WELCOME TO THE GUEST BLOG SECTION – HOORAH
Here, you will find a selection of amazing blogs from some of the most funny, feisty and at times, controversial bloggers in town.
We be featuring some of Caitlin’s own writing but to start us off we have tasked our bloggers with writing about some of the topics inspired by Moranthology.
Unfortunately, no one is talking about Boris Johnson being a Posh Albino Fanny Hound, but they are all brilliant, and well…give it time.
So, sit back, put your feet up and take a look.
If you strongly agree or furiously disagree, get commenting. All our bloggers are happy to engage in a good old debate.
Donna Amey, creator of blog Thoughts On Mainstream, writes about the need for more nakedness and asks, is scrapping Page 3 a good thing?
Page 3 is irritating for two reasons. Firstly, all the girls look exactly the same, with the exception to hair colour. Secondly, most readers are under the impression that they are the only people to understand the irony of ‘News in briefs’. Unfortunately it’s not one of those things that get funnier every time you hear it.
However, where else do we see naked people? Growing up, there are few places for young people to see real life nudity. Unless you have particularly liberal, naked loving parents, the ways you’re going to get a glimpse of what your body is about to transform into are pretending you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa then watching late night Channel Five, taking all the clothes off your Barbie, or communal changing room staring.
Of course the most realistic glimpse into your future is the changing room option, but unfortunately this can make people feel quite uncomfortable. Although these glasses could be useful, and also look pretty cool.
Late night Channel 5 unfortunately isn’t famed for representing real looking women either, you would be just as well looking at a particularly slim courgette lying next to two grapefruit.
As for Barbie, she wouldn’t actually be able to stand up if she was a real person and the closest thing to her actually looks pretty weird.
So is scrapping Page 3 a good thing? A regular place to see naked people can’t be a bad thing – especially as Brits are famously prudish about our bits (most of us don’t even use the right terminology; hence ‘bits’).
You only have to visit any naturist venue or gym changing room to find that people of all shapes and sizes not only like being naked, but will walk around naked for an uncomfortably long amount of time.
Surely it’s not only readers of The Sun who have an interest in breasts? Would it hurt The Lady readers to see the odd bottom, or for Horse and Hound subscribers to catch a glimpse of a normal looking ball sack every now and again?
The argument for The Sun’s Page 3 encouraging eating disorders and objectifying women seems largely to be because they all look exactly the same – and not what most young girls will eventually turn into.
Would removing the page and creating mystery around the human form actually help, or could we actually encourage healthier body images by having more designated nudity?
It’s not only flawless, barely-legal young girls who’ll stand in front of a camera in pants: there are both men and women of all shapes and sizes who will happily show off their wares. Why hide them away just because their bodies aren’t ‘perfect’.
The new era for dating and commitment – guest blog by Anna Roberts
Creator of www.thelondonscrapbook.com blogger Anna Roberts writes about the new era of dating and commitment…
I didn’t foresee this coming. A couple of years ago, I had a different vision of my future and attitude to life. I didn’t imagine I’d be co-habiting with a boyfriend, certainly not one I’d found on an online dating site.
I’d envisaged that I wouldn’t settle down until at least 30 and that I’d be completing my twenties as the decade of “fun”. I was at the start of my career and thought getting into a relationship would slow me down. Marriage seemed like nice idea for a party and small humans would definitely not be popping out of any of my body parts.
But I found a change of heart as I approached the 25 mark. Coinciding with when I entered the London dating scene. The ‘young professional’ lifestyle in London often means that the only time available to meet the other sex is when you’re unwinding (also known as getting pissed in a sticky-floored Clapham pub). I realised I didn’t want to just snog the ‘reem-haired Bristol graduate who’s landed a top notch banker job in the city’ on the dance floor. I didn’t want to meet incompatible suitors who thrived off their bachelor lifestyle, leaving me feeling like just another girl in the big city.
In defiance, I ventured online to shop for boys. Boys who were looking for a longer-term thing. Particularly in large cities like London, online dating is the thing to do and is certainly not a taboo like it once was. It’s quite an addictive pastime; chatting online like teenagers and wondering who is checking out your profile. And then, of course, I found my boyfriend and all that mushy stuff happened. So here we are in our little pad and contrary to what my younger self thought, it seems I’m still having fun and getting ahead in my career.
That brings me on to…marriage! My attitude has changed to the idea. Maybe I’m simply maturing and happy that I’ve completed my stint of the London nightclub dating scene. Or maybe there’s a new era emerging.
Traditionally, couples got married to make a commitment to their religion and a promise they’d procreate. The responsibility of the daughter would be handed over from the father to the husband and her life was set. Women then rebelled against this. And today? Marriage is BACK!
It’s taken a while but modern-day women can choose to do their own thing. They might decide to delay having children until they are ready, or maybe not at all. Some women…dare I say it…may question why marry at all?
This summer I will be attending three weddings, all in their mid-twenties, all making their own rules. This has forced me to ask, why not marry? If you’ve found your life partner at 26 and you’re not ready for babies, then that’s fine. You’re not just marrying to have babies. If you’ve found your life partner at 26 and are on track for promotion, then that’s fine too. Sharing your life with someone else isn’t a symbol you’re losing your independence. You’re marrying because you just freakin’ love your partner and because you chose to.
From my observation, Londoners definitely lead the way in new approaches to dating. Yet, it seems to be us, the twenty-something women who are leading the way in new approaches to marriage.
So, we have a new era of dating and a new era of commitment. My advice? Have fun, snog random people in pubs, go on pointless dates, be promiscuous online – I recommend it all. When, and if, you find the person you want to be with forever – make your own rules.
Ever get the feeling that when something is going well or when you have achieved success that utter catastrophe is around the corner?
Perhaps it’s because we are battered round the head with ‘what goes up must come down’ theology as though it’s gravity that will inevitably humble us with a reminder that our achievement is not as good as we think.
Alas, I’m here to tell you. It’s not gravity or God. It’s them and quite possibly, you. The insatiable desire some people have to infect you with their own self-doubt and the expectation that jealousy is a bad, unmentionable thing is just plain silly.
Sometimes, in life people are good, are better than you or are just plain luckier but hitting them with a metaphorical, or very real, stick won’t improve your chances of winning life.
Isn’t it better to just be honest? An honest voice of “OMG I am so jealous I need to go and be sick so I can return and be thrilled for you” will probably make everyone’s life a whole lot better.
Now admittedly, this is a lesson to be learnt. There have been times where I have NOT been thrilled or told said ‘life winner’ I wanted to be sick/poke them in the eye…but I like to think I’m growing.
The reason this has spun my head of late is that I’m realising it’s actually a very female trait to contribute to the “people hate you when you are good” situation.
Guilty. I will admit that personally, I thought it was impolite to be chuffed with your self.
If you put down your own achievements then quickly call your mum to declare “Mother. I’m mint” then you have gone some way in being both humble and singing your own praises, right?
Unless you speak up no one will actually know how good you really are. There ARE exceptions to this rule. The one nice boss everyone is afforded in their lifetime might actually drag out your colours and fly them for you or you might be the lucky person that is SO GOOD that they can float through life bashfully dismissing any compliment that comes their way.
For the rest of us, we have to try and learn that being good is great and when your rummaging nervously in your ‘I am awesome’ bag, toes curled and bum clenched, trying to awkwardly drag out your colours post flying and some envious douche bag pulls your pants down and laughs…just turn to them and say:
“I know you are so jealous you want to be sick. I feel like that too sometimes. Now go vomit so you can return and give me the congratulatory hug you REALLY want to give.”
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Never Meet Your Heroes! (Maybe.)
People often say that you should never meet your heroes as, inevitably, that wonderful mental image you have of them will be shattered into a million tiny pieces when they appear to be less than perfect. The thing is though, it’s not them who I’m worried about being less than perfect. It’s me. I’ve met very few famous people in my life and those encounters have usually been somewhat awkward. I was hoisted over the shoulder of an ex-Blue Peter presenter once, while he was dressed as a viking, so the thought of meeting a celeb I really like just makes me worried that something that embarrassing is going to happen.
I once had a dream that I bumped into Simon Pegg in a pub. I spouted a daft line from Spaced, he laughed and bought me a pint. In real life, if I bumped into Simon Pegg and said “get off me you bummer!” I think he’d probably run away. Very quickly. A bit like Colin Baker did when my entire primary school class started speeding towards him shouting “LOOK! It’s Doctor Who!” (Yes, I am that old.) These days, celebrities are people I would usually go out of my way to avoid – just so that there’s no way I can accidentally ruin their day – but that all changed last month.
Back in the late 80s, I had a couple of must-see television programmes that I made a point of sitting down to watch every week. One was Top Of The Pops – with its cheese-tastic Radio1 DJ presenters and really-couldn’t-give-a-shit style of miming from the acts – and the other was The Clothes Show. With the glamour/camp duo of Selina Scott and Jeff Banks at the helm, this was appointment viewing for my fashion hungry younger self. Just hearing the theme tune makes me tingle, even now. Yes, I was that obsessed.
I watched the show, bought the magazine, and travelled to Birmingham to spend all my cash at The Clothes Show Live every December. I think that was the first time I got to see a professionally organised fashion show. Mind you, I was more excited about getting to touch a Vivienne Westwood corset. I still wish I’d had the money to buy one. To be honest, they might’ve made me buy it if I’d fondled it for much longer. If I’d had a mobile, I could have called my mum and asked her if I could have it for Christmas.
I digress. One of the reasons I was so completely obsessed with fashion back then, was because The Clothes Show proved that it wasn’t just for douchebags and airheads. And how did they do that? They got themselves another presenter, who was probably the single coolest person I’d ever seen on television (who wasn’t a pop star). Caryn Franklin had been the Fashion Editor and co-Editor of i-D Magazine, a publication at least 100 times more stylish than anything I’d ever spent my pocket money on. She was uh-may-zing.
Caryn showed me that fashion could be about individuality rather than following the herd into Topshop. She showed me where my clothes were made and how collections were designed. She gave me a more rounded view of the fashion industry and ensured I loved it for something more than the latest shiny twattish trends. That, and I was sure she’d probably beat Jeff Banks in a fight too. TV needed more of this kind of woman.
Fast forward to 2012, and I found myself in the audience for a debate about how fashion can be used as a force for good. I wanted to go anyway but the fact that Caryn Franklin was on the panel made it even more unmissable. After the discussion, we all got up to leave and then… I decided to go and say hello. For the first time in my life, I walked up to someone I only knew from a television screen and I said hi. And, do you know what? I didn’t ruin her day. Sometimes you meet your heroes and they really are as bloody brilliant as you thought they’d be. Caryn Franklin, I salute you!
Reblogged from http://fullerfigurefullerbust.com.
There seems to be some sort of unwritten rule on social media sites that in order to accept yourself as a larger woman you have to put smaller women down.
“Real women have curves.”
“Only a dog likes bones.”
“I want to look like a WOMAN, not a BOY.”
I see this all too often. Slim women pitted against larger women in images. Smaller women modelling items and being accused of not meeting the demands of those who want to wear them. Petite women being labelled as ‘curvy’ and being met with torrents of abuse from larger women – “If SHE’S curvy then I’m a sphere! She looks like she’ll break!”
I am so sick of those comments.
I have seen some women insinuate that slimmer women deserve the hate they often have poured upon them. One lady told me that she had had enough of being attacked by the mainstream and media and it was time to fight back – and that seemed to mean slagging of smaller women and heaping verbal venom upon them. She mentioned how she had been bullied by slimmer girls because of her size, and therefore wanted to turn the tables and give them a taste of their own medicine. I was baffled.
Did she think that pulling one (no doubt innocent) slender lady apart was payback for her own personal hell? That inflicting body snark upon another would end her suffering? Did she not stop to think that it would make someone else’s begin? And at what point had she come to the conclusion that slim women were so physically unattractive that they needed to be taunted with cruel words and phrases?
These ideas that slim women are not curvy, not real, going to snap, have eating disorders, are not attractive to men – they are disgusting stereotypes that seem to be muttered by every other plus size woman who uses social media to express herself. I understand that some people might not like to see images of slim women for whatever reason, but why tear them down like their feelings don’t matter and they are worthless? It is just as bad as calling all bigger women fat, lazy, diabetic unattractive pigs. It won’t undo any name calling, it will just drive an even bigger wedge in between women. You can pretend that you are concerned for that person’s health til you’re blue in the face – but the fact is that you are pandering to stupid stereotypes that don’t resemble the truth in 99% of cases, and that is plain malicious.
I mean, we all have our preferences and opinions. We wouldn’t be human without those conscious and unconscious desires and thoughts. So why present those opinions as potentially hurtful facts, often designed to make yourself look better?
“How can a woman that size be curvy – I’M curvy.”
I see comments like this so often. And every time the abuse of the word ‘curvy’ boils my blood! Firstly curvy is a shape, any women with any dress size CAN be curvy, just as larger women can be more straight shaped. That is a fact that we can see walking among us every day! And secondly, why do people see images on the internet, process a negative thought and then post that reaction as a hate filled comment on the image for everyone to see? It literally makes no sense!
I, for example, cannot stand Louis Vuitton handbags. All those L’s and V’s make me cross eyed and to my mind the items scream ‘Look at me, I am designer!’ So when I see said bag in an image that is not asking for my constructive criticism, I keep my thoughts to myself as no one wants to hear them and that is not why the image is there. If I were being invited to let my thoughts be heard I may politely say that I don’t really like Louis Vuitton bags but I like the shoes the model is wearing – I like to balance the bad with the good! I see no point in tearing something down just because it is not to my own personal unique and possibly solitary taste.
I wish more people, particularly women, would realise that being intolerably rude about someone they don’t know or know anything about is bullying, and that is the only truly ugly thing to be found in situations where abusive derogatory terms are spewed out from behind a keyboard. It makes them look bad, jealous, rude, spiteful. Grotesque emotions that blacken the heart and twist the soul. And guess what? There’s more to life than looks and whether or not someone ate all the cheeseburgers or needs to eat a cheeseburger.
I will never hate skinny women. Do you know why? Because I am not at war with anyone but myself, and I don’t need validation in the form of abusing others over the internet with my words of hatred and my cruel assumptions.
I do not want to give what I hate to receive – an opinion of a single snapshot that does not impact my life and will not make me a better person.
Let’s end the body snark war, together, once and for all. Let’s end it by realising that every woman has the potential to be perfect in the eyes of someone else.
Fuller Figure Fuller Breast
I loved growing up poor – an odd thing to say perhaps – but I work in politics surrounded by the widest social spectrum and it makes you think about these things more than you may do in other professions. I grew up in a shipyard town in a house where Thatcher’s name was banned so it’s pretty obvious which side I bat for.
I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say this given that form they made me sign, but I will anyway. I advised the most senior politicians in the country, travelled all over the world and got checked out by Bill Clinton. I am so much more proud of the work I did while in government having grown up in a council estate in Fife on a diet of Findus cheese pancakes and beef olives because I fought and clawed my way to get there.
David Cameron talks about the Big Society in the most patronising condescending manner only possible from a man who has never had to check his bank balance and divide it by the days remaining until the end of the month. He preaches about communities joining together and helping each other out like this is a new phenomenon. He has no idea what has held normal working class communities together all these years. We didn’t hire a blue-sky thinking PR Company on a £20,000 a month retainer to come up with a fancy name for it. We just called it getting on with life and helping each other out.
I grew up around genuine grafters, men up and out at work before you were even up for school, women breaking their backs juggling a full time job and taking in washing and ironing and going to the schools and offices cleaning toilets. Neighbours helped each other out, whether it was lending £5 ’til Friday or whether it was looking after the kids for an hour. All of these things were just normal in our community.
Our flat was full of books with a mum who raised us on her own with spirit, guts and all the love that exists in the world pouring from her heart. Unlike some other kids from the estate, we were lucky. We didn’t have anything to run away from, we didn’t have to be out on the streets at night if we didn’t want to be. Our parents weren’t fighting, there was no alcohol or drug abuse so we were safe with this lady who taught us nothing is impossible.
I told her at 4 I wanted to be a hairdresser, she said ‘great’, at 6 it was an air hostess, she said ‘as long as I get some free tickets’, at 10 it was a hotel magnate, she said ‘as long as I get to stay for free’ at 14 it was Prime Minister, she said ‘I’m not sure about you moving all the way to London’.
Then at 16, realising being Prime Minister would be a rubbish job full of stress, I decided on Foreign Secretary. Mum said ‘Well as long as you remember to get enough sleep’. By the time I was 17 and had got through the works of Hunter S Thompson I decided on being a journalist, she just said “no drugs’.
I realised something important around this time, seeing other richer kids from my school whose parents got them work experience, and went on all these great adventure holidays to beef up their university applications chatting about their chances of heading to Oxbridge. I realised that everything I would get in life would be down to sheer hard graft with the support of my family and the inspiration from this poor community I grew up in.
So I set about a solid programme of work experience at a local paper and hospital radio while studying, setting up the school paper and radio station and working at my part time job. I took a gap year spent working, saving and getting more work experience with TV production companies, the BBC, local papers all gained by pestering them continuously until they said yes.
I did journalism at uni, and being an expert at being poor, was the richest student around. Have you any idea how many meals you can make with a tin of beans?
I made contacts right around the country while some of the others sat in the pub and the day after my last exam moved to England to sub-edit for the Press Association.
When I got my big girl job working for the government having worked so hard, having no money, looking at all the Oxbridge ‘fast streamers’ surrounding me, I felt better than them. I felt I had earned it more and I was very glad to have been poor growing up. I know that sounds terrible, and I’m sure they worked very hard too, but money gives you knowledge of where to look, where the doors are and who to speak to. Growing up in my council estate meant I went in blind and it made me love my ridiculous Scottish accent amongst a sea of middle class, middle aged plummy men.
Growing up poor makes you appreciate everything you have. Not to get all sentimental, but it makes you realise that things can be taken from you in a heartbeat, that most things are just ‘stuff’ we don’t really need. Growing up poor made me realise that we grew up genuinely and completely happy because our home was full of love, not money. Of course, I wouldn’t have complained if we’d had both, but hey!
Not too long ago, Barack Obama took part in an AMA on Reddit. For any non-Redditors out there, an AMA (Ask Me Anything) is like a no holds barred magazine style Q&A on steroids. Anyone who comes across the thread can ask a question, and moderation is pretty limited, which means that questions and comments can range from the probing (the impact of the war on drugs on America) to the…weird (‘what colour is your toothbrush?’). Obama and his staff also spend a lot of time on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and even…Pinterest. Clearly he loves rainbow cupcakes and pictures of kittens more than he’s ever let on. Although there are some nay-sayers (aren’t there always?), the reaction to Obama’s tech savvy nature is summed up neatly by one commenter in his AMA – ‘Coolest president ever.’
Now imagine if David Cameron used Twitter and Pinterest. I can practically hear the screams of ‘WASTING OUR TAXES’ at the mere suggestion of it. Social media is regarded by many, particular older generations, as childish nonsense – they don’t, to employ a time honoured cliché, ‘get it’. Forgive my vague foray into pseudo-futurism, but my advice to politicians? Forget about everyone over the age of 35. Let’s face it, they’re never going to change their voting habits anyway. Teenagers, on the other hand, are a different story – true, a lot of them simply adopt the voting habits of their parents, but plenty of them are hungry for change. For evidence of this, you need only look to 2010, when everyone thought that the Lib Dems stood a chance after swarms of young people pledged to back them, but everything fell apart when none of them bothered to leave the house to vote. I presume a really good episode of Hollyoaks was on, or they all still had raging hangovers after Globulogic.
Having a leader who was really plugged in (so to speak) during the London riots last year could have really changed things. I imagine that when the cabinet was informed that looting and violence was being co-ordinated via BBM at least half of them had to ask what BBM was. During the riots, Calvin Harris tweeted that ‘a lot of these kids have role models in music + a lot of these role models are staying quiet. They need to speak the fuck up + help stop this.’ Skepta and Tinchy Stryder also took to Twitter to give their two cents on the riots, but politicians were nowhere to be seen. When Cameron and BoJo eventually popped up on TV their big call to action was to…erm, ask parents to stop their kids going out. The irony was lost on everyone that many of these parents don’t even have a television…well, unless Junior had already looted one. A young, vibrant leader more in touch with modern technology and, let’s face it, more in touch with today’s young people could have done so much more.
But let’s put aside the issue of Cameron for a minute and go a bit more ‘general’. Why is it that American leaders can get away with so much more than our guys? When Bill Clinton played his sax, women swooned and men nodded their heads in approval. When Tony Blair played his electric guitar, I wanted to punch him in his smug face. When Bill Clinton had an affair with Monica Lewinsky, everyone chuckled and called him a sly dog. When John Prescott had an affair with Tracey Temple, I was sick in my mouth.
Now I’m not saying our world leaders should be able to get away with having affairs, but shouldn’t we cut them some slack when they’re trying to engage with forms of media? To me, this is a no-brainer, especially if it’s a medium that’s more egalitarian and less heavy handed than mainstream newspapers and the like. Anyway, if we can get away with having a sneaky Twitter window open at work, why can’t they?
So you went to University?
Well aren’t you proper?
I’m surprised your father was a real copper
Weren’t your parents pit yackers?
Oh don’t take offense
You must always laugh when it’s at your expense.
It’s fine if you’re poor,
You’re still so pretty
I bet your upbringing was really shitty.
Money doesn’t matter
In that there North
But don’t let it stop you, you can still go forth
How is London?
Are you used to our ways
I’m sure no one really gets what you say.
I hope you’re not angry
Your face is red
In fact, “hello” was all that you’ve said…
One of the things I liked about the Olympics was how it made us all feel a bit healthier. There I was, drinking wine while sitting down, watching the running and the jumping and the peddling and the paddling, feeling a bit fitter, sort of by proxy. Which of course is complete tosh but it was quite a nice illusion.
And weren’t they all lovely, the athletes? So smiley and excited. And we got to have a look at all those shiny, strong bodies. And then the athletes started to become celebrities, which was probably annoying for them, because they get up so early in the morning and then they won and just wanted a burger and the papers wouldn’t leave them alone. But it was fun for us because we’re more used to celebrities like J-Lo, who apparently only eats 1200 calories a day, not 6,000 like Chris Hoy. Usually, when we see a picture of someone in a bikini in a magazine they’re cowering from a paparazzi guy while trying to enjoy a family holiday on the beach, not about to win a sprint. How nice when food is fuel and clothing is dictated by the job in hand.
So an interesting, and unexpected, effect of the fantastic achievements by these hard working and remarkably sculpted people was to make the rack of ‘women’s weeklies’ in the newsagent seem little more than benignly pathetic. All this scrutinising the bodies of celebrities for weight loss/cellulite/crow’s feet/an unusual toe became even boringer in comparison. Jess Ennis can jump 30cm higher than she is tall. Victoria Pendleton can cycle at speeds of over 100km an hour. Kim Kardashian can … wear a dress.
Of course the Olympics wasn’t a complete holiday from the usual ambient bullshit. Rebecca Addlington received nasty tweets again for ‘not looking brilliant’ in her post-race interviews, forcing her to frustratedly explain why she doesn’t give a foam float about what she looks like when she’s being the third fastest female swimmer in the entire world. (No one seemed to think it mattered that Andy Murray looked a bit sweaty).
And then we were dazzled by the amazing skills of the Paralympians. Who use their non-perfect bodies to accomplish incredible feats. But when it’s all over it’ll probably be business as usual, to be honest. Much as I’d love all our celebs to be aspirational figures of hard work, talent and achievement, someone from TOWIE is going to fall out of a taxi and it’ll be like the Olympics never happened. And, conversely, J-Lo seems unlikely to take up pole vaulting. So, if we must take an interest in the doings and beings of the people that populate these magazines and websites, could we maybe change the way we rate and regard them, instead?
What if, rather than weirdly and pervily scrutinising famous flesh for evidence of eating disorder, residual ‘baby weight’ or emotional turmoil, we decide how much of an interest in to take in a celebrity based on how much fun they appear to be having? I mean, most of them are absolutely minted – what are they doing for shits and giggles? Surely we should demand that they do more to inspire our fascination than just posing with one leg stuck out at a film premiere?
Imagine. The likes of Now and Grazia would be transformed. ‘Rihanna dances like a twat for three hours at friend’s party – a source close to the singer said she looked a bit mental but was having a brilliant time’. ‘Beyoncé buys pogo stick’. ‘Kristin Stewart spotted laughing so hard Fanta came out of her nose’. I’d be impressed by that.
Let’s forget about the boring celebs, and the invasive pictures, and creepy fetishising of the bodies of women who find, or put, themselves in the public eye. I think it’s been well established by now that putting circles around non-perfect bits of women’s bodies on shiny paper doesn’t make anyone feel good about themselves. And, ok, most of us can’t jump over a hurdle and more than we can fit in Mylene Klass’s bikini; but let’s at least start valuing what we can do with our bodies a bit more, and remember that all this is supposed to be fun.