DELUDED PARTIES.)

Now, If I am not careful to remain inside my confidence forcefield, this sort of nonsense can become a persuasive loud and destructive voice, so extra effort at positive thinking has to kick in. I was once lucky enough to be on Graham Norton’s couch with the divine alabaster goddess that is Nicole Kidman. She is a tall woman and she was wearing high heels, so when we were backstage, I found myself mainly conversing with her fanny, since that’s what was at eye level. I’m not complaining, all of her is perfectly lovely, it’s just that when I’m next to such a wonderfully long woman, I can feel quite small in lots of ways. In front of the camera, I invited her to stand up so that I could show the audience the difference. At moments like this, I often imagine what it would be like if aliens landed right at that very moment.

‘Hello, aliens, and welcome. Let me take this opportunity to demonstrate the marvellous diversity of what we like to call WOMEN. Both of the specimens in front of you are women. Both contain brains and organs and bones and reproductive systems (some are modified) and digestive systems and eyes and a heart and fannies and bumholes and blood and everything that makes us work. It’s just that one of us contains all of this stuff in the same amount of space that the other one has for only her legs. Just legs. Legs as long as the short one is tall. Amazing, isn’t it? Yet one is no better than the other in any way … except perhaps one can see more at a football game, but otherwise these two creatures are utterly EQUAL. Imagine that.’

I had exactly the same experience of utter wonderment when I was doing a French and Saunders sketch which included the phenomenon that is Darcey Bussell. It was a silly ballet sketch, so she was in a leotard, which of course displayed every contour of her wonderful lithe body. I couldn’t take my eyes off her to the point of rude, creepy staring. I couldn’t, and still can’t, imagine living inside a long bendy body like that. Being that high up and so graceful as you are transported around your world atop lengthy, lean, muscular legs, looking over hedges and seeing the tops of people’s heads, what might that be like? Imagine the ground you can cover at speed with such a long stride? Imagine being able to reach anything on a top shelf? Imagine crossing your legs and then having enough leg left to tuck your foot in behind your other leg? Imagine that!

Mind you, I do as much imagining about all sorts of other bodies, especially men’s. Imagine having broad shoulders and no bosoms and all that untidiness in your front pants? Imagine being in a 100-year-old body? Or a baby’s body? Or a one-legged person’s body? Or an athlete’s body? Or a one-legged athlete’s body? Or a cat’s body …?

Here I am though, permanently ensconced in this strange little body my parents gifted me. The only body I truly know. When I look down at it from the top, it’s quite an interesting sight because pretty much all I see is bosoms and the ground below with the tips of my feet poking out. It’s not a great angle really, but remember, it’s not the view of your body that anyone else gets, it’s only from YOUR head. The front-on view they see is much more flattering and, actually, more accurate.

When I think of all the pointless hours I spent, especially as a younger teenager, wishing my body was different, I feel quite sad. Me ol’ mate and erstwhile comedy partner Jennifer and I were talking about this, and we decided to root out pictures of when we remembered being the most unhappy about our physical selves. What we saw, of course, were two young girls, aged about fourteen, who are bloody gorgeous, and, like so many girls of that age, who have no clue that they are perfectly lovely just as they are. Maybe you’re not supposed to be too confident at this age, maybe you’re supposed to waver and wobble and fret but … blimey … why?! As if you don’t have enough challenges on your plate! When do we learn to beat ourselves up so badly about our bodies? Is it at school? Is it about comparison? Is it when that unwinnable battle begins between the desire to be unique versus wanting so desperately to fit in? Why is doubt so resolutely the referee? And fear the only true victor?

Luckily my dad gave me armour in those tricky formative years, and because of that I reckon I’m reasonably confident about how my body is, but I still have misgivings that I reckon are fairly universal. Let me run you through them as I see them, starting with:

HEAD

Yep, relatively happy with this. Inherited most of this area directly from my parents. My hair is quite thick, and keeps my head warm. Just a quick moment about hair: why is it so important? How the hell would we explain it to those same aliens that landed when I was standing next to Nicole Kidman? ‘Yes, it’s thousands of strands of dead stuff that hangs off our heads and we spend thousands of money, probably hundreds per strand, in our lifetime, making sure we regularly cut it off and paint it to be a different colour. Yes, you may well tilt your big green bald MEKON head quizzically …’ For some inexplicable reason, I feel fortunate to have plenty of hair to be constantly cutting and colouring. It’s bonkers.

I have ears, eyes, nose and mouth that all seem to function pretty well. Five of those are actual holes in my body … which is weird when you think about it. And on that, sorry to digress, but exactly how many holes do we believe a woman has? Excluding eyeballs and skin pores of course, it would just be silly to include those. I’ve done a quick tally, and personally I think it’s eight, but some do say seven. Look, discuss it with your gynaecologist and draw your own conclusions. I’m not really that bothered about the accuracy, I’ve decided it’s all part of a woman’s mystery, y’know: ‘I am woman, I am many, many holes, I am a colander, I am a golf course, I am Emmental cheese …’

Anyway, anyway, back to HEAD. Most of my face is arranged in a fairly symmetrical pattern. Obviously it’s crinkling with age, but that’s to be expected, and I think a corrugated face is quite useful for rain guttering.

NECK

Well, this is of course irrelevant, as I don’t have one. Nope. No-Neck-Nancy, that’s me. Everyone in my family goes directly from chin to chest without passing GO. No inward curvature whatsoever. More convex, like a gobble on a rooster. This does lead to various jewellery crises because I have been informed that a necklace belongs, apparently … on a neck. I have no neck. Therefore I have no necklace. No bitterness there … move along to …

SHOULDERS

Where, obviously, I keep my chips. My shoulders are not really much use, to be honest, except to keep my bra straps on, and they’re useful for shrugging, but nothing really to see here.

ARMS

Yes, these are really quite interesting. They’re definitely much shorter than is required. They are basically a couple of butchers’ wives stocky leg o’muttons. They’re not pretty, not elegant. I can’t pull off strappy dresses, but they ARE fit for purpose. They carry stuff, they go around kids and friends, and a husband’s neck, so I’m OK with that.

HANDS

Right, yes. The extreme of my body, five cocktail sausages flopping about at the end there, quite untidy really. I have had them described as ‘stumpy’ before now, but seriously how blummin’ amazing are they? In terms of sheer engineering they’re phenomenal. There are twenty-seven bones in each one, and they are the densest area of nerve endings in our whole body. And what about the whole opposable thumb thing, that lets me know I’m a primate? Fantastic. It’s all the things I’ve DONE with these hands that matter most to me:

So basically, everything I’ve ever touched has been touched by these hands of mine. EVERYTHING. That means every single piece of chocolate I’ve ever eaten has been placed in my cakehole by these very hands. Oh, THANK YOU, hands.

NORKS/BOSOMS/BAPS

Little and Large, Wood and Walters … or, if I’m furious with them, and I often am because they’re such show-offs, ANT and DEC. My boobs pretty much arrive everywhere before I do. They even arrived on my body before I was ready. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t lugging them around. I once took my bra off on a radio show and put it on my head, thereby proving that my entire head fits into ONE CUP of my 42G industrial bra. So I am carrying around two whole-head-sized lumps on my front. Frankly, it’s astonishing that I remain upright at all. So, yes, OK, they’re fairly big, and wayhayhay and phwoar and all of that, but y’know, calm down, what are they really? Just some udders that boys regard as a theme park.

BELLY

Now then. Something interesting here. I am the only person I know who has a belly the exact same size and in the exact same position on the FRONT of my body, as my arse is on the BACK. How did THAT happen?!

Why am I asking you? I know EXACTLY how it happened – CURLY WURLYS. That’s how. So, I am, in actuality, a sphere, a barrel. With legs. Like a sort of human M&M character. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Do I really mind? In truth I don’t consider it that much. If my belly doesn’t fit my trousers, I get bigger trousers. OF COURSE I know it’s good to be aware of health risks, but come on, what is life without a Curly Wurly every now and then?

GROWLER

The GROTTO OF MANY BEGUILING DELIGHTS, the LADYGARDEN, or as I prefer to call mine … Mumford & Sons … (y’know, the beardy ones). Nothing much I really want to share about this particular area of mine (I can hear the collective sigh of relief), except to say that the entire environs, the complete service station, is marvellous. Thank you.

HIPS

I like my hips very much. At least the bits that I think are generally regarded as hips. I’m not entirely sure exactly where they are to be honest, but I think it’s the part that moves most when any Shakira music comes on. Talking of which, I once overdanced so severely to ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ that I actually injured my actual hip. I had to walk with a stick for six weeks. So frankly, Shakira love, your hips DO lie.

LEGS

I was clearly given someone else’s.

These ones are a short, fat, elderly MAN’S legs.

By elderly, I mean dead.

My legs are not for a woman.

Once, Fatty Saunders and I did a sketch where we had to be hoicked up on wires for hours on end. When you do that, they put you in a special flying harness. Hers was a tiny little dainty nylon one. Mine arrived in a trunk. It was a big leather strappy monstrosity/sling type of thing that you might lift a horse in. As I was climbing into the heavy-duty truss, I saw the name tag etched on the inside of the strap, the person it had originally been made for. Harry Secombe. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED Harry. But really? I have HIS body? Yes. I have Harry Secombe’s legs. Thank you, God. Not.

FEET

Mine are those of a hobbit. They’re fuzzy and don’t fit any ordinary-width shoes. But they carry me about year after year and rarely complain, so I’m happy with that.

That’s it, basically. That’s how I see my body. It does its job, it’s healthy and I like it. Even though some of it is a bit strange and it doesn’t fit very well on any scientific chart, and it doesn’t match up to any ‘ideal’. It’s never stopped me doing anything I want to do.

It’s where I live, and I fit in it very comfortably, thank you.

But … it’s just my shell.

It’s not the only thing that defines me.

So when and if anyone tries to bully me or any other woman because of the way our bodies are, my blood boils. There might be choices we make in our lives that could entail shame, yes, but intimating that ANYONE should feel shame because of their body is not OK by me. Look at those evil red rings of shame that certain women’s magazines highlight people’s supposed flaws with? Only a bully would do this purposely, point out a mistake or blemish with glee like that. It’s so unkind.

Why not do the opposite? Why not help us to build our fragile confidence by pointing out the LOVELY parts instead? Give us something to emulate and admire. We don’t need all the crushing, ta. Allow us to learn to accept and be content with how we look. Let us take a few less selfies (self included) and begin to look outwards a bit more. Let us let ourselves off the hook more often. Let us age naturally if we want to and celebrate that process for the gift it is. Let us acknowledge that people come in all kinds of shapes and sizes and let us enjoy that by making clothes that FIT EVERYONE, and by focusing on what’s fantastic about all of us instead of what’s found wanting.

Bugger that. Bugger regret and self-hatred. I’m going to take the risk of actually liking myself, flaws ’n’ all, and see where that leads me. I have this one earthly life only. Am I really going to spend the majority of it hating myself?

Bugger that!

Feel free to put red rings around the parts
of your body that you LOVE …

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