Dreamt last night that some well-meaning friend had put me in for that Gok Wok program, what’s it called? How to Look Good Naked?
Well I’m re naming it How To Look Like You Don’t Mind Being On National TV In Your Undercrackers. Catchy I think!
I woke up from the dream in a cold sweat clutching my boobs yelling ‘no no get off!’ I cringe when I think of going on any of those programs….Fair play to the people who do, but I need no Trinny or Susannah manhandling my bosom and telling me to leap enthusiastically out of my jeans and tracksuits and hop into a slinky a-line dress (it accentuates your hour-glass figure, dahling!) for the simple reason that I already know what they would say.
I almost admire these women that go on and seem very surprised that the fashion queens don’t like their ‘slouch-potato, pop down to the shops in your nightie’ style. It must be rather lovely to be that blissfully unaware of what people’s perceptions are of you. I am totally the opposite, down to agonising over whether my top matches my jumper. I’m not saying I’m at all fashionably minded, just that I manage to skate along that invisible line of just-acceptable knowledge of the spring season’s trends to fly hopefully under the radar.
Now, Ten Years Younger I am pretty fascinated with. I have great respect for the ladies that go and stand in the street to have the random public squint at them whilst they’re standing in a giant fish tank trying not to look self-conscious. To invite people to actually say things like ‘Err, I dunno, I fink she looks like she could be eighy-free? Nah, maybe tha’s a bit ‘arsh, ‘ow abaht seveny sehn?’ Is very brave in my book. Then when they go on and have all those procedures that make them look like someone’s beaten up a lobster is pretty much akin to saintliness.
I have a very low pain threshold which doesn’t include being able to do things like waxing my legs and managing not to swear when I stub my toe on the side of a piece of furniture. When this happens in public I hop about making that really attractive face we all do that looks like we’re sucking lemons and drawing pins at the same time, and trying to come up with a safe word to yell such as ‘Blast’ and ‘Blimey’ and ‘Dash it!’ I curse in a typically English fashion at the offending chair or door frame as though I’m just off to change into jodphurs and go ‘Awf for a Canter on Bessie’!
People’s fascination with these makeover programs must come from their very real desire to change aspects of themselves. We see an awful lot of people in the public eye who have the means and excuses to ‘improve’ parts that need improving for their jobs. A trout pout the size of Wales here, a boob job that could fit Wales snugly down it’s bra there, and everybody’s running around like headless chickens enquiring how much Botox is!
You would have to pay me all the gold in the world to have Botox. I’ve seen so many people with the typical surprised expressions that looks like they’ve got invisible string attached from their eyebrows to their own personal helicopter in the sky. Keeping the quizzical whimsy going on all these people’s drastically-plastic improved faces is a full-time occupation for the pilots…I only hope they get to have holidays on the ground occasionally.
So would you ever get me on to see Gok Wok really? I don’t think so…There’s just never going to be an occasion in my life when I’ll be comfortable with knowing the whole of a big shopping centre was looking at my bobbly wobblies and pretending to be impressed and awed. It’s just not going to happen. If he wanted to come to my house and give me some advice I would ban him from using the words ‘My Girl Jenn’ in any of his sentences, and there would most likely also still be a ban on all the boob juggling. I’ll leave that to my own lovely gay friends when they come to visit.
How to look ten years younger whilst naked on a building in a pair of spanx? I’ll leave it to the professionals I think!
Fatty Blob Head