Topper columnist Chrissie Rowell shoots from the lip...
Martians, Venusians or a load of Uranus?
Permission to speak freely? (Fairly freely, there might be children reading). This is a column after all! And since it’s in the women’s section of the paper, it got me wondering why we even need one.
Hardcore feminists think that men and women should be equal in every respect, women of the old school believe we should still have doors opened for us and stay at home to raise babies.
So I thought I’d write my first Topper column about a subject that we’ll probably never get to the bottom of - are men really from Mars and women from Venus? Is it true that we’re on different wavelengths, will we ever understand each other and do we have to be treated so differently?
My initial thoughts were no, we’re brainwashed into thinking this to preserve the status quo. But then my husband left the toilet roll empty and I lost the plot. He didn’t have a clue why and so I reserve the right to change my mind! But for the time being, I’m going to reserve judgment altogether.
For too long now, we’ve been living under the assumption that we’re poles apart, that men behave one way and women behave another. That we have our own character traits, our own thought patterns and we’re predictable to an extent.
This is the very attitude and philosophy that leaves us confused about each other, because more often than not, we’re wrong. I used to generalise about most things, before I found it got me nowhere!
I tried to assume people’s reactions to things before they happened, take risks over things I said and did, based on who and what I thought they were. In fact I used to do this until very recently, when I was so violently taken aback by someone’s unexpected reaction that I was forced to reconsider my expectations of people. In simple terms, I thought only women over-reacted, that men were more placid, women wanted conversation, while men only wanted physical fulfilment...
I don’t need to list all the usual preconceptions; they’re as old as the hills. All I can advise at the moment, in an episode of total blankness, is that we be very careful when putting them to use! I’m not a predictable model of womanhood myself, which makes my view a little more unique. I’ve often been accused of being a man trapped inside a woman’s body. Sounds harsh and I can assure you, I definitely look like and enjoy being a woman!
I suspect what’s happening here is that many of us are evolving into a formidable gender hybrid - we want everything, we won’t stop until we get it and yet we’re actually pretty confused by the arena in which we find ourselves competing.
Society doesn’t yet wholeheartedly embrace this ideal and success may mean having to trample on those around us who are less gender-evolved and have little clue of what us hybrid folk are up to.
But it’s nothing personal! It’s hereby going to be my mission to try and work out how we can all live in harmony: alpha-males, vain metro-sexual guys, gays, lesbians, housewives, egotistical career women and everyone in between. I’ll be damned if these can all be categorised under two ‘planets’.
For me the jury is still out on whether I can salvage some of the old relationship guidelines and put them to use again. Watch this space, it’s going to be a bumpy ride!
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Fakebook – the cloudiest window to the world
THE internet flits between being the most revered and ingenious invention that has revolutionised the way we exist and this force of manmade evil that takes over our lives and interferes with our capacity to interact on a human level.
Everything which the internet is useful for, every single activity that we have come to rely on it as a substitute for, would be a more fulfilling experience if we just peeled ourselves away from the sofa, threw the laptop away and did it properly. Right? I realise that in a business sense, the internet is God’s gift.
Free communication at the click of a mouse, business leads via online networking facilities, virtual face to face conferencing - some people conduct their entire corporate existence online.
It can’t be all bad. But as with everything, we humans, ever the victims of a downfall we should have seen coming - we take it all too far. We can’t even make it to the shops on foot anymore, or catch up with friends in person.
A couple of weeks ago, the news was telling us that if we spend too much time on social networking sites like the ever growing monster Facebook, we’re likely to be more depressed. Well, as with all the most obvious news reports and groundbreaking revelations from psychologists, that I did see coming.
It doesn’t take a genius to make the link. As much as I am a die-hard addict, I’ve never been Facebook’s number one fan. It’s a bit of a love/hate relationship from my point of view. Hundreds of friends, most of whom wouldn’t recognise you if they fell over you in the street - what’s the point?
My latest stand against Facebook, save leaving it altogether, was a friend cull that left no-one safe. The whole thing was starting to feel incredibly false and I didn’t want people calling themselves my friends, when they don’t even know what colour my hair is at the moment.
If I hadn’t spoken to them in more than a month, they were deleted. I thought it would be a good test to see how many of them noticed and re-added me.
I was down to 64 people and even that seemed ridiculous, given how infrequently I saw most of them. As is stands, my friends’ list is creeping back up again, as people I’ve only met once continue to add me.
‘Why are you so uptight about it,’ I’ve been asked, ‘it’s only a networking site. Does it matter if you never see some of the people?’ Honestly? No. But what it begins to make you realise after a while, is how few genuine friends you actually have.
Regardless of how seriously you take Facebook, 99% of regular users will approach it in the same way.
If you think you’re seeing a true picture of a person by their status updates and their carefully selected photos, you’re naïve.
It develops a nasty habit in people, of creating an outward persona that they think others will either approve of or aspire to. Of course if you’re like me, your profile will display distinct signs of ‘virtual schizophrenia’, whereby your moods visibly and regularly swing from ‘Look at me I’m having a ball and my life is way better than yours,’ to ‘Help me, I need someone to talk to, everything is falling apart.’
How many people do you think notice either? Who knows. But few people react to the latter. The longer you use it to validate your relationships and social life, the more your life appears to be meaningless. You’re not getting to know people and you’re losing sight of who you are yourself.
If there’s even a slight issue in your life which could cause you to feel introverted and you were unlucky enough to be a child of the internet revolution, you’re at risk of becoming addicted and depressed, according to psychology experts.
If, like me, you also work from home, conduct a lot of your business via the internet and your main interest is writing, you’re practically doomed to commit suicide live on Facebook! It’s a bad habit and it dies very, very hard.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Could you share your husband?
Sometimes it’s necessary to think outside of the box, to consider things from a less traditional point of view.
For a feature I’m researching on open marriages, I did that and became a member of a dating website that helps married people find partners to have affairs with. It’s an eye opener, that’s for sure.
It puts Tiger Woods, John Terry and Ashley Cole in a whole new light. Not the scheming love rats we like to brand them as, perhaps more the healthy, red blooded and easily bored human beings they were designed to be, albeit without the freedom of sexuality that it’s argued human beings need.
You know that phrase, ‘you’re not sorry, you’re only sorry you got caught?’. I’m willing to bet that applies to the majority of people who get rumbled (and I’m not on a feminist pedestal here, there are plenty of women on that website, myself included, although my intentions are only investigative for the time being!).
Browsing adultery websites isn’t the extent of my research. I conducted a long interview with Dr. Sally Munt, a cognitive psychotherapist and Professor of Cultural and Gender Studies at Sussex University.
According to her and many other professionals in her field, it’s a growing trend and it’s not the sex that’s causing the damage, it’s the breach of trust. “If a couple have agreed monogamy (of course, not all couples do), and one of them doesn’t conform to that agreement, the issue is not that their sexuality is uncontrollable, the issue is that they have breached the trust of that initial agreement.
So that needs to be looked at and the couple need to work out what’s gone wrong together.”
Deceit seems to be the only way around society’s abhorrence for open relationships and a contradictory need for them. Having someone at home that you love and get on with above all others, whilst being able to have as much fun outside of the home that you want, free of commitment and judgment – it seems like something blissful and other worldly!
Definitely not something ‘average Joe’ can conceive of or implement into his jealous and possessive lifestyle.
The situation obviously has its drawbacks. As many therapists and sociologists will tell you, we’re falsely brainwashed into thinking monogamy is an intrinsic human state; the minute people start to look beyond it, to find a way of having their cake and eating it, they become plagued by guilt, not to mention other peoples’ dim view of their attempts at finding a healthy and fulfilling balance. But imagine the pressure it takes off the average marriage?
As I was told by Professor Munt: “People are very complex beings, if they feel they can’t honour that agreement of monogamy anymore, they’re probably feeling pretty bad about it, but there’s such a social pressure to keep to it - it means it’s very difficult to talk about.”
Hence the sneaking around. Perhaps if we did talk about it, if we actually sat down, laid all our cards on the table and confessed to our other halves the way we’d really like to live, we could make some progress, stop looking over to the other side of the fence all the time, feel satisfied with our lot and enjoy marriage for what it’s supposed to be - companionship.
Believe it or not, according to marriage counsellors, open relationships are more common than we might think; they’re a facet of many successful and happy marriages where the foundation is actually friendship and honesty, rather than jealousy, insecurity and unfulfilling sex.
I felt incredibly sad when someone on the aforementioned ‘married-dating’ website said: “Doing this has put some laughter and a spark back in me. Which does help make my home life more bearable.”
If that’s how people are viewing their marriages, then something is definitely wrong. Could open relationships be the answer or maybe, our original purpose all along? Someone get John Terry’s Mrs. on the phone…
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
X marks the (soft) spot
WE’VE all been in the position at some time or other, where we can’t decide on the correct etiquette of placing that very ambiguous X (also known as a kiss).
It used to be reserved for lovers but these days it seems to be a common display of politeness between friends, even colleagues. Recently I have agonised over the correct placement of the X when corresponding with clients (I am a wedding planner amongst other things).
Brides-to-be usually have no qualms about signing off their emails and texts with a ‘kiss’, however I am usually reluctant to reciprocate, at least until we’re a little better acquainted or can be comfortably classed as ‘friends’.
It’s all to do with maintaining a certain level of professionalism, however, as I am also as concerned about coming across as cold and miserable, I never manage to come to a decision about what’s more appropriate – to X or not to X!
Females aside, there have been times when I’ve sent a work related text message to a male who is little more than an acquaintance and without thinking, I have stuck a ‘kiss’ on the end of the message and pressed ‘send’ before I’ve even realised. You feel a pang of embarrassment at times like this, imagining what thoughts are crossing the recipient’s mind.
‘Do they fancy me?’, most probably.
Indisputably, there are times when you will use a ‘kiss’ to convey that very notion, to flirt or more specifically, to use your feminine wiles to get what you want. But then it all becomes very confusing, because how is anyone meant to know the difference between accidental X, innocent, friendly X and manipulative, flirty X?!
My husband offers a male perspective on the subject. “Women can get away with it because they’re more tactile and emotional. But if men do it, it’s weird and if they do it to women, the women might get the wrong idea!!”
He tells me that his female colleagues sign off their work related correspondence with a kiss but he would never do the same.
“I keep it simple and only sign an X to you. Anyone else might think I’m coming on to them!”
Perhaps he’s right - as women are still thought of as the fairer and less predatory sex, we are allowed to convey what would otherwise seem like inappropriate displays of affection and it’s just ‘cute’.
But if men do the same, one assumes they’re probably after sex! I don’t think so personally but I can see how people might reach that conclusion.
So far, I can surmise that women can ‘X’ women, women can also ‘X’ men, men can’t ‘X’ anyone unless they want to date them but that any of the above may not be as they first seem.
Yet the complications don’t end there! How should I deal with a particularly tricky situation, whereby the bride-to-be is lovely and friendly and kisses are part and parcel of her nature but all correspondence and replies from me are requested to go to both her and the groom-to-be?
Is it rude and icy not to reciprocate a ‘kiss’ or is it inappropriate and compromising of my professional attitude, when it’s going to be received by her other half as well?
Finally, absence of the X when it’s expected to be there can cause even more trouble and possibly serious disappointment.
If we expect it to be there or want it to be and it isn’t, we assume we have done something wrong and/or the other person doesn’t like us!
I remember my single days of texting, looking for that all important X at the end of what would otherwise be a plain, boring text message.
Whether or not the X was present, I usually read into it wrong.
If we could all operate by the same X rules, it might save a lot of confusion!
Before that we’ll have to figure out exactly what it’s supposed to mean...
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Don’t be a shrinking violet...
Somebody recently enlightened me with a new perspective on confidence, or perhaps more a lack of it.
Dr. Leon Beer, a charming, eccentric and very good looking Dynamic Awareness Coach (and also author and part time model) crossed my own winding career path recently and gave me a few tips on finding freedom of spirit and passion in life.
Apparently one of the most important things a lot of people need to realise in order to achieve this, is that they may be governed more by their fear of success than their fear of failure. It seems a strange thing to comprehend doesn’t it?
But after careful consideration, I’d say he’s spot on. How many times have you avoided doing something you really want to, moreover, something you know you’d be really good at, because you’re afraid of what people will think or say?
Or how they’ll react to their own jealousy and insecurity? Sadly we’ve all been a victim at some time or another, to a reaction that doesn’t make us feel great about ourselves.
The way people like to bring others down just because they can’t stand to be in their shadow or see them succeed, is a sad but common human characteristic, that we’ve not only all been victim to but also guilty of demonstrating at some time or another.
The sad truth is, we’re all desperate for people’s approval and as much as people may approve on the inside, or at least feel envious - if they only display signs of negativity for whatever someone is trying to achieve, then that person is likely to feel as if they’re doing something wrong and they’ll question themselves as a result.
If like me, you’re less prone to seeking peoples’ approval and more likely to satisfy your own curiosity whenever the mood takes you, then people will rarely hold you back. They will still however, leave you with a bitter taste in your mouth if you manage to reach your goals and end up ruffling a few feathers along the way.
Take celebrities for example; the general public can’t wait to shoot them down and devour sordid details of their misfortune when their partners play around, they get admitted into drugs rehab or they go on a drink fuelled bender that ends in a tearful meltdown.
We don’t like them when they’re happy and successful, we actually feel more comfortable talking about them when they fall from grace. The only possible reason I can come up with for this (and I’m not a psychologist) is that it’s a basic survival strategy.
We want rid of the competition and delight in their failure. If they succeed, we want to find ways to weaken them. If you’re a regular reader of celebrity gossip magazines, you’ll know that a celebrity becomes more popular when they disgrace themselves. It makes us feel better. No-one likes Miss Happy-Go-Lucky!
If you’re to have any chance of survival and success in this life, you have to toughen up.
We’ve heard that often enough but it’s easier said than done. It took five years of torment and ridicule before I stood up to the school bully and even when I did finally unleash a torrent of abuse back at her and she stood there bemused and dumbstruck, I was shaking like a leaf.
It should have been from relief and the release of pent up tension but in all honesty it was more the fear that she might beat me to a pulp. Luckily, she didn’t.
I can’t put this into my own words in a more effective way so I will quote Leon Beer directly - “You ask yourself, ‘who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.”
If others can’t handle your success and happiness, that’s for them to deal with. It shouldn’t stop you trying.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Driving ‘V’ public transport
NO matter how much the Government and local council try to convince me it’s a good idea to ditch my lovely, clean, cosy car and board a bus filled with strangers I have to sit too close to and every surface I must touch in order to not fall over - simply crawling with other people’s bacteria... surprisingly, I must politely decline.
The Government, in their attempts to save the environment and ease congestion, fail to consider how used to our own luxuries we’ve become.
You can call me obsessive about cleanliness, over-sensitive about my personal space but these are things which I am accustomed to and find it hard to sacrifice to save a few quid on parking and half an hour in a traffic jam.
Twenty minutes sat on a crowded bus (after waiting for 10 minutes in the cold) and the privilege of speeding along in a bus lane or 40 minutes in heavy traffic, sat comfortably in my space, listening to my music, setting my preferred temperature and not being irritated by other people’s loud, mindless gossip and foul body odour? It, as they say, is a no brainer.
Now before I get an inbox full of complaints from regular passengers of public transport, expressing their offence at my harsh generalisations and stereotyping of your average bus traveller, allow me to point out that I have travelled by public transport a lot recently (for work reasons, to avoid bankrupting myself due to all day parking charges) and I do speak the truth.
I will admit however, there are many perfectly non-irritating and clean fellow passengers but they are barely noticeable when you’re trying to avoid being sick because you’re sat behind someone with an aversion to soap and water.
I have discussed this with many of my friends and colleagues who are regular passengers on public transport and they all agree with me – there is always at least one person on the bus (usually sat next to me, if I dare to venture on) that has a serious personal hygiene issue.
If that happens to be you, dear reader, please do something about it. Although something tells me you would have already, if you had an inkling about how bad you smell.
The nasally/hygienically challenged aside, I have to get another thing straight.
I’m not about to suggest that I don’t spread my own fair share of bacteria wherever I go, not to mention all over my car and steering wheel.
But the thing is, it’s my bacteria. Using the bus is like sitting in the living room of every stranger you’ve never met, having no idea how often they wash their hands or what they were up to before they should have.
No-one cares about their own germs but most people get a bit queasy about those of people they don’t know.
If it were socially acceptable for freaks like me to get on a bus wearing a chemical wetsuit and a gas mask, then problem solved.
Until then, I better stay in my car. Hardened bus travellers, you have my respect.
And a message to the Government – forget subsidising public transport costs.
Until you plough every penny of my hard earned taxes into making it a totally pleasant and cost free experience and employ bouncers to eject riff raff and people who smell, then I’m not giving up my car. And let’s be honest – neither are you.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
If the shoe fits...
IT’S reported that Victoria Beckham is having her bunions operated on soon, such is the excruciating pain she is suffering from years of forcing her feet into crippling shoes.
At twenty six years old, I am heading the same way at alarming speed. The pain across the top of my left foot is so intense it can take my breath away, usually more so when I remove the offending heels and come back to ground level. And yet over the past month alone, I have bought five new pairs (I am actually quite ashamed to say this when there is poverty in the world, although in my defence, four of them were in the sale).
So it seems the pain and likelihood of being completely immobile in a couple of years, doesn’t frighten me out of my obsession for ridiculously impractical footwear.
My husband told me the other day, when I came home with two more pairs from Kurt Geiger - ‘you need help’. There were other words exchanged, however I won’t go into that. I admit, I do have a problem.
An addiction, even. It’s not your average women love shoes syndrome either, it’s much worse. Buying a new pair of shoes is an involuntary compulsion - if I see a pair I want badly enough, I will find a way to justify the purchase.
It’s my only vice. I don’t smoke or take drugs, I rarely drink, I live fairly modestly in most other respects, however I love shoes with a passion that’s all consuming and putting on a gorgeous pair of high heels is like an injection of some kind of confidence boosting drug in itself. Shoes are the single most important part of any outfit and to put that into perspective – here’s an amusing fact: I bought my wedding shoes before I bought my wedding dress, they were more important.
So now you know about the problem I have. But I ask myself this question regularly and so do many philosophers, psychologists and feminists; why is it something that should be functional, practical and comfortable becomes so much more exciting when it’s limiting, totally impractical and painful? We suffer for fashion and have done so for years, shoes being the ultimate sacrifice in comfort.
When I think about it literally, it seems truly ridiculous - that our feet, already supporting the full weight of our bodies and seldom treated with the same care we give the rest of our bodies, should be victim to this tortuous habit of teetering around on five inch heels with our toes squashed into a near impossible position that causes bones to protrude in the wrong places, with permanent effect. And yet, one glimpse of a pair of these instruments of torture and I couldn’t care less about the pain! I am one of the slavering, brainwashed women, forcing my poor feet into them.
Manolo Blahnik once said ‘shoes help transform a woman’. Was he talking about the lengthening effect on the legs, the tightening and toning effect on the calf muscles, the improvement of posture when forced into a tip toe position, the elevation in height and status or perhaps the knowledge that when wearing a pair of these shoes, we become instantly sexier because men love the sight of a stiletto heel? And if they do, why? Is it, as has been suggested many times, because heels offer some kind of phallic representation that appeals to men? (I hereby invite my male readers to share their thoughts on high heels with me!)
If so, does that mean the women wearing them have delusions of gender and status, wishing to elevate themselves metaphorically as well as literally? I must be honest and say that none of this occurs to me, at least not consciously, when I am cooing over a new pair of heels. What goes on subconsciously is anyone’s guess. But that old phrase, ‘if the shoe fits, wear it’ is appropriate here, because whatever your reason for going high and glamorous in the footwear department, if a shoe calls to you - don’t argue with it.
It’s probably telling people more about you, than you could ever put into words yourself.
I wish to apologise and make a correction to my column dated 24th March ‘Don’t be a shrinking violet’, in which I wrongly attributed the last quote to Dr. Leon Beer. It was in fact by Marianne Williamson, from her book ‘A Return To Love: A Reflection on the Principles of A Course in Miracles’. Marianne Williamson is an internationally acclaimed spiritual teacher, political activist and author.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Paint and Polyfilla
I simply must have a rant about some of the women who work behind the fragrance and cosmetic counters in our department stores, not just in Nottingham but the world over.
There’s a harsh stereotype involved here, one which labels them as slightly pompous, stand-offish and very self assured in their own poor ability to apply makeup.
Well, I can personally vouch for the fact that this isn’t always the case – I myself have done this job and I wasn’t mean or snobbish, nor did I style myself on (as a friend of mine puts it) Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight.
I’ve been noticing these women more and more lately on my shopping travels and sometimes, it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing when I see them.
You all know what I mean – foundation applied with a trowel at least three or four shades too dark, stripes of browny-red rouge up the cheeks with no attempt at blending having been made, shockingly bright eye-shadows that even ‘pennywise the clown’ would have difficulty carrying off and lips lined a few millimetres over their natural shape with a pencil that’s not even the same colour as the lipstick.
I have one fundamental question in relation to this phenomenon – how do these women get jobs trying to sell cosmetics?
If (God forbid) I were a makeup fearing woman, with little clue how to use it and meekly seeking some advice from more glamorous and experienced wearers, I would venture, terrified, towards the brightly lit and suffocatingly fragranced counters of prestigious and trusted cosmetic brands, see these women supposedly advertising the stuff and promptly turn around and run in the opposite direction - for fear they might turn me into Lily Savage with one of their complimentary makeovers.
Are the people in charge at Chanel, Estee Lauder and Yves Saint Laurent aware of these ladies bringing disrepute to their name, by turning up to work looking like they’ve been playing with Mummy’s makeup bag in the dark?
I was very amused the other day, to discreetly watch one such lady peering into a mirror when she thought no customers were looking; already having cheeks like a victim of severe sunstroke, she began vigorously applying more blusher like her life depended on it! What she was thinking as she admiringly assessed the result in the mirror, is quite honestly anyone’s guess. I am at a loss trying to work out what’s happening.
Could these women be working for an animal charity perhaps, involved in some covert, backhanded operation to stop women buying makeup because it’s being tested on animals?
Or perhaps they’re with some feminist extremists, trying to infiltrate the cosmetics market to stop women falling victim to the pressure of making themselves more attractive. Whatever they’re up to, they sure as hell can’t be helping to sell makeup.
Cosmetics get a bad press enough of the time, ridiculed by men (who ironically would be the first to complain if their glamorous other-halves stopped wearing it and started looking ‘rough’) and sneered upon by plainer, intellectual types who think there are more important things in life to worry about, besides being a dolly bird. Well there’s a place for makeup, or paint and polyfilla, as one of my male teachers used to call it as he instructed me to wipe ‘that rubbish’ off my face at age 15.
It’s there to help us look better, more glowing, to enhance our natural beauty and for a lot of women, to help us feel more confident.
Can someone please educate the ambassadors fronting our makeup departments? Because they’ve got it all wrong! Seriously girls – sort it out.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell @live.co.uk
The cheek of it!
I’VE decided that sexual equality is anything but equal.
It’s in fact a one way arrangement, designed to emancipate women and allow them to do anything they want, whilst men suffer at the hands of this supposedly feminist principle (and thus far, you are probably wondering why I have a problem with it).
Well the truth is - it’s not really feminist at all, is it? As far as I can see, sexual equality doesn’t do much for women except further affirm the weaknesses we supposedly possess; that we’re delicate, physically weak and wide open to all kinds of abuse that men want to throw at us.
I can imagine there was a need to protect us before we were recognised as fairly capable individuals with a defensive attitude, a mind of our own and predatory sexual wiles to rival those of men.
But this is the 21st century – you’d think a woman might be given a slapped wrist or disciplinary action over pinching a cute male colleague’s bum (just imagine if it were the other way around).
In the current state of play, it’s classed as daring and flattering if a woman makes hand contact with any part of a man’s body. After all, what harm can it possibly do? It’s not as if she could pose an actual threat... wait for him in the store cupboard, pin him down and have her evil, selfish way with him! If for argument’s sake, she did, would the man be likely to complain?)
But consider the man’s feelings for a moment. What if he suffers the same kind of resentment that a woman might, at this blatant invasion of his personal space and assumption that his body is fair game?
Regardless of whether the woman poses a physical threat or not, is it wrong to make this kind of uncalled for move on someone? And if it is, who’s going to pipe up and stand in his defence? This whole thing smacks of double standards. Men can barely cast an admiring glance over a nice (and willingly displayed) cleavage, without accusations of ‘pervert’ being hurled at them. Yet we ladies can grab a handful of flesh and no-one cares!
Let’s imagine the worst outcome for the victim of the aforementioned scenario. I think it would probably be embarrassment - and that can be pretty brutal for the male ego.
No self respecting alpha wants to be caught off guard by a woman he didn’t even suspect of being the fruity type! Knock the male ego off balance and you have one confused individual who wonders why he didn’t read the signs and get in there first.
Lucky then, that the person who inspired this column isn’t the egotistical type. And as far as I know, the people who pinched his bum aren’t the predatory type either.
(Note: Besides providing plenty of encouragement, I was not directly involved in this social experiment, much to my regret. The bum in question is very nice.)
You see - this was all a bit of harmless fun but it got me wondering: would it have been as harmless if two or three over-excitable blokes decided to corner a woman and squeeze her behind in the workplace?
In reality, probably. But on paper, women are still more vulnerable to sexual threats than men. Men don’t know where to draw the line, they read everything as a come-on, they’re just great big sex machines on a raging mission to sow their oats wherever they can. Or so we’re told.
And we women, we’re just oblivious! Occasionally we stray onto the path of hedonism, but only fleetingly and only to cop a crafty feel of someone’s peachy bottom when it becomes too much to resist.
Can you forgive us? And more to the point, have we done something that requires forgiveness?! Answers on a (virtual) post card, address below.
* This column is for Max, it’s only polite to put a name to the peach!
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Book it, pack it, stay at home
LIKE much of the population, if it gets to this time of the year and I haven’t got a holiday planned, I start to get restless.
But because I’m not satisfied with the average British tourist package, it takes me ages to find anything both affordable and worth getting excited about.
Like some wizened old pensioner would say – ‘I can remember the time…’ when cheap airlines really were cheap, the exchange rate was good and you could jet off somewhere unspoilt for a mere fraction of what one of the tour operators wanted to charge you.
Now, you’re lucky if you can get a return flight for two under £200 and that’s before they’ve charged you another £100 for the privilege of taking your belongings on board and breathing oxygen!
We Brits spend a ridiculous amount of money on travel abroad and who can blame us? The list of things to escape is longer and more infuriating than a queue at an airport departure gate; it includes - the dreary weather (broken up by occasional sun, but only midweek, giving way to rain again by the weekend), the British custom of closing everything but pubs after office hours, so that anyone with a job can’t shop or go out for civilised coffee, men with grotesque beer bellies and several hundred tattoos stripping off to the waist at the mere mention of a heat wave and teenage mums screaming at their brats in every town centre you venture into.
What really confuses me, however, is that when Brits flock abroad, most of them would rather go to hotter versions of the same hell! If I see an ‘English Pub’ offering a full all-day English Breakfast in any foreign holiday resort, I will never return, let alone go inside. What’s the point? I just don’t get it.
I would like to think that if Britain had a good climate, Spain would be spared all of our bad taste. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the thrill of shoe-horning yourself into a plane where you can buy slightly cheaper perfume, alcohol and cigarettes, is too much for most people to resist!
The thought of spending a holiday in such close proximity to lots of other Brits, makes me not want to bother at all. I want to get away from the kind of annoying people I wouldn’t socialise with at home, not share an adjoining balcony and a breakfast buffet with them.
And isn’t it much more tolerable to over-hear mysterious words spoken in a foreign language, instead of tales of Betty’s hip replacement and Duncan’s affair with Tracey over the road? And if I have to fight for sun loungers and beach space with anyone, I’d rather it was someone whose swearing and insults I don’t understand.
Last year, my husband and I spent a week in Turkey, somewhere we’d never been and sadly (as the resort we ended up in was so dire) will never go back, for fear of experiencing the same. It was a pre-fabricated, self contained, purpose built tourist town; plonked beside the sea, in what would otherwise be a very scenic and tranquil place.
There were no buildings over 10 years old, the menu catered for predominantly English tastes and you could even buy things in pounds sterling! It wasn’t our idea of a holiday.
In time, maybe there’ll be more Brits in Spain than over here and they’ll have to rename the Spanish Costas ‘Little Britain’.
When that happens, it might be safe to forget Costa Fortune and holiday over here instead, we’ll just have to wait for global warming to kick in first.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Storm in an ‘A’ cup
I DON’T know about other small-breasted women, but for me, underwear shopping is something I care never to do again until they properly design a bra for the Kate Mosses of this world (make that Kate Moss from the waist up, more J-Lo from the waist down).
And let’s be brutally honest ladies, for the most part, underwear is solely functional. If you’re planning a hot date or wearing something semi transparent, then I couldn’t agree more - underwear plays a key part in the overall effect. But if it’s hidden away under layers of clothes, only to be discovered on the off chance that you bump into a very frisky George Clooney on your lunch break, then I know what I’d rather spend my money on.
As you know, I’m a ‘shoe’ woman. Like thousands of others, I spend hours deliberating over a pricey pair of heels. After all, they’re constantly on show and a good pair does wonders for the posture and self confidence! But I decided it was about time I did the ‘underwear’ thing, so recently (and reluctantly), I ventured into a sexy lingerie shop, in search of something a little more tempting than the shameful, fraying, discoloured undies littering my drawer at the time.
There I found myself, sifting through rails of £40 bras and £30 thongs. I picked up a striking pink set in size 36FF and it looked like a 10 berth semi-detached tent. I rifled through to my size (I don’t even want to state it in print) and held it up. It resembled a double sleeping bag for a couple of dormice. Oh to be a reasonable C cup.
I ended up with arms full of matching sets in every colour and design imaginable and made my way to the fitting room. This was where the fun started. You see, for ladies who were dealt the leftovers in the mammary department, a bra is merely an instrument of psychological torture.
Like the bras marketed at 12 year old girls, they serve no physical purpose other than to make the wearer believe they are womanly and sexy and prepare them to be one of the grown-ups with those big soft boobies they so admire.
For a good percentage of women, unless they opt for a grapefruit style chest in the form of bags of silicone, they are doomed to continue waiting for this moment ‘til they either get pregnant or die. The sooner underwear manufacturers realise this and stop producing cups that (unbeknown to you) concave for the rest of the day if you lean on something, or gape away from your body if you slump, so that the tall man who walks by can see every little thing you have to offer - the better!
However often I hear that men don’t mind small breasts, or that old chestnut of my mother’s: ‘more than a handful’s a waste, darling!’ - I still don’t buy it.
Find me a man who will happily choose an A cup over a C on two equally attractive women and I might start believing that he also doesn’t mind how he himself measures up.
Breasts are after all, a symbol of femininity and maternity. Yes we small-chested ladies can wear backless tops without our nipples making friends with our waistbands and yes we can even run for the bus without knocking ourselves out - but the benefits really do end there.
After trying on a number of ill fitting lacy numbers, I decided upon a reasonably decent fitting floral set in pink and lilac satin and reasoned that it will only make an appearance on his birthday and Valentine’s Day anyway. As I calmly tried to reposition my own bra, I was disturbed.
“Is everything OK in the left hand changing room?” the amply bosomed assistant cooed.
Upon looking at my watch, it appeared I had been criticising the sight of my humble boobs in various would-be disguises, for over half an hour.
“Yes, I’m fine thanks,” I shouted, as I tried to yank up my skinny fit jeans and balance on a pair of 6 inch, peep toed skyscrapers. My conclusion after that fateful day is simple but useless. There is only one place most of these boned contraptions would fit snugly and probably do some good, but you don’t see many women walking around with bras on their bottoms, do you?
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Woman flu with a vengeance
I AM writing this whilst slightly high on a concoction of Paracetamol, Ibuprofen and Lemsip, my nose congested, raw and peeling, my lips as dry and cracked as the Grand Canyon, my body as stiff as a corpse and my head throbbing like a chav’s Corsa at some traffic lights.
My dog keeps wrestling soggy tissues out of my hand so he can shred them all over the floor and my husband is even less use than that. He did do some shopping for me earlier and came back with some ultra-balm tissues so I don’t have to keep blowing my nose into Tesco’s own brand toilet roll, but that’s it.
What a saint. He has also informed me that I must make the dinner whilst he walks the dog.
Well husband, I’ve got news for you. I’m not making the dinner and when you next have what we women like to call a ‘man-cold’ (which is known to be a more severe and unbearable strain than that contracted by women), I will show you no sympathy whatsoever. I will not tuck you onto the sofa with the expensive fleece that usually lives at the foot of our bed and exists for decorative purposes only.
Neither will I bring you the foot stool, encourage the dog to lie with you to keep you warm or keep you in constant supply of hot drinks and pain killers so you don’t have to get up.
I won’t bring your meals to the sofa, keep asking if you’re ok, allow you to watch constant re-runs of Police, Camera, Action and Top Gear without complaint.
Oh no. If you’re unlucky enough to catch what I’ve got, you’re going to take it like a woman.
I don’t usually make a big deal of this gross inequality, because it’s futile. It seems that as the stronger sex, I am expected to carry on regardless.
Woman shall not be brought down by the common cold virus! Man on the other hand, his weak body falls prey to those invading cells as if they were the Chinese Army.
What happened to male strength and bravery, showing courage and spirit in the face of all adversity?
Moreover, what happened to chivalry and manners, the concept of man looking after his woman?
I blame the mothers of these wretched beings.
Less spoiling and more ‘deal with it, you mardy little brat’ should suffice.
Such is woman’s ‘carry on regardless attitude’, I feel I must apologise to fellow cinema goers who may have been within a two metre radius of me and my sneezing last night.
I did endeavour to catch all germs in fistfuls of tissue and I even waited for noisy parts of the film so I could blow my nose without causing disturbance.
But I fear my germs were probably passed around nonetheless. Women, if I gave it to your men - you know what to do. Take no prisoners, euthanise if necessary.
Best we filter out the weak members of the species. It’ll be better than listening to the whinging.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
So, what is a real man? And who is his woman?
There’s nothing like an attack on the opposite sex to pull in the complaint emails!
After my column last week, responses from men have ranged from accusations of me being the guilty party (a control freak, no less!) to emails in my favour from those claiming to be real men, who would willingly tackle Yellow Fever from the office or the building site. (Women, where were you last week?!
As my editor once told me, more people will respond if they don’t like what you’ve written, so with this in mind I will happily assume that the girls understood what I was talking about.)
Firstly, thanks for all comments, I’m always fascinated to read them. What interested me most this week, were these references to ‘real men’. Real men just get on with it, real men are tough and rough around the edges, real men protect their women whilst bringing home the bacon. (Well, not in my house because we’re vegetarian!
Real men won’t like that…) I’m sorry, but for analysis - this is going to have to be broken down into stereotypes.
From what I can gather, the agreed definition of a real man, by those who feel it’s necessary to coin such a phrase, is: physically strong, protective of his woman (probably very possessive, and why shouldn’t he be?), a lover of ale and certainly one who doesn’t care much about his appearance.
On the other side of the scale, we have stereotypical gay man, who needs no introduction. But somewhere in the middle, lives metrosexual man. He is basically straight with all the gay traits that women love: he’s sensitive, he likes wearing suits, drinks wine instead of beer, looks after his skin, plans an outfit himself and doesn’t wait for you to pick it out of the wardrobe for him, he sees shoes as being more than just functional, he needs his own mirror in the morning, he reads GQ and most importantly he doesn’t see any of the above as homosexual.
Now, if such a scale exists to describe women, whereby you have demure, pretty lady on one side who knows her place in the home and formidable, raging lesbian on the other – then as with men, there is also a middle ground. She is sometimes called ‘alpha woman’.
When these two ‘middle types’ form a relationship, a whole new level of relationship issues are born. Hence, metrosexual man doesn’t see the need to look after his strong minded woman when she’s ill and as a result, she flips her lid and tries to put him in his place. (I could have gotten to the bottom of all this last week, if I could think straight and wasn’t suffering a pain killer overdose.)
Sadly it’s going to be a while before metrosexual man is widely accepted. I listened to Jeremy Vine’s show on Radio 2 a few weeks ago, when he was discussing fake tan and the men who wear it.
The opinion of most listeners, was that any man wishing to make himself look healthy and tanned by artificial means, has a problem and needs to start behaving like a ‘real man’.
Or else what? He might end up with an intelligent, sexy and free-thinking woman, who understands his need to look after himself?! Get a grip! These men are just worried about losing out to the men who can be bothered to make an effort.
These surely are confusing times we live in and like most alpha women, I don’t know what the hell I want, but I do know one thing – the only person allowed to criticise my man, is me. I couldn’t live without my metrosexual, even if he does need an ambulance when a cold strikes.
And let’s please lose this ‘real man’ thing. Last time I checked, the definition of a gender was purely physiological, anything else is supposed to develop with the times. Besides, ‘real man’ doesn’t look good on anyone’s arm!
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
I couldn’t help but wonder…
…am I the only one who suffers mild depression at the hands of Sex and the City?
Allow me to explain. I am going to try and assume the role of Carrie Bradshaw whilst I write this.
I mean, I’ve been told before that the similarities are uncanny – I have a column, I own too many expensive shoes, I look like a horse (ok, that last one hasn’t been said since I was about 15 and actually, it was a mule… I’m assuming it’s no longer true.) So here I am.
Sitting at my laptop in my knickers and a silk pyjama top, reading aloud as I type rhetorical questions about love and life, cigarette in one hand, cosmopolitan in the other, ‘my girls’ on speed dial, overlooking the mesmerising skyline of a city filled with promise and excitement – no, wait, this is Long Eaton.
Well, you can’t have everything.
Although as the famous Sex and the City girls will tell you, you can - if you want it.
If you believe the premise of the show/film, you’re only ‘not fabulous’ because you don’t want to be. And that’s your own frumpy fault.
Which I agree with to a certain extent, but there’s more to it than that. If only wanting were enough to turn you into a carefree glamour puss with enough money to live in Manhattan and think about nothing but where your next boyfriend may be coming from, or in Samantha’s case – well, I had a clever line then, but I know my editor will remove it. (Carrie never has that problem!)
I’ve read that many scathing reviews of the new SATC film, I too have to question how much more they can ram this sugar-coated materialistic idealism down our throats.
‘Us’ being the poor, normal women who are lucky if we have one good friend we see more than once a week and a couple of pairs of Kurt Geigers if we’re really spoiled.
As much as I have a bit of an addiction to the series (I also loved the first film) it’s been something of a love/hate relationship between me and SATC ever since I first watched it all those years ago.
I could never explain it but what should have been a feel-good dose of escapism always left me feeling empty and totally inadequate.
Granted, I was young, impressionable and well, stupid. But even now, my life lacks that sparkle, that excitement and those three friends that will drop anything for me and all get on with each other despite the fact that they’re complete opposites.
It took me a long time to realise that life in general lacks that sparkle and that SATC is in fact, the most fairytale-esque thing on the box and from what I can tell, designed to make everyone else feel rather let down by their own lives.
That said, I can’t deny the magnetism of the whole thing.
It allows you to imagine you could have that fun filled life, at least for the duration of the show, until you are mercilessly plunged back into your own dull life, sans Manolos.
Let’s face the truth, it’s never that much fun to be single and chasing the same man for years, no 50-year-old woman has a libido that insatiable, no full time lawyer has time for children and friends and no jobless housewife, married to a bald naturist can be that prim.
But when you’re there, in la-la land, with four women totally oblivious of life outside the Upper East side of Manhattan, none of this matters.
The fashion is a feast for the eyes, Samantha’s one liners and sexual exploits are entertaining, Carrie’s long suffering love life provides some level of smug amusement for cynics like me – you just can’t help getting wrapped up in it.
And let’s not forget credit where credit’s due - it encourages women to make a bit more of themselves in the dress department and that never did anyone any harm.
And so in my best heels I shall strut to the cinema next week, camp friend in tow and prepare to be transported to la-la land. (I will be perfectly healthy, so the self employed needn’t stay at home.)
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Joanie, I love you!
A LONG time ago, when I was perhaps eight or nine, I came across a book of my Mother’s entitled ‘The Beauty Book’ by Joan Collins.
If I remember rightly, it was a never-returned library book, covered in clear plastic, complete with the stamped date card in the front, busier than Joan Collins’ diary.
The book wasn’t in the best condition. Even back then the pages were yellowing and some of them were ripped out but from the moment I opened it, I was fixated on the abundant photographs of her. This mesmerisingly gorgeous, dark haired, doe eyed lady with oodles of self confidence – modelling clothes, showing off makeup styles, demonstrating her exercise regime, sharing her beauty tips - and from that day forward (subconsciously, I believe) I made it one of my goals in life to eventually live up to her impossibly high standards of glamour and fabulousness. Not surprisingly, my mum gave me the book to keep, which I read cover to cover, over and over again.
I could take on the world, with Joanie as my teacher! She made it seem like it was the most natural thing in the world, to be as beautiful as you can be. It never once occurred to me that it was shallow or self obsessed, it still doesn’t.
Why should it? Isn’t it part of being a woman, human even, to want to adorn yourself with attractive things, to preen yourself! Hell, even some animals do it and most mating habits in the animal kingdom depend on being more attractive than the next creature! And so, my love affair with Ms. Collins was born (slightly scary choice of wording, probably. I don’t stalk her but I do have the beauty books she has written since and I never miss her when she’s on the TV or at a theatre near me).
One thing I have yet to learn from my role model however, is how to deal with criticism pertaining to ones fabulousness (ie – you stupid, shallow airhead, you stuck up bitch, you self-centred idiot), none of which I believe to be true, I must add!
Since when did caring about your appearance make you incapable of caring about anything else as well? And more to the point, why should it make you a bad person?
Most girls are introduced to the concept of beauty before they can associate it with negativity. To a five year old girl, a pair of little pink shoes or a new dress is as pretty as spring blossom on a tree or the wings of a butterfly.
When did we get so paranoid that the whole concept of beauty has the potential to turn our innocent young girls into soulless madams with a swinging brick for a heart and not two brain cells to rub together?
Sure, I’m not oblivious to the world we live in. We’re force fed images of female perfection by the media at the turn of every magazine page and passing of every billboard and yes, sometimes it makes you feel like giving up altogether. But like all marketing, it’s just an exaggeration, enhanced by computer wizardry.
When did you last eat a burger that looks as huge and perfect as the one on the McDonald’s advert, or creosote a fence as well constructed around a garden so pretty, as in the Ronseal advert? You don’t see your Big Mac bursting into tears or your back fence take off in a huff though, do you?
Even if you end up a bit disappointed with the reality of what it’s possible to achieve, at least it gives you something to aspire to (hint: your lashes will never look like the ones on the adverts, unless you use falsies!). I like to think of the human body as a blank canvas, you can always work with what you’ve been given, no excuses.
Ask the fairy Gokfather or even Trinny and Susannah. It’s women like Joan Collins that paved the way for the glamour advocates of today and for that alone, she deserves her OBE. I look forward to having a daughter of my own one day and introducing her to my collection of books by Britain’s favourite diva. I don’t believe it did me any harm!
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
They think it’s all over – if only it were!
SO the World Cup is upon us. And for the last few weeks (and the next foreseeable few if England put in a decent performance) the country will be littered with the George flag and the hopes and dreams of the working class will be pinned on the shoulders of 11 men running around a field after a ball.
Although I take no interest in football, I do appreciate that the fantasy of an England victory may be one of the few rays of hope afforded to the people of this floundering society.
So as 12-pack beer sales rocket through the roof and a red cross is emblazoned onto everything from houses and underwear to burger buns, the rest of the population, indifferent to whether we even have a World Cup team, let alone win the tournament - must be patient and wait until some form of order is restored.
I know I sound like a miserable cow (and probably a snob as well) but I fail to see why such a big deal has to be made about something that in other countries is taken in everyone’s stride.
In comparison with other sports, football has the biggest amount of hype surrounding it, even though (ironically) it’s probably the sport we’ve had the least amount of victories in on an international level (don’t quote me on this, I’m just guessing).
What irritates me the most is that football is undeniably synonymous with beer and loutish behaviour.
It doesn’t have to be, I’m not blaming the sport but something about football and this country encourages trouble.
According to the BBC last week, reports of violent domestic abuse aimed towards women, typically double on England match days.
If I were stupid enough to be married to a football fanatic and he took a swipe at me because England lost, he’d be chasing his own balls around the floor and there’d be no second chances!
The fact that a game of football can lead to this kind of situation would be laughable if it weren’t so tragic. Seriously, are we living among men or primates?
Pubs screening the World Cup have to serve beer in plastic glasses, the police have to be informed in case of trouble and people who don’t want to risk being caught up in a brawl stay at home and singe sausages over a gas barbecue, with the TV in one ear and the bored wives and daughters moaning in the other.
The England flag, as far as I am concerned, is no longer a symbol of our once great and proud country – it’s a symbol of football and I’m sick to the back teeth of seeing it. Yes, you want England to win, we GET IT!
But does everyone really need to know how obsessed you are? It’s not as if we’re in some international habitat where we have to be clear about our origins and allegiances.
We’re in England, you’d like England to win, it’s understood. So save the flags for South Africa or the next World War.
One thing I do like about the World Cup is that during important matches, everywhere without a TV is like a ghost town.
Non-football fans, take advantage! Assault the shops, go to garden centres, visit theme parks… and thank God it’s only every four years. Now, the rest of the population want their poor, tarnished flag back… Hand it over.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Big trouble in little Bunnyland
“The woman had no problems, so she bought herself a pig.”
It’s a phrase my Grandmother used to say, in her native Ukrainian tongue.
In case it’s not obvious, it means you have no hassles, so you create some for yourself.
Which is what I unknowingly did last week when I went into a pet shop, merely to coo over the animals, and came out with a carrying box and a new friend inside.
I swore to my husband that with an already small apartment and two dogs, I wouldn’t bring any more pets into the house – and for years I’ve resisted.
But when I saw this little eight week old Dwarf Rex rabbit in the enclosure with its skinny little face and massive sticky-up ears climbing all over the food bowls, guinea pig houses and the other rabbits to get to me so that I could stroke him and make him go all sleepy, well, the connection was made instantly!
I mulled it over in my mind for five whole minutes; where can I keep him, what will the dogs do, what will my husband do?
With answers to none of these questions but a rabbit who wouldn’t stop trying to reach out of the cage, meerkat style, to get to me (ignoring all of the other cooing customers), I scooped him up and took him to the till, christening him Enrique, on the way.
Enrique’s had a bit of a rough time of it since I brought him home.
That night, we found a deep rabbit bite on his side, hiding in all his fuzzy, velvety fur. (clearly one of his siblings was jealous of his ability to make people love him!)
So the next morning, off to the vets we went; luckily his health was guaranteed by the pet shop for 48 hours after purchase and covered by them and the vet practise, who have a ‘deal’ with the pet shop.
After a close inspection and many frowns and comments like ‘hmm, it doesn’t look good’, the vet tried to convince me to take him back and swap him for a healthy rabbit.
“Are you mad?!” was my response.
“We have a bond!” (…one that vets only share with money).
I insisted she treat Enrique and stop talking nonsense.
After much deliberating with the pet shop, who initially wanted to shirk their responsibilities also, they gave me a refund for his treatment and promised to cover the cost of any complications if the wound doesn’t heal.
Luckily, the wound is healing well and aside from his shaved side, you wouldn’t even know Enrique is convalescing.
He’s more trouble than any dog I’ve had. You see, Enrique’s a house rabbit and until he’s big and old enough to brave the dogs’ constant licking and nudging, he is staying in our bedroom.
The problem is, rabbits are nocturnal; he sleeps through the day and at night, well he chews everything I don’t spray with Bitter Apple, he tears around the bedroom thumping his big back feet on the floor, he digs in his litter tray, he yanks on the covers hanging over the side of the bed... we had no sleep for three nights and the husband was not amused.
After a few nights of being shut in the bathroom (the rabbit you understand, not the husband – but sometimes it’s tempting), I’m relieved to say he’s calmed down a bit – either that or we’ve just got used to the noise!
We seem to have settled into a reasonable routine and Enrique is the most lovable little critter imaginable.
He loves to nuzzle and cosy up, wherever you’re stood he has to be stood on your feet, his sticks his nosey little face into everything you do and he appears to have taken his name quite seriously, as he only eats vegetables of Mediterranean origin, turning his nose up at anything other than tomato and rocket.
He won’t even entertain carrots! But then he was never going to be normal if he lives in this house…
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Brownie points
AS I write this I am trying to get my legs to dry, so greasy and tacky is the self-tan gel I have just smothered them in.
And as bad as it smells and as annoyingly long as it takes to become absorbed into my skin, I know that in the morning I will have Goddess-like bronzed pins (or at least, legs that are a shade closer to my arms, after a long weekend working outside in this heat).
I tried in vain to get all four limbs to reach a similar colour but legs (for a reason I cannot fathom) take four or five times as long to go brown as any other part of the body and they were already three days behind thanks to having worn trousers. It’s no coincidence that it’s our legs we want to be brown the most. This is God, I believe, having a little joke on us vain creatures.
I’m told Coco Chanel is to blame for our relentless attempts at trying to be brown. Ever since she acquired an accidental sun tan whilst holidaying in the French Riviera, it’s been a fashion staple. Gone were the days of trying to be pale and appear aristocratic, in came the idea that if you had a tan, you were rich and important enough to go jet setting. These days, it’s more straight forward than that.
A tan simply looks healthier, more glowing, it gives the impression of vitality and someone who likes to be out and about.
Deathly pale complexions convey a little less outside activity and more vampire-like habits, coupled with a generally dull and pallid appearance that looks a bit ill. Sadly for most British people, this is our natural state, yet we are determined to fight against it. Sun beds and binge tanning account for more skin cancer cases than any other factor, so damaging are UV rays to our bodies. And yet, in the knowledge of all this, I still have friends who go abroad, baste themselves in nothing but baby oil and roast themselves to a crisp like a Christmas turkey (and then wonder why their skin peels off in complete sheets).
I’ll be honest, I used to use sun beds myself when I couldn’t bear the thought of stepping onto a foreign beach looking like the archetypal ‘pastey Brit’ (for amusement value, pastey in the Urban Dictionary is listed with three examples – ‘1. Someone who is so white they blind you, 2.Someone who is so white you can see them in the dark because they glow, 3. Someone who is whiter than Michael Jackson’).
Sadly I can empathise, I even suspect they were talking about me at one time. And sun beds were the only quick fix with our climate, until I found a fake tan so amazing and streak free that I look like I’ve just touched down from Barbados after a couple of applications (there’s no point telling you what it is, it’s discontinued and I believe I’ve sourced all of the surplus stock).
You see, fellow tan fiends will understand – it becomes an obsession. Once you realise how much better you look with a bit of colour, the summer becomes one long mission to bask in the mercy of every ray or else hit the bottle.
But whenever I see Donatella Versace or those prunish, shrivelled little Mediterranean women peeling vegetables outside their rustic homes on a cobbled street, I am temporarily put off ever going out without wearing factor 50 and the bottle version of a tan seems more appealing.
Because let’s be honest, when you can fake it so well, why would you risk your face looking like a map in a few years time? If someone could miraculously make being pale sexy again, I’d breathe a huge sigh of relief, but I don’t believe it will ever happen.
Lady Gaga, Madonna, Cate Blanchett – they might be pale and they might be cool, but does anyone really want to look like them? I think my fake tan is starting to take effect now, it better be, I’m wearing a white skirt tomorrow and if I’m not careful, my legs will look like two loose threads hanging from it… and that’s definitely not cool.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Goodwood - A festival of Spending
ONE has just spent a rather spiffing four days at Goodwood Festival of Speed.
Alas I was not in attendance to swoon over priceless cars but to work as a promotional model, for a prestige company that I ought not to mention in print (they don’t like women to be too opinionated in the world of promotional modelling and I do need the money).
Long days in heels, hearing the woes of the upper class as they deliberated over what would replace a Jag XK as their next grand tourer… at one point I made the mistake of mentioning (when questioned) that I drive a Vectra, only to be informed that the customer ‘doesn’t do Vauxhall’.
As he left me standing there, feeling more than a little inadequate, I wondered, what is it about cars that represents status so effectively?
Is it the price, the size, the speed, the badge, a combination of some or all of these? It occurred to me, that more than with any other material possession, what a car looks like is simply not enough. You can buy a handbag from Primark that looks like it could be designer and worth hundreds and in this day and age, it’s becoming acceptable to save some cash and try to pass it off as such.
But a Mazda will never pass for an Aston Martin, even in the dark. Cars as symbols of how much money you have, are unmistakeable.
Later at Goodwood, whilst finding amusement at the inadvertent yet totally consistent uniform of the upper class man (beige chinos, brown boat shoes, pale blue shirt and double breasted navy blazer with gold buttons - EVERYTIME), I fell foul to my second humiliation.
Another aristocrat was perusing a certain sports coupe, informing me that he is looking for a replacement for his Jag (it’s always Jaguar! Quintessentially British and the preferred choice of the discerning gent, obviously).
“Are you thinking of part exchanging it, sir?” I innocently enquired.
In response to which, he informed me he had already sold it. Confused, I asked a further stupid question, the ridiculousness of which only dawned on me just before I sat down to write this. “So you’re without a car at the moment?”
He eyed me patronisingly as he undid some of the buttons on his blazer and gently took my elbow.
“Of course not dear, I’ve got the Vantage, the DB9, the Range Rover and the Mini, which my wife drives.” (I won’t even touch on the fact that with all these machines in his garage, the wife drives a Mini). Bemused by the idea of having this much money at my disposal, I wondered whether people even appreciate it. In my financial state, I would feel excited, thrilled, bloody ecstatic to be driving any one of the cars I was promoting.
But the rich people were indifferent. If you can’t even appreciate the fact that you’re driving a supercar, I wonder, what exactly is the point? I would like to think that a car isn’t simply a machine to transport you from A to B, any more than it’s a sign to stick on your mile-long driveway, that says ‘rich person lives here.’
Actually I’d like to think an expensive car is a piece of art, a well crafted and finely tuned piece of engineering that makes for an exhilarating experience when driven - yet when you reach certain lofty realms of loaded, these cars are merely seldom used possessions that keep you on the treadmill of being better than everyone else.
As I struggle to find an affordable replacement for my aging car, that will be fun to drive, alleviate my status slightly and convince people I am remotely richer than I am (we’re talking a 2003 Z3 or Z4 at the very most), I am trying to get my naïve head around what it must be like to walk around a motor show, ticking off brand spanking new £100,000 cars like they’re part of my food shopping list.
I heard concerns that I can only dream of having, such as – “How will we fit this in the garage, darling?” and “Will my shopping fit inside the boot? It’s rather tiny!”
Lady, it’s a sports car with a 6.3 litre V8 engine and gull wing doors, it’s for your husband’s collection. He’s not going to let you take it into the multi storey, so stop worrying your expensively coiffed little head about such trivia and ask Jeeves for a lift in the Rolls.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Bare faced chic
BEING a woman, I am usually multi-tasking when writing this column and today is no different.
The funny thing is, the other task is nearly always aimed at beautifying myself in some way.
As I write, in preparation for my holiday tomorrow, I am waiting for my hair dye to develop and my toenails to dry.
That sounds simple enough and not too high maintenance but actually the ongoing cycle of these tasks and trying to look good is starting to get me down. It’s tiring!
Yesterday I spent the best part of a whole evening and two boxes of wax strips trying to de-fuzz my legs.
Even two boxes wasn’t enough to cope with the Italian blood in me and I still had to spend over an hour picking the stubborn leftover hairs out with tweezers.
My vanity has also led me to have a panic attack due to airport restrictions on carrying liquids in hand luggage.
Since we decided to travel light and only carry hand luggage, I am now facing the dilemma of what to do with the 20cmx20cm see-through bag they give you for your liquids, and my shampoo, conditioner, intensive hair masque, leave in conditioner (chlorine, sea water and sun – come on!), face moisturiser, body moisturiser, tinted body glow, sunscreen, aloe vera gel, foundation, cheek highlighter, mascara, three lipglosses, deodorant and perfume – all diligently decanted into small 100ml bottles.
But I’m damned if they’ll fit into this tiny bag! If I get anything confiscated I will cry like a child.
Cosmetics are as good as medication to a self confessed superficial like me.
Perhaps they will allow me to pass security with hundreds of liquids in tow, on compassionate if not medical grounds.
Besides, no terrorist I’ve ever seen on the news shimmies through East Midlands Airport wearing six inch heels, a mini skirt and big Jackie O’s.
In all seriousness and without sounding insulting, I would like to ask how the women who don’t do much regarding their appearance actually live with themselves.
How do they feel confident?
Because I’d be willing to try their approach!
Anything to make my life easier and stop me from worrying 24/7 about whether or not I look a mess has got to be worth a go, even if it means I may be slightly unpleasant to look at (in saying this, I feel I am doing a gross disservice to my guru, Joan Collins. Can you imagine what she’d say?)
It’s no use trying to tell me that confidence isn’t derived from appearances.
Rightly or wrongly, I’m like a different person when I’m facing the world in my war paint and a pair of heels.
Is there a way for someone like me to be converted?
Let’s get one thing straight, I do not wish to become a makeup-phobe, complete with hairy pits and flat sports sandals.
Just a slightly calmer version of myself, less focused on what people think of me, would be a start (and before you all start trying to imagine me and what I look like, I’m not that bad).
Remember the column I wrote about the makeup counter women? I have a long way to go before I have to chisel my makeup off at night.
This issue isn’t so much about makeup or cosmetics, they are after all, girly and feminine and fun to play with. Harmless, really.
The problem is more about an attitude to them and how much we rely on them to feel whole.
Regardless of what various ad’ campaigns will tell you, confidence shouldn’t depend upon cosmetic products.
I should be able to go out and be my usual self and feel attractive without all this help from L’Oreal and John Frieda.
Or should I?
I certainly wouldn’t look as good!
So why should I feel as good?
It’s just something I can’t quite get my made-up little head around.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Let’s get real, shall we?
PEOPLE probably lie about marriage more than they lie about anything else.
We’ve all tried to delve, unsuccessfully, into the lives of our married friends, on a quest to find out if we’re normal. But most of the time, you end up feeling worse than before you asked.
Everyone else’s marriage is better than yours, they’re all having sex more often than you, they never argue, they haven’t yet reached that monotonous stage where it all feels rather bland… oh no, your secret interview subjects are like teenagers in love!
Frisky little bunnies, nuzzling each other adoringly after every session of humping so wild, it causes the neighbours to call the police (and that’s after they’ve eaten a delicious and lovingly prepared dinner and exchanged gifts over a nice vintage Merlot, for the fourth time that week).
Why is it that we can’t just be honest and share in our concerns that marriage and relationships are quite often, disconcertingly dull?
The more we refuse to admit the obvious truth, that the fireworks soon die into a soft (yet consistent) glow, and that it slowly starts to become more about company, support and understanding, less about testing the bed springs every night - the more miserable we are going to become, as we think we’re the only ones feeling short changed. Before you all start to assume I’m the sex starved and miserable wife of a boring man, I’m not. I am however, slowly beginning to accept the realities of married life. There’s no shame in this, it’s just the natural progression of two beings getting to be familiar with each other. On the other side of the spectrum, I know a couple who, believe it or not, after seven years together - still can’t go for a ‘number two’ unless the other person is out of the house. Now you could just call me unromantic, but that seems like a lot of hassle. Quite clearly, this couple have decided their relationship will never fall foul to reality.
But, I ask, is this really a relationship? Isn’t a relationship (and definitely a marriage) an acceptance of each other, in any kind of condition? And I can think of worse than having a poo in the next room. Can you imagine how the afore mentioned couple will cope if the woman ever gets pregnant? No doubt he will wait patiently in the corridor of the hospital as she, after taking an enema, stifles screams and swear words, whilst bringing their beautiful and clean baby into the world with grace and dignity, without so much as a stretch mark or torn ‘you know what’, to show for it.
You people who claim to have perfect lives and marriages, full of excitement and passion with none of the humiliation and occasional resentment that all the rest of us have to deal with - you’re not doing anyone any favours. You’re mislabelling marriage and leading many young couples into a false sense of idealism that will probably end in divorce. Why not sell marriage as the lovely arrangement it actually is? If you got married for the right reasons and you’re still with your spouse for no other reason than you still like to be with them, you’ll understand everything I’m about to say.
And the first piece of advice I would give to anyone thinking of getting married is this – make sure you can be honest with each other, about everything. Because without this, your marriage is like a house built on sand. Secondly you must share a sense of humour. It will get you through the worst times together. Thirdly – do your own thing. If you’ve seen Sex and the City 2, you’ll know this is the moral of the story. And as sugar coated as the story is, it’s a good piece of advice.
You’re living with your marriage, so you both do whatever it takes to strike a balance. And lastly – never ask about anyone else’s relationship, unless you can trust them to tell the truth. And even if they do, don’t assume you have to agree or compare notes! They’re doing it their way. (And probably lying some, too.)
At the time this goes to press, my husband and I will be on holiday somewhere hot and Mediterranean, having fun with our idea of marriage.
And even if we don’t end up getting drunk, skinny dipping in the pool, having a naughty fumble and being taken away by the polizia, I know that we’ll still have had a good time, because quite simply, we enjoy each other’s company. And that’s all it takes.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
I ♥ Nottingham
IN February, the New York Times put Nottingham on the map (or so it thought, because let’s face it, a city may as well not exist if New York doesn’t know about it…)
After a few scathing remarks that were unjustified and served no purpose other than to further cement Nottingham’s false reputation as the gun crime capital of the Northern Hemisphere (crooked, ‘Shottingham’, full of degenerates…etc) they decided that actually we’ve recovered and it’s really rather nice here. Well, we don’t need the New York Times to tell us this.
Having lived here my whole life and having never been shot or even had to don my bullet proofs, I find it laughable that people are still bleating on about how dangerous it is or was (especially New Yorkers, who are the proud owners of such crime hot spots as the Bronx, Hell’s Kitchen and Harlem). The article surmised that Nottingham is now rebuilding its reputation (with the help of ‘alternative’ area Hockley) as some kind of hippy mecca full of quirky cafes, contemporary art galleries and vintage clothes shops.
I don’t know if this is entirely true but if it were all that’s good about Nottingham then I wouldn’t still be here. So allow me, as a long serving shopping and socialising Nottingham citizen to elaborate on why I won’t hear a bad word said about it.
Nottingham is stunning. If you take the time to look upwards, above and beyond the shops, you’ll see some of the best examples of neo-gothic, Georgian and medieval architecture in the world. I never tire of admiring it and even now, I still notice buildings for the first time.
Whatever people do to tarnish its reputation, you can’t argue with its beauty. Nottingham also has the most diverse and multicultural range of restaurants you could wish for, not to mention some achingly stylish and cool bars to pose over a cocktail in, like my favourite in the Lace Market - Saint. If you know where to go you can avoid the crowds of badly dressed drunks and sip in style.
Now the shops need no introduction but if you really are clueless and have cash to splash, you’ll find our very own Paul Smith on Low Pavement, Vivienne Westwood inside the Flying Horse Mall, Hugo Boss on St. Peter’s Gate all within a stone’s throw of Bridlesmith Gate which is home to more gorgeous shoe shops than you’ll have time to visit on your lunch break.
And if you have time to eat lunch, nearby is a most deliciously twee and yet ever so fashionable little café where you can get afternoon tea with champagne and a cupcake so pretty, it’s criminal (but wholly necessary) to eat it in one go.
And with a mention in the aforementioned New York Times article, it has to be worth visiting.
Now where was I? Oh yes. We have a city centre arena which hosts the biggest names in music, a beautiful Theatre Royal staging world famous operas and ballets, a central location with great transport links to the rest of Britain and Europe, all of this without the oversized and overwhelming nature of somewhere that needs a tube to get around – need I go on?
I travel around a lot with work and frequently meet people from all over the country. When asked where I’m from, my response is usually met with sympathy or ridicule to which I respond with something suitably abrupt. Because I’m proud to call Nottingham my home and I tell people this - quite frankly, if you’re not from here and you don’t think you’ll like it, stay away and leave it to the people who appreciate it! All of the best places are unsung and my home town is no exception.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Tattoos - tramp stamps or edgy art?
TATTOOS are only skin deep, yet we still judge them on a deeper level...
There is a vast array of opinion regarding tattoos these days, likewise there is a vast array of people who have them.
And I, for one, am undecided about what I think.
I have three myself, on my lower back, and they’re not on show very often. I don’t regret them, but that’s because they’re easily covered up and don’t show in many outfits.
I have been tempted lately however, to have one in a slightly more prominent area, where it won’t be so easily hidden.
‘Why would you want to hide it, if you want to have it in the first place?’ – would be a reasonable question to ask, and the first answer would be that in certain professional circles, they are not deemed appropriate, you’re meant to look neutral.
The second reason is that in certain circles of my own mind, they are not deemed appropriate either.
I can’t help forming an opinion of girls with ‘tats’ when I see them. (And before my inbox bursts at the seams with abuse, I’m allowed to say this, because I have tattoos myself!)
Let’s consider the names female tattoos are given – tart art, tramp stamps, slag tags. (Usually referring to lower back tattoos, so the joke’s on me!)
I know this is largely a conservative opinion and tattoos are no longer restricted to sailors, prisoners and ancient tribes, but something about them still looks less than tasteful and feminine to me.
A friend of mine offered her opinion - that tattoos have in fact come full circle.
From being recognised as unsavoury and a symbol of gritty hardship, crime and masculinity, they then arrived at being an individual way to express ones personality, beliefs and tastes.
They were alternative, they made you different, not necessarily in a bad way.
Now, however, they’re as common fast food shops on the high street and everyone is sporting them.
And when everyone’s doing something, not because they’ve considered it carefully, but because everyone else is doing it – then it suddenly becomes, well - tacky.
In my attempt to better understand my feelings about prominent tattoos on women, I googled a few doodled celebrities, starting with Megan Fox.
She fiercely defends her tramp stamps, sorry, I mean tattoos – proclaiming that they are just expressions of art using her body as a canvas, if you will.
That would be impressive if you could call yourself the artist, but since she’s neither a contortionist or a tattooist, what’s her point? (Why not stick with paintings on the wall? At least they won’t sag with age and go all distorted and crêpey.) It’s obvious she’s able to carry them off and assert herself as cool and edgy, because she’s a celebrity, gets paid millions, walks red carpets and people listen to her opinions.
But imagine if she wasn’t famous - stick her in Oceana on a Saturday night in one of her skimpy get ups and she’d just be seen as another ‘stunna’ who’s a bit rough around the edges and probably up for a one night stand.
I had a look at Angeline Jolie next. Now if she weren’t famous, she’d be a difficult one to suss out.
She certainly has an air of elegance, grace and intelligence about her, yet those tattoos, particularly the one on her upper arm, is a complete contradiction to this.
Perhaps I’m missing the obvious and this is exactly the point! Either way, when she dons a modest cardigan and pearls (which she has been known to) and flashes some of her ‘art’, it’s really rather peculiar.
At least she’s one of the few who manages to make tattoos look individual and edgy, I’ll give her that much.
Perhaps I’m just a victim of my Mother’s train of thought. Let’s be honest, we can’t really blame ourselves or each other for having ingrained opinions and values, no matter how much we try to question them in the name of being reasonable.
And my Mother will be pleased to know, I think I’ve talked myself out of more tart art…
No offence to those who continue to adorn themselves, just make sure you think it through and it has some sort of relevance, besides being your dog’s name.
Comments?
I’d love to hear them! Email chrissierowell @live.co.uk
Sick as a dog
I’M m sorry that my column is gross this week, but it’s my reality!
You see, dogs may be man’s best friend, but they can also be vile creatures - anyone who has one will know this.
When we take ours for a walk, they have a habit of eating the most unspeakable things off the floor, regardless of how unpalatable they are.
And because of this habit, last week my little sausage dog Sebastian ended up with a nasty stomach bug that left him off his food for three days, vomiting through the night and day, having diarrhoea… the works.
If only we could talk some sense into dogs, explain that if they’re going to eat all manner of rubbish, they’ll probably suffer the consequences.
He’s a nasty little thing when he wants to be and when you drag him away from something he’s not supposed to eat, he’s all growls and teeth, snapping at you like a rabid eel.
I remembered this when he looked at me forlornly, as if to ask ‘Mummy, why do I feel so ill and why are you syringing water into my mouth?’ and for a few seconds I considered whether or not to scoop him up and cuddle him, even though he reeked of puke.
I did of course, how could I not? I’d never known him so quiet. And quite how dogs manage to convey such sadness with just their eyes is beyond me.
I felt really sorry for him, retching every half an hour, shivering in his little bed.
Anyway, after a day or two of starvation and forcing water down him, he’s back to his usual self – so much so, that when I next took him for a walk, he was desperate to have another bite of what made him ill in the first place!
So intent was I on stopping him, that my other dog managed to blindside me and yes – you guessed it.
So this morning we were awoken at 5am by the sound of him retching and he pretty much hasn’t stopped since then.
Being a Rottweiler X Doberman, the clean-up operation isn’t quite as simple as for a Miniature Dachshund.
I have covered most of the carpet in dustsheets and am attempting to catch his vomit in a cardboard box every time I hear him heave.
His nose is as dry as a bone and he’s looking at me with the same pitiful eyes, and this time, although I do feel sorry for him – I am twice as angry!
For me, it means the house stinks of puke and I can’t go out for fear of the new carpet.
For them, it means a bath when they’re better and no longer being let off the lead, because if they can’t keep their filthy, foraging snouts to themselves, they don’t get to go where they want!
I’m trying to figure out why dogs do this. They get fed regularly, they have a routine and they know where their next meal is coming from – what’s with the desperate attempts at eating anything and everything?!
I have just found a rather useless article online that gives so many inane reasons as to why dogs might eat poo, that it’s practically useless!
The reasons include – boredom (they’re out on a walk!), attention seeking (what’s wrong with barking?), confusion with dog food (what do they think I feed my dog?), the dogs is overfed, the dog is underfed (neither apply), they watch you pick up poo and copy you (please – if this is true, maybe my dog will copy me doing the housework), they’re suffering anxiety (they will be if they keep this habit up…), they like the taste (I think that’s a given…).
The list goes on and on and is as helpful as a chocolate fireguard. I can only make one definite assumption based on that list - they like the taste.
Didn’t take an animal psychologist to work that out, did it?!
In addition to that, I am offering my own simplified reasoning – dogs are disgusting!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think mine is about to be sick again…
Comments?
I’d love to hear them!
Email chrissierowell @live.co.uk
Green Queen
OK, perhaps that makes me sound rather pompous and self righteous and I’m far from perfect, but I do pride myself on my planet saving efforts.
The only thing I guiltily hold my hands up to is owning a car and refusing to use public transport. However, I recycle just about everything, can’t abide lights or power being left on, practically lose sleep over food being thrown away and liberally criticise those who are too lazy and ignorant to make an effort to do their bit. Like one of my neighbours, who we have the delight of sharing a dustbin with. Whenever I empty our non-recyclables into it, there’s a new load of rubbish he’s mindlessly dumped in there like a pile of newspapers, a carrier bag full of beer bottles, half full wine bottles, dozens of beer cans… I don’t understand how people don’t feel guilty about this.
It’s really not difficult to make the small effort to separate your waste – everything is put in place to enable everyone to recycle. Yes, my council’s idea of waste receptacles being big plastic bags, that blow away like parachutes in the wind, is pretty retarded – but it’s better than nothing (it’s probably worth mentioning at this point by the way, that more people would recycle if proper bins were provided, the bags are a huge pain in the backside and lazy people aren’t even going to contemplate faffing about with them. Erewash Borough Council, are you reading this?)
I got into a huge row with the council a year or so ago because most of our bags had blown away in the wind after being emptied one day, so we left our recycling out in cardboard boxes and carrier bags. Both of which are recyclable, of course. And the recycling people just left them there. It was lucky that I was outside letting the dog pee at the very moment they went past, looked at my recycling and ignored it, so I asked them what they thought they were doing. ‘It’s not in the right bags,’ they informed me, clearly more interested in the sight of me wearing a leopard print negligee. ‘We can’t take it if it’s not in the proper recycling bags.’
‘And is anyone going to find out if you do empty it into your truck anyway?’ I pressed, ‘and more to the point, do you not feel guilty for leaving two weeks worth of recycling on the pavement, when it could actually be being recycled, if you weren’t such incompetent jobsworths, with no initiative?!’ This seemed to go over their heads as they got bored of staring at me and moved on to the next house, who, big wow, had managed to fill ONE whole bag with recycling, between their family of four.
Seething, I went back into the house and rung the council, who informed me that waste will not be collected in carrier bags because they are not able to process them through their recycling filters or something. ‘So what’s stopping them emptying the waste from the bags into the truck and leaving the bags behind, like they do with the ones you provide?’
Now if you ask logical questions like this of council employees, you can practically hear the cogs turning in their mechanical little brains, but you’ll be waiting ‘til Christmas for an answer. ‘Forget it.’ I slammed the phone down and answered the door to my neighbour who had heard the row outside and kindly gave me half of her surplus recycling bags that she’d been hoarding, to transfer my rubbish into. Of course the collection men didn’t hang around and wait so by the time they next came, I could have opened a recycling plant myself. The whole of the pavement was covered in green plastic bags, packed to the brim and diligently lined up like little eco-soldiers. I chuckled to myself smugly as the collection men took about 10 minutes to empty them. They probably thought I’d just give up and stick it all in the normal bin.
A word to people who never think about the planet – and I have many friends like this. Stop being so ignorant, selfish and stupid.
The world doesn’t have an endless supply of resources, neither does it have a bottomless pit to store all your carelessly discarded rubbish or a massive bandage to put over the hole in the ozone layer. I believe it’s the least humans can do as the polluting, draining, greedy little inhabitants of this beautiful planet to stop being so wasteful and treating the earth like our hedonist playground.
If you’re not going to slow the growth of the unsustainable population by having less kids, then at least look after the world you’re bringing them into. It’s logical really – even the council could understand!
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Wayne’s World - will it come crashing down?
SO, poor old Wayne Rooney has been accused of paying for sex again, this time whilst his wife was pregnant.
The sheer scandal is more than any woman I know would deal with, but Coleen is clearly different. Or perhaps, her motivations are different.
If I were her, with Rooney Jr. kicking my insides to a pulp and his dad pestering me for sex, perhaps I might send him packing to the nearest brothel!
Like the recently dissolved partnership of Cheryl and Ashley Cole, this is one marriage we’ll probably never understand but my suspicions are that Coleen knows exactly what he’s alleged to be getting up to and just prays that he manages to keep it under wraps.
I myself would have credited even Wayne Rooney with the sense not to go to some cheap prostitute though.
Clearly desperate to make money by any means, selling a sordid story to the papers must be a walk in the park for someone who can perform the most lurid act on a complete stranger for a few quid.
When your every move is scrutinised by the press and you can’t even trust your ‘friends’, let alone a prostitute, how does Wayne Rooney allegedly keep having such fatal lapses in judgement? I won’t answer that, because the answer seems obvious.
But I do have an idea that may help sex starved celebrities and it’s equally obvious to me. They should have sex with each other!
Fellow frisky, married celebrities have the same to lose and no interest in making five grand from saucy interviews with one of the red tops, so it’s more likely to be kept out of the public domain.
It’s win-win for all involved! I should be working in high profile PR. I could make a fortune co-ordinating these kinds of arrangements.
Of course it’s not ideal and as a Catholic I should in no way be encouraging this type of behaviour but one must realise these aren’t marriages undertaken out of love and trust above all else.
Nope. I believe most of them are PR stunts in themselves. Designed to give a man credibility and a sound reputation, whilst making a pretty young lady very happy and comfortable at the same time.
Cynical? Moi? I prefer to call myself honest and realistic.
The murky world of stardom is going to do its very worst to skew your priorities. You get rich and famous, you want to stay rich and famous.
Suddenly, it becomes a fight to stay in public favour – and you can’t really do that by being a millionaire playboy for the rest of your life.
But the public are a tough crowd to please and an unpredictable one at that.
Who’d have thought the prostitutes would gain any sympathy in a situation like this?
I for one can’t understand why. Those interview clips on the news made me want to throw my brew at the TV! Telling us you didn’t know it was Wayne Rooney, are you love?! Okie dokie. I might also believe you’ve been for an STD test recently!
If you ask me, I’d say Wayne Rooney is the biggest victim in all of this. He’s been had, hook line and sinker.
His wife knows where the door is and it’s not as if she won’t leave empty handed.
Everyone else just seems to take advantage of his complacency with his private affairs and you have to pity him for allegedly falling into that trap for the second time.
But you know what they say – any publicity is good publicity.
Whether or not that’s true is unclear.
I guess Wayne Rooney will be able to tell us in a few months.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Redefining ‘friend’
I BELIEVE we use the term ‘friend’ too loosely and that mostly it’s applied to acquaintances, work colleagues, fellow Facebookers and pretty much anyone that gives you the time of day once in a while, writes Chrissie Rowell.
I think it’s time we redefined the word friend, because it’s worth more than that. Like anyone, I’ve seen friends come and go my whole life.
At school, university and work, friends live inside each other’s pockets, getting to know each other inside out, forming what seems at the time an unbreakable bond. But that bond is weaker than you think and it’s supported by the very thing that allows you to see each other so often.
Take that thing away (leave school, finish uni, get a new job) and then you’ll know whether they really were a friend. You’ll swap numbers, promise to keep in touch and then life just gets in the way.
Or at least, that’s what we say. Life getting in the way is a bit of an insult to friendship though. I’m going to be bold as usual and say that’s a great, big, fat excuse for not being that interested in seeing the person. How can life get in the way of friendship?
I would say that life is pretty meaningless without friends. In fact, without friends or any kind of enjoyment had purely for the sake of it, life is just a mundane treadmill, after which we die — probably wondering on our deathbeds why we didn’t have more fun with the people we like!
Perhaps there are varying degrees of friendship. Friends that amuse us mildly while they’re in our company but who are easily forgotten once they depart; those who we can’t live without because they make our lives worth living and then those who we don’t even consider to be friends at all but who we’re not brave enough to be honest with and cut out of our lives once and for all.
Humans are renowned for being dishonest with each other and, in fairness to them, it’s usually so they don’t hurt each other’s feelings. But why prolong a false relationship purely out of guilt?
I’ve ditched a few people along the way, I’ve also been ditched by others and yes it hurts very deeply when you thought you mattered to a person – but I’d rather know my friends are my true friends and not trying to do me a favour or be in it for ulterior motives. And trust me, those friends don’t come around very often.
It’s difficult to describe a real friend but if you have one you’ll know about it and you’ll never question the relationship.
It exists effortlessly, their company feels right, there are no conditions, you don’t owe each other anything and after a length of time apart, it still feels like you only saw them yesterday. Like any relationship, it’s not going to be perfect but it’s as perfect as you’ve ever known.
If you’re still unsure, I’ve devised a cunning method of determining whether someone is a true friend and it’s quite simple but requires a bit of bravery – ask the person.
If you can’t even imagine speaking with this much honesty and integrity to the person in question, then you already have the answer. Don’t expect them to be giving you a kidney any time soon.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Are you OK? Really?
THE cloud is so low today, it’s virtually choking me. Not to mention making me feel completely depressed and trapped.
The cold weather seems to have descended upon us out of nowhere and all I have for comfort as I sit shivering on my sofa is an oversized bar of Dairy Milk, a small dog to share body warmth with and the commercial joke that is Christmas, lurking just around the corner.
Yes, I hate winter. Especially when our winters account for the majority of the year and our ‘blink and you’ll miss them’ summers are so lame you can’t even maintain a decent tan.
My father-in-law believes that we had a great summer (he also thinks we had a great summer last year) but that’s because he’s retired and has the time to keep watch by the window and run outside to make the most of the sun as it fleetingly pops out from behind the clouds every few hours, dragging his tomato plants behind him.
You think we’d be used to living in dismal weather but every year we harbour the same expectations of a good summer only to be bitterly disappointed as our barbecues get rained on and our spirits end up more damp than the washing we stupidly pegged out in a moment of optimism.
By the time winter finally arrives, we feel so cheated that we can’t even muster the strength to put up a fight against it.
Cue blankets, black-out blinds and re-runs of anything on Comedy Central.
Everything in winter feels 10 times as bad as it usually would. Or is that just a coincidence because I’ve suddenly hit my lowest ebb and it’s the end of September?
Who knows but if you’re interested I’ll give you the basic details.
I don’t want to be self-employed anymore, it’s not a reliable income. For over 12 months, armed with client references that would impress Alan Sugar, I’ve been applying for jobs and I consistently get one of three responses from smug little recruitment agents who know everything about all professions. 1. I am under-qualified 2. I am overqualified or 3. Who cares whether I am under-qualified or over qualified, being self-employed I cannot quantify my experience (or to put it in plain English, I could be a liar, having made it all up and they’d never know). So in a nutshell, you might as well substitute self-employment on your CV for blank space because it’s about as useful.
I can’t tell you how crushing it is to hear over and over again that ‘you’re not what we’re looking for’, ‘you don’t have the relevant experience’, or more often than not, nothing at all, because you don’t even qualify for the blanket rejection letter.
I’ve re-constructed my CV more times than I can remember, I tailor it to each individual application, I’ve tried taking things out that might put certain people off (modelling work – women with jealousy issues?)
You’re not even going to make it past the inbox to ‘print’). I’ve added things that might impress people (this column and other writing work – some jobs are connected to writing and editing) but no matter how I put myself across, I’m not getting anywhere.
So that is why I’m not ok. And I’m beginning to brood over it. To make it worse, winter beckons, with its grey, icy finger. For me, like thousands, even millions of other people, winter is a long and lonely battle where I’d rather just hibernate and wallow in self pity. I know for a fact I’m not alone – the SAD statistics speak for themselves but we’re too proud to complain.
‘Are you ok?’ we ask each other, never expecting to hear anything other than, ‘Yes, fine thanks’.
It’s a false enquiry into someone’s wellbeing, asked purely out of habit and or politeness, where we receive an equally false reply.
But I’m making a genuine request to hear from anyone who reads my column, who feels less than ‘alright’, to tell me about it because I’m sick of feeling like the only miserable cow in the country.
Let’s get it all out, because I’m a ‘tell it like it is’ kind of a person and I expect the same in return. It’s not quite an email based self help group, more like an opportunity to tell the truth for once because I for one am sick of being ‘Mrs Happy-go-Lucky’.
No-one likes to pretend for too long and God forbid any of my readers have no-one to moan to. I don’t care what it is – I’m all ears (or as it’s via email, should that be eyes?)
Please make me realise I’m not alone! Having finished my Dairy Milk, I’m now about to close the blinds and move on to a huge bag of Doritos and a bottle of wine. See you in cyberspace, unless I’m too drunk.
Sob stories? I’d LOVE to hear them! Email - chrissie rowell@live.co.uk
Let kids be nice - now there’s a NICE idea
I TRY to keep an open mind but sometimes I just can’t see things from a certain point of view.
The National Institute for Clinical Excellence (NICE) thinks it’s a good idea to hold antenatal classes in schools for young mums and I think this is completely absurd. While they’re at it, why don’t they start up drugs rehabilitation clinics at break times and give out a condom with every free school meal? I don’t have the answer for how we cut teen pregnancy rates but I’m pretty sure that making it as easy as possible for kids to get pregnant in the first place and then assuring them they’ll be absolutely fine if they get pregnant, is not the way forward.
Why have we gone from making sure kids know what’s socially and morally unacceptable, to confusing them with mixed signals like, ‘it’s best if you don’t, but if you do, well, we’ll sort it’? I have always thought it’s totally unnecessary to be giving children of primary school age information about sex.
They’re 11 years old, at best. Why do they need to be told what their privates are for, if it’s illegal to be doing anything with them, other than using the toilet and a bit of self exploration? (and God knows no-one ever needed to be taught about that).
It’s like telling an adult what number the porn channel is and then saying they can’t watch it for five years.Totally and utterly pointless and illogical.
On the whole, the society we’ve created is responsible and you definitely can’t blame kids for being curious these days, everything is so disturbingly sex-orientated that we don’t even notice it anymore (my columns are proof enough of that!).
Back when I was at school, the Spice Girls were considered to be breaking new ground with their loud-mouthed ways and tiny skirts.
Now, parents have to shield their kids’ eyes from the likes of the Pussycat Dolls and Girls Aloud, whose stage outfits often consist of racy underwear and whose dance routines have their origins in the Kama Sutra. In her first video, Katy Perry is singing about kissing girls as she lays in bed, fondling the living euphemism that is a big fuzzy cat (you have to credit her for not being too obvious) and in the afternoons, Loose Women discuss such things as vibrators, when they know full well that a good percentage of kids will have ‘pulled a sickie’ and will be lying on the sofa with some Calpol and the remote control.
‘Mummy, what’s a Rampant Rabbit?’ will be a nice conversation, as she brings her child their alphabet spaghetti on toast. It’s not a boat I’d ever want to be in. I’m not saying sex isn’t normal and I’m definitely not saying it’s wrong but allowing kids to be kids isn’t such a bad idea. And when I was young, being a kid meant playing with my pet rabbit, not a plastic one. And if you made a joke about the latter, I wouldn’t have had a clue what you were going on about.
There are ways to bring up children in this weird world we live in without allowing them to think it’s their right to copy what they see and hear. Sadly, there are too many parents who can’t be bothered to teach them anything.
I bumped into a boy the other day who can’t have been older than nine; he had spat on the floor, inches from my shoe (and these were Kurt Geigers). I told him he ought to learn some manners, to which he replied ‘F-off bitch, you’re not my effin Mum’. Thank God for that, at least, because if I was, I would have found a new use for my Kurt Geigers and they have very sharp heels.
Perhaps the blame does rest, as they say, with parents. I wouldn’t make a perfect one but I would try my absolute best to make sure they remained a child until their age states otherwise.
And the National Institute of Clinical Excellence is going down the wrong road – soon, there’ll be crèches at schools and the toddlers will be the offspring of the year sevens and eights. If a few teenagers get pregnant, then yes – we’ll have to look after them, discreetly.
But do we have to make it look as if we condoned it all along? Isn’t it obvious what that will achieve in the long run?
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Go compare!
I REALLY, really hate being ripped off and it’s been happening to me a lot lately.
Forget car insurance and stupid APRs on credit cards and loans, I keep buying things in shops and then finding something identical (but perhaps packaged slightly differently), in another shop, costing less than half the price!
The most recent incident of this was when I went out to find some of those infamous chicken fillets, to give me some lift in a corset and strapless bra, because God knows bras are virtually useless without straps.
At best, they merely stop people asking if they can hang their coat on your nipples (for those of you who are confused at this point, chicken fillets are cleverly shaped silicone pads designed to be put inside your bra under the breast, which lift your assets and cunningly mimic them due to their weight and texture.
A boob job in a box, if you will. They also look suspiciously similar to chicken breast fillets, hence the name).
So, at 4.30pm on a Friday and being in the same rush as I am most of the time, I phoned the obvious places in Nottingham that might sell them. Ann Summers (being the cheapest) were out of stock. Debenhams and House of Fraser had none in stock either. One city underwear shop however, had some.
Thanking what I thought were my lucky stars, I drove into town especially to pick them up, arriving five minutes before they closed.
A few hours later and £25 poorer (yes, £25 for two pieces of silicone), I was trying them on. Initially pleased with my purchase, that lasted only until yesterday when I happened to venture into Primark and see the same damn chicken fillets for £4. Only then did the ridiculous price of £25 sink in.
I’ve been trying to think of a reason to take the original ones back ever since.
There is only so much quality I’m willing to pay for and there is no way that the underwear shop can possibly justify this price tag. You would expect a variation in price from £2-£5 but £21?
Of course we’re dealing with two extremes here. Primark, which are the ultimate, rock-bottom priced retailer of everything bought and sold in mass quantities and the underwear shop, one of our high-end high street chains, which are the worst culprits for hideous and unreasonable mark ups of mediocre products.
It’s really annoying that you can’t shop safe in the knowledge than you’re not going to find the same thing elsewhere, for less than half the price.
Shopping around is all very well, but who’s really got the time and why should you have to?!
As consumers, we are taken for fools most of the time and for what purpose? So that ‘retail magnates’ like Theo Paphitis can send their kids to private school and sit on the panel in Dragons’ Den waiting for their next prey, whose new business they’ll take a greedy slice of.
Whether you fight the blatant greed of retailers and their consumerist feeding frenzy or just get on with it and hope that wages continue to rise and meet the ever expanding costs of shopping, is really up to you.
But I know what I could have spent that extra £24 on! And I’m going to start shopping around more, because it all adds up. I dread to think how much I’ve wasted in my whole lifetime on products that I could have got cheaper elsewhere. It’s no wonder Martin Lewis (Money Saving Expert) is at the peak of his career. I for one, have subscribed to his weekly emails full of deals, not to mention becoming his number one fan on Facebook!
I wish there was an easy way to avoid being ripped off - the problem is that when you really need something, you generally don’t know if it’s going to be available at a better price somewhere else - at short notice (which is the biggest drawback of internet shopping.)
So you just buy it wherever you find it and pretend not to look at the price tag.
Well ladies, if you need a hand in the cleavage department, you now know exactly where to go. I can help you with that much at least! A £4 boob job – that’s definitely one for Martin Lewis’s website.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Many crappy returns!
THERE are lots of reasons that this time of the year can be depressing – the end of summer and beginning of winter, the cold, dark nights drawing in, ridiculous heating bills, slipping over on wet leaves (ok, maybe that’s just me) – but I never thought my birthday would be on the list!
When I was young and ‘old’ people used to say they didn’t want to remember, let alone celebrate their birthday, I used to think they were weird and very miserable.
But this week I turn 27 and I am very slowly beginning to see what they mean. ‘27’, I can hear some you of saying, ‘you’re still a baby! Still a spring chicken! You don’t know what life is yet!’
If that’s the case, I don’t think I want to. I’ve been around long enough to know that birthdays aren’t what they used to be.
Back in the day, every year meant a party; everyone wanted to come, there was cake, there were tonnes of presents, there were even games, those parties were that thing we adults don’t understand anymore - fun.
Now I can’t even get a group of friends together for a meal because it’s near the end of the month and they’re broke, or some of them are too old, seemingly, for a meal in town and a few cocktails.
Mother, that includes you (if future birthdays ever have that effect on me, please shoot me).
Begrudgingly, I might have to resign myself to becoming a boring adult, purely because there’s no-one who wants to be a fun one with me anymore.
I’m at that awkward age where friends of the same age are starting families, so they’re all tied down with screaming babies and can’t possibly go out and have fun.
Younger friends are still at that stage of having ‘too much fun’ and are a bit full-on for even me to deal with (falling out of nightclubs at 4am, tanked up on vodka and Red Bull has never been my thing, even when I was 18!). I have older friends who’ve ‘already had their fun’ and haven’t got the stamina to stay up past 9pm anymore.
So that leaves me with family meals and romantic nights out with the husband.
Which is all very well but you can do that any time, can’t you?
I thought birthdays were about splashing out! Talking of splashing out, number one on my list of presents from the hub this year is a Dirt Devil (no, sadly I’m not talking about something unspeakable from Ann Summers, I’m talking about that very nifty little hand-held vacuum cleaner, which means I can clean up after my rabbit every half an hour, without having to haul the heavy Dyson out).
You know you’ve passed the fun stage of your life when a vacuum is the most desirable present you can think of.
I’m hoping there’ll be some unnecessary hedonistic surprises lying in wait as well, otherwise it really will be a crappy birthday!
I’m nudging 30 a bit harder ever year and I’m determined to squeeze the last bit of wanton recklessness out of my youth.
If I wanted to be boring, I would have got pregnant by now!
Now where’s the champagne? I’ll drink it all myself if I have to.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Techno-logical? Erm, no!
AS we established last week, I’m not exactly what you’d call old – but even I, Mrs Spring Chicken, can remember a time when if you wanted to talk to someone, you either picked up the landline phone or (now sit down and steady yourself, this is radical) went to see them in person!
Yes, it’s just a distant memory now but before the common man had access to mobile phones and the internet, back when TV consisted of just four terrestrial channels (unless you were well off and didn’t mind a big, ugly satellite dish screwed to the front of your house), when if your car went wrong, the garage didn’t have to plug it into to a machine with ESP to know what the heck it wanted and when you used a map to find your way around – life was simpler, writes Chrissie Rowell.
As far as I can tell, for all the technology we have at our fingertips today, we’re just more miserable. And definitely less satisfied.
The more options and gadgets that are available to us, the more we expect from life and the more frustrated we get when it all goes wrong (or for one day only, our broadband has gone down), because we feel utterly helpless! If the broadband things has ever happened to you and have come to depend on the internet as much as I do, you’ll know how incapacitated it makes you feel.
And that highlights the problem for me – the fact that technology is so delicate, so complicated and still so unreliable, and yet unfortunately, we have already come to rely on it.
Frustration isn’t the only drawback. What on earth has happened to people’s ability to interact with each other and where have people’s manners gone? If I had a pound for every time I received an abrupt, one word email from someone in reply to an enquiry, question or information they’ve requested, I would be writing this column from my yacht in Miami, having given up trying to interact with anyone other than dolphins and a fridge full of Dom Perignon.
Yes, fast communication methods and constant rushing about has left many people socially inept.
Even some of the most successful people in all kinds of business have seemingly lost the ability to be polite and use common courtesies.
Last year for a charity project I had to deal with one of the most famous and highly regarded fashion magazine editors in the UK. His manner was such, that I felt quite uncomfortable communicating with him, even via email.
I’m sure I was the last of his priorities, I’m sure his e-diary needed a month’s leave for work related stress and I’m sure he also had a pressing celebrity lunch date that was way more interesting and career progressing than talking to me.
But does that excuse being rude? I don’t think so. I can’t imagine you become such a popular chap by talking to people like that. I hope in person he’s a charming and talkative man.
I’ll let you know when he asks me to write a column for his rag.
It’s official: technology brings out the worst in us all.
Think of all your trivial day to day frustrations and annoyances.
I bet most of them are related to dysfunctional technology.
Right at this moment, I have a new car with a rattle under the bonnet that no-one can diagnose, a mobile phone that won’t hang up when you want it to - yet randomly hangs up by itself when you desperately don’t want it to, a boiler that only heats up the water if you keep adjusting the pressure in the surrounding pipes and a washing machine that won’t take the fabric conditioner from the draw you pour it into, meaning you have to stop it before the rinse cycle and put it into the drum yourself!
You can imagine my reaction if these things all happen one after another!
One day I hope to escape it all on my yacht but no doubt the satellite navigation would fail and I’d end up in the Bermuda triangle, listening to the sound of ‘Recalculating!’ for all eternity.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
A talent show or a circus, with Cowell as the ring leader?
THE X Factor, I’m sad to say, is one of my guilty pleasures, writes Chrissie Rowell.
And year after year it gets more and more guilty. When Jay Kay came out with his little anti-X Factor outburst and then had the raw nerve to perform in front of the ‘effing amateurs’ he so hates for the sole purpose of promoting his new album, I couldn’t help but smile.
He’s playing the game for what it is and as Cheryl Cole sat there stony faced and the rest of the judges made a half hearted attempt at applause, it made me wonder why someone hasn’t blurted out the truth before now.
What Jay Kay dared to say was only what everyone else has been thinking ever since Dannii Minogue and Cheryl Cole were given pride of place as judges on a music competition.
Please. It’s like asking a Saturday girl at McDonalds to award a Michelin star to a restaurant. Cheryl Cole is the biggest hypocrite on the planet, preferring to mime during her own performances and saluting the nation on her grand entrance every week, like some kind of Napoleon for the misled masses.
Then there’s Dannii Minogue; famous for being Kylie’s less fortunate sister, who in the distant past has been given the opportunity to lay some uninspiring vocals over the occasional mediocre dance track.
And yet somehow it seems we should respect their opinions on music! It genuinely saddens me that in most years gone by some of the best vocalists and performers on the X Factor have perished half way through the competition, at the mercy of the general ‘voting’ public and four people with their own self interest at heart.
I can remember Laura White and Danyl Johnson in particular. And although a handful of failed contestants have gone on to enjoy some level of success (namely the insanely irritating Diana Vickers and runners up JLS and Olly Murs) an ex-X Factor star is unlikely to ever be able to shake off the stigma of being publicly rejected because the people at home didn’t ‘get them’.
Did the public really not ‘get them’ or is it perhaps more the case that the kind of people who would buy their records, wouldn’t waste their time watching such staged drivel every Saturday night? I can’t help wondering whether the tiny probability of winning is worth the eternal label that will be plastered over a performer if they don’t make it to at least the semi final.
Would it not be better to try and go it alone? After all, does hardship, perseverance and effort not a true an artiste make? I thought so.
What kind of performers and songwriters would Elton John, Billy Joel or Madonna have become had Simon Cowell got his claws into them? I’d like to think they’d have told him in no uncertain terms, to get lost.
The problem is, when young wannabes are starting out, they have the very thing that makes Simon Cowell’s offer so appealing. Pure desperation.
And they’ll do anything to get a break. But who’s there to catch them when they’re turfed out because no-one voted?
No longer flavour of the week, let alone month, they’re back to sweeping offices because they’ve probably got less self esteem than before they auditioned for the X Factor.
It’s the fickle epitome of manufactured music and TV, designed to do nothing else but line a few deep pockets, afforded its longevity by the one success story everyone else hopes to repeat – Leona Lewis.
I think I watch it now more out of curiosity and some kind of perverse interest in who will be the next victim and who the public wants to crown their next idol.
They’ve got it wrong so often that now every time the public votes are read out, I sit there thinking this means nothing.
Steve Brookstein was the first ever winner and was voted for out of sympathy and likeability more than musical talent.
Shane Ward was a teenage heart throb who after a year of hit singles disappeared into obscurity and is now making an unspeakably cringey comeback with a Nickelback song.
Leon Jackson was brutally disposed of after disappointing sales of his first album despite a clearly distinctive and natural voice – it’s quite obvious votes don’t mean record sales.
The less said about Wagner, Jedward and their mentor Louis Walsh, the better. I wish Simon Cowell would stop calling it a talent show when it’s quite obviously a popularity contest/farce.
Perhaps the British public are finally sick of being told by some badly dressed, square haired fella who the next big thing should be.
If there’s one contestant this year who I wish could have made it alone, it’s Matt Cardle.
He’s popular with voters who might even go so far as buying his music as well but he’s also too much of a natural musician to be churned out of the X Factor hits factory.
I genuinely hope he makes it as the artist he wants to be, one way or another.
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell@live.co.uk
Who shamed Rogering rabbit?
I HAVE come to realise that Roger Rabbit came by his name by no uncertain terms.
Remember my baby rabbit Enrique, who I spoke about a few months ago?
Well that gorgeous little creature who turned my world upside down with his ‘settling in’ recently lulled me into a false sense of security when all seemed to be calm at last (or perhaps we just got used to his mayhem).
At the very least, he became perfectly litter trained, dropping only the occasional raisin-like poo on my husband’s pillow out of sheer obnoxiousness.
He used to snuggle up for cuddles, come to you for a stroke and a tickle and his chewing of furnishings became minimal.
Then overnight, literally, he became a teenage rabbit. It all started one day when I was getting ready for work. He was running around my feet in circles like he always does, only this time on the very last lap, he sprayed me with amazing precision from head to toe, in strong smelling, bright yellow bunny wee.
Yuk. I must admit, I had been wondering when all this would start.
Having reached six months of age and still being reasonably well mannered, I thought I’d be lucky enough to have a male rabbit that didn’t develop these dreadful habits.
I stood there for a second, reeling in shock and wondering what to get changed into when I should have already left the house for work.
I convinced myself this was a one off and he was indeed clever enough to bide his time before the next attack. Last night, I was sat on my bed looking through some Christmas shopping I had just bought.
He came and sat next to me, looking cute as pie.
I stroked his head, then a second later all I saw was his fluffy backside as he jumped off the bed and squirted, not sprayed, a load of wee — right in my face.
It’s like he’s equipped with a little fireman’s hose and a target finder for optimum accuracy of aim!
As I wiped my eyes, I wondered what the hell I was going to do. He’s a house rabbit and I refuse to keep animals in cages outside. In any case, at this time of year he’d almost certainly perish, having acclimatised to the cosy indoors.
What you need to understand if you’re not that into pets and animals is that to me they’re as good as my children.
When your baby pees into the air because you took its nappy off at the wrong time, or when it’s a bit older forgets all the hard work you put into to toilet training him or her, do you think ‘oh sod it, the little brat can go and live down the garden!’?
Of course not. And to be honest, I’d be more likely to shove a kid in a cage down the garden than a rabbit.
So now we’ve cleared that up, don’t assume there’s an easy solution to this problem.
Stupidly, despite having kept male rabbits years ago, I had overlooked their natural instinct to mark their territory. It seems he thinks he owns me and he’s not about to let go. Literally.
Because on top of that I also have a teenage rabbit who hangs for dear life onto my leg, every time I walk into the room! So horny is he, that he humps everything. And if it moves, even better (he has a cushion on the floor, he prefers me). Like all Casanovas, he likes a challenge.
I can no longer stroke him without him violating my arm, I can’t lay on the bed and read a book without him getting fresh with my foot. He is quite frankly, insatiable and I am thinking of changing his name from Enrique to Julio.
To add to that, he’s like a hyperactive maniac in general. He is destroying everything – helping me with wrapping Christmas presents is his favourite pastime at the moment.
He throws the presents about, rips the tags off them, gnaws the corners and drags smaller ones under the bed where he can consume the entire thing.
As far as I can see, in order to calm him down, I am only left with the option of having him castrated, which is a serious and fairly risky operation for a bunny. It’s a last resort, so if anyone has bunnies and ideas about things I can do, please get in touch!
Otherwise I’m going to smell like the stairwell of a city centre car park with ankles scratched to ribbons and everyone will wonder what happened to their Christmas presents (if they do make it to you, don’t blame me if they reek of wee).
Comments? I’d love to hear them! Email - chrissierowell @live.co.uk
The C word
NO, I don’t mean the four letter one that is reserved for episodes of road rage, I mean cancer.
I was called into hospital last week after an abnormal smear test result. Naturally, I just assumed the nurse who had taken the test had swabbed the wrong part of my anatomy or perhaps contaminated the swab with her own germs by sneezing on it (you’ll think anything to avoid imagining you have the C word).
So off to the hospital I went, for what I hoped would just be a repeat smear. I was told to get undressed, put on a gown and sit in a chair that was hoisted up to eye level, with my legs in stirrups, two people in the room and my modesty more than exposed (by the time the doctor had inserted all his tools and set up his telescope he must have been able to see so far, he could have given me a dental examination).
“Would you like to look at what I’m seeing on the screen?” the doctor asked.
I thought he was joking. There’s a reason your cervix isn’t on the outside and that’s because it’s never meant to be seen. “No thanks,” I politely declined. Who in their right mind would want to watch their insides being poked about at?!
When I thought the experience wasn’t going to get any worse, I was told I’d have to have two biopsies taken. I’m a sensitive soul when it comes to matters of pain and medicine and I was close to fainting.
“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked. “Terrific, thanks. I love stripping off for strangers and having bits of my reproductive organs removed while I’m still awake.”
I grimaced, clenching my teeth. When it was all over, the seat was lowered and with my feet firmly back on the floor, the doctor patted my knees and tried to re-assure me with his initial prognosis.
All I heard was ‘pre-cancerous cells’. I tried to remain nonchalant because he didn’t seem too concerned. But since being told to wait for my results, I must be honest, I’ve been plagued by thoughts of dying quite frequently.
There have been times when my mind has taken the whole thing out of all proportion. I’ve ended up in tears on several occasions, picked my funeral music, ordered my Swarovski encrusted coffin (ok, that last bit was a lie but I did wonder how much one would cost), I’ve generally been taken over by morose thoughts every time I allow my mind to wander.
I even caused myself to have a panic attack when I let my fingers type ‘Jade Goody’ into Wikipedia so I could find out in detail what happened to her during her brave, five year fight against cervical cancer.
I’m relieved to say that for the time being, I’ve talked some sense into myself. I speak to everyone and it’s comforted me to learn just how many women this has happened to; women I work with, family, friends, friends of friends – it seems I’m not that much in the minority after all.
I’ve also since found out that ‘pre-cancerous’ is just an unnecessarily alarming term for cells that are beginning to develop abnormalities that could turn cancerous. They might not and there are varying degrees of these abnormalities and the extent to which they affect cells.
Often they return to normal on their own, sometimes they don’t and need to be removed, which is usually a successful and relatively simple, one-off procedure. That said, there is always a small chance that it could get out of hand. And, even if it doesn’t, you’re closer than you ever wanted to be, to the dreaded C word.
It’s forced me to imagine for the first time how it must feel to be diagnosed with a terminal illness like cancer and how, when everything is fine, we complain about the most trivial things. The fear of having to say goodbye to your loved ones, knowing that you’re going to be the cause of their grief and there’s nothing you can do about it must be the most crippling feeling imaginable; not to mention the fear of your own death and what to expect on the other side.
How some people manage to remain positive and enjoy their last days is a mystery to me, they’re an inspiration and I’m in awe of their strength. But then I have to wonder if the very worst thing is being diagnosed with a form of cancer that may or may not respond to treatment.
The not knowing, the feeling of being in limbo and at the mercy of a disease that could easily go one way or the other must leave you feeling scared beyond all reason, afraid to be unduly positive for fear of the worst and unduly negative in case your attitude is making it worse. Well let me offer you this small, humble piece of advice.
Over the last few days, I’ve learned the hard way that there are absolutely no benefits to feeling negative but there are, without doubt, endless reasons to be positive. If, God willing, it turns out you can beat it (and you really can, it happens all the time) I believe you stand a better chance with a fighting spirit.
I am lucky that I am being well looked after by the NHS at Nottingham City Hospital, who for all their failings are actively saving lives every day; screening for problems (often caused by our own lifestyle choices) before they become too serious.
If you’re fighting cancer, I’m sending you my support, admiration and endless positive thoughts. I won’t pretend I don’t still wake up thinking about it every morning and stressing but until I get my results and know the situation one way or another, I’m trying to take my own advice. Either way I know I’m going to be back in that chair again soon and it’s costing me a fortune in Veet.
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Too posh to push
I’M usually the first to criticise people who get all pathetic when the weather turns icy.
As much as we’ve got comfortably used to mild winters, what we’re experiencing now is more like the norm for December.
And it could be even worse. We could live in Siberia.
If we did, I definitely wouldn’t be driving the useless heap of frozen metal that’s sat on my drive at the moment.
I bought an SLK in September with little clue that by November it would be completely redundant because (and I exaggerate not) it is completely incapable of any movement other than involuntary donuts upon even the lightest smattering of snow.
The first night the dreaded stuff fell nearly two weeks ago, it left me completely immobile the following morning; a quarter of the way up a hill on a housing estate in Bramcote, attempting to pick up my friend so we could go to work at the Good Food Show.
No matter how much I tried to ‘steer into the skid’ and get the damn thing under control, I ended up at a diagonal angle across the road, wheels spinning in the compacted snow, stopping everyone else from passing.
If I’m not going anywhere, goddammit, neither is anyone else.
However, such is the optimum performance of everyone else’s cheap machines in the snow and their puny, narrow tyres (Corsas, KAs, Polos etc…), they can even mount the pavement in the snow and ice, to get round the stupid poser in the Mercedes, who quite frankly deserves to be stuck there like a t***.
I must admit, it does make me feel pretty stupid that I forked out for a decent car, only for it to surrender feebly to the elements and leave me sitting behind the wheel red faced, as people in lesser cars drive past laughing and pointing.
Thank God for good Samaritans, is all I can say.
Two very kind gentlemen proceeded to push me up and over the hill so I could skid all the way back down the other side.
The next day I had to go to Pinxton, where the snow was indeed of Siberia-like proportions.
I got firmly snowed into a car park space as soon as I came a standstill, by which time it was definitely too late to change my mind.
When I returned to my car after a couple of hours, I had to accost the parking attendant to push me out and stop the rest of the traffic coming anywhere near me as I slid out onto the road, ABS light flashing at me dementedly.
Then the following day I ventured to my sister’s house in Stapleford, which is on a very flat road.
As soon as I slowed down enough to try and manoeuvre into a space, the wheel spinning started again and I wasn’t going anywhere.
Blocking a neighbour’s drive and feeling very sheepish, I had to be helped on my way once again.
When I got home that night I threw my keys into the fruit bowl and they’ve been there ever since (yes, they live in the fruit bowl if there are any thieves reading but don’t try and take the car ‘til at least April. a joyride’s not quite the same when you have to be pushed around by pedestrians).
Having relied on lifts for the past few days from my very sweet husband, I’m going to try and take my car out again tomorrow.
If I can make it off our still very snow covered road, I might be continuously mobile because everywhere else seems to be pretty clear.
However, I hear the white stuff is giving way to black ice and that can also be a lot of fun for rear wheel drives with panicky women at the helm.
If you see me and I don’t look to be going where I want to be, I’d appreciate it if you A. didn’t laugh and B. gave me a shove.
I’m done with showing off about owning what I thought was a first rate car. Can anyone lend me their Skoda?
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Swings and roundabouts
KATY Perry says she kissed a girl, Madonna’s been mouthing off about it for years, Angelina’s ‘bisexual and proud’ and high fashion mags are rife with lesbian suggestiveness (even though the models do look more like beautiful straight women pretending to be amorous, rather than actual lesbians, take that how you will), writes Chrissie Rowell.
Female/female sexual experimentation seems to have finally hit mainstream thinking and it’s ok to talk about it, even if it’s still a bit frowned upon to do it.
Or is it? I had to wonder, is this idea another product of these progressive times, where we’re constantly being challenged to push the envelope and do something because it’s different and perceived as wild? When Madonna popped out of a huge wedding cake at the 2003 VMAs dressed as a groom and proceeded to take ‘brides’ Britney and Christina for her very own, she also took female power play and sexuality to a new level.
I’ve never seen a top hat and tails (tight as it was) look so sexy. But then this is old hat for Madge, she’s never been conventional and she delights in expressing herself in that typically pseudo-masculine way, in the most visual and controversial manner possible. I must admit, she’s been a bit of a heroine of mine ever since I was old and confident enough to form my own opinions.
Not necessarily because I agree with hers, but because of her complete and utter disregard for anyone else’s – specifically about herself and her unashamedly wild ways.
I’ve always found it interesting that women have more licence to experiment with each other than men do and still label themselves straight. When I’ve asked men about this, typically they’ll say it’s natural for women to be tactile with each other so that’s why it’s ok to dabble.
Men on the other hand are supposed to be physically aloof with each other, competitive, macho, emotionally distant – definitely not partial to the odd comforting snuggle, some men can’t even bring themselves to comment on how good looking another man is ‘in case people think he’s gay’. I wonder, is this how most men genuinely feel or are they just afraid? I suspect they don’t even let those kinds of thoughts enter their heads, so they can’t possibly analyse them.
I remember when I used to think (perhaps it was naïve, I don’t know) that being gay was something that only happened to certain people, who were born gay. You couldn’t have a go at being gay and if you did and it turned out you enjoyed it, then ought to admit you were gay and come out of the closet once and for all.
Now, you don’t even have to have a go at being gay, you can call yourself bisexual and have the best of both worlds! Narrow minded people will say that’s impossible – you can only swing one way or the other. But who are they to argue if a person says they can get satisfaction from either men or women? As twisted as they’d like to think it is, I can imagine it’s entirely possible.
Such is our constant need to pigeon-hole people, being bisexual presents many inexplicable problems for those simple folk among us, who simply can’t cope with the uncertainty of it all!
Perhaps most telling is the fact that most of the bisexual people I’ve ever encountered end up settling down with a member of the opposite sex after all - suggesting that this is the easiest choice for co-habiting (and obviously re-producing). It seems experimentation is simply that. Purely hedonistic and something to try. And God knows we want to try everything these days…
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Money talks. Actually, it doesn’t have to...
I’ve often wondered what it must feel like to be rich (and just to clarify what I mean by rich, I mean rich enough for it to be irrelevant how much things cost. So rich that you never have to check price tags again, so rich that whatever you bought, it would hardly dent your big, fat bank balance).
Of course if you spoke to someone this rich (and I have) they’d say they’re not rich, just comfortable.
Who’s rich to them? Donald Trump, probably. Even if rich people don’t know they’re rich, others seem to be able to sniff out their money like scent hounds. My husband and I conducted an inadvertent experiment in Venice last week, when we went to Harry’s Bar.
In case you didn’t know, the original Harry’s bar in Venice - part of the Cipriani chain - is famous for inventing the Bellini cocktail, serving some of the most legendary names in arts and show business, keeping its understated (and somewhat uninspiring) 30s style décor and perhaps most famous for unashamedly fleecing their customers.
The last time we went there it was high season, Venice was crawling with tourists and Harry’s was packed with people taking pictures of each other with Bellinis in hand. You could say we blended in.
This time, there were no tourists in there. Only discerning customers, mostly locals or regulars and a few Americans who definitely had more money than dress sense.
Did we blend in? Despite being the best dressed in there, I thought we did but it seemed the waiters thought differently. It didn’t occur to me for five or so minutes, I was all smiles and friendly chat with the bartender at first, but it soon became apparent - we were being ignored.
We were immediately ushered from the bar, seated in a corner away from all the other big spenders and left to consume our humble Bellini and Americano alone, while we pondered our insignificance among these high fliers.
While the waiters hovered around them like bluebottles around dog poops and we looked on in awe at the effortless power these other patrons beheld, I couldn’t help but wonder – aside from some of them being regulars — how did the staff know they had the money and we didn’t?
There was no way they could have guessed we weren’t going to order food or drink the bar dry, we weren’t clad in tourist attire (rucksacks, cameras around the neck and pack-a-macs), there was no England gear in sight (unless you count my Julien Macdonald Union Jack clutch bag) so that couldn’t have given it away.
We were merely out for a drink, the way you go out for a drink back at home. I’m sure the staff aren’t trained to suss out a Primark garment at 20 paces, neither have they memorised the whole Manolo collection in order to distinguish it from Kurt Geiger.
So it has to be down to something more subtle. Money must make you act differently and you probably wouldn’t even know you’d changed.
We sat and watched the other customers being brought food and drink and generally waited upon hand and foot. It was suddenly obvious! They were indifferent. Manners were implicit (at least that’s what their excuse would have been had they been challenged), they had reached that point where they actually believed they didn’t have to be polite anymore. I mean come on, what kind of pleb wastes manners and small talk on those who are clearly below them?
On realising this, I amused myself by demanding the bill in the most rude and arrogant way possible, but it probably came across as more ‘dragged-up’ than ‘made-it’.
In any case, the waiter brought the bill in record time, probably just to get rid of us. What was supposed to be an enjoyable trip to a bar steeped in legend and class, where we could soak up the atmosphere and enjoy a well mixed cocktail, turned into half an hour feeling like we shouldn’t be there.
And as much as I keep telling myself this, it was definitely not ‘all in our heads’. I’m not the type to be paranoid about other people being better than me! I left Harry’s feeling deflated and trying to appease my disappointment by complaining about their strange habit of serving drinks in the wrong type of glass. When I order a Prosecco, I expect it in a tall, long stemmed flute, not a cheap looking, stumpy wine glass with the Harry’s logo etched onto it.
But it made no difference to how I felt. Understated chic is their trademark – Harry’s is not about being flashy; it’s a little, frosty windowed hideaway for the rich and famous, who won’t even look at the bill, let alone complain about the prices.
Make no mistake about it – whatever they tell you, Harry’s don’t want you mixing with their prized clientele any more than they want you to order the cheapest thing on the menu. Whether they mean to or not, they will make you feel so inferior to everyone else, that you just want to slink away unnoticed, especially when you can’t afford to leave the change as a tip. And at £35 for a coffee, a Bellini and a glass of Prosecco, they can hardly be surprised.
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