My Date with Destiny … in the Form of Boobies
I’ve never been much of a boobies man (OK, from here on in, can we call them breasts? Otherwise we could be in a second-year common room looking at Fiesta magazine in the 80s and trust me, this could be a very dark place).
When my friends were all hunkered down, transfixed by the screen, trying in vain to get dealt a straight flush to beat ‘Sam Fox’s strip poker’ on the ZX Spectrum, circa 1987, I was wondering, firstly, how do you know the rules of poker aged fourteen? (They didn’t.) And secondly, there’s no way the lovely Sam is going to give up a brief glance at her heavily pixelated crown jewels to a group of adolescents who can’t play poker for toffee (she didn’t).
Don’t get me wrong, I adore – did you hear me? – ADORE the female form, in all its forms! It’s just that when it comes to breasts, it’s much like your taste in chicken; you’re a breast guy or a leg guy. And when you were a fourteen-year-old boy you DID NOT say you were a leg man, we had them too, as well as bums, it just didn’t add up, it was the equivalent of not having red blood cells coursing through your veins.
So now, twenty-five years later, it gives me great pleasure to say I’ve seen the error of my ways, and I realise that being attentive to one’s breasts is of paramount importance to women (and men) of all ages.
My wake-up call came at The Pride of Britain Awards a couple of years ago. I was giving an award, and it’s always been the most worthy, thought-provoking ‘put your own stupid problems into context’ kind of night. Think toddlers with super-human strength pulling their grannies out of burning buildings, or OAPs walking on their hands for charity from Lands End to John O’Groats … If you’re not in floods of tears within ten minutes, then you’re made of stone. It quite simply restores your faith in your fellow man.
I wasn’t on the table I expected to be on, but I was with friends, so I didn’t make a fuss and sat where I was put. One hour in, a blonde, bald bombshell and her twin sister bowled up to my table. Kris and Maren were friendly, but were certainly on a mission.
‘And why have you changed your seat? You’re supposed to be sat with us.’
This was bad. A: I had no real idea what they were talking about, and B: A cancer patient was telling me off … which is not a good look, especially when you don’t know why.
I obviously folded like my fourteen-year-old friends’ poker hands, and sat them down for a chat, and chat we did, all night. I was vaguely aware of the issues around breast cancer, but Kris and her sister Maren’s knowledge combined with their passion and energy was a much-needed education.
Two years (and two half-marathons) down the line, I’m proud to be a patron of one of the hardest-working and dynamic charities I’ve ever worked with. The girls at CoppaFeel! and their merry band of game disciples (who incidentally also bake a mean cake) travel the country to universities and festivals spreading awareness and the word of all things booby (curses, I’ve said it again) to both women and men. Hell, they’re so on it, they now even stage their own festival! (‘Festifeel’ … very strong) to spread the good word.
And much like my experience with them, others have found … they are pretty hard to say no to.
Turns out I am a boob man after all.