My daughter has a fight on her hands. She won't be married off at nine or twelve. But at nine or twelve she will already be exposed to fashion aimed at her which sexualises her, she will perhaps like female pop stars whose pert bums as crucial to ticket sales as their music. She will have started to get comments, positive and negative about her face and figure. I want the sky to be the limit for both of my children, but it is already clear that my son's ambition will be celebrated and the size of his bottom under much less scrutiny.
The last time a nation embraced these kind of ideas, six million Jews ended up dead. The left wing "witch hunt" as Andrew calls it is not about infringing upon the rights of some whining, entitled, right wing, heterosexual, middle class white guy who has enjoyed many a success at the BBC. This is about challenging dangerous ideas.
I have never wrapped that towel around tighter. Buddah-beauty is now trying to have a conversation with me. As she rambles on, the room is getting hotter and hotter, steam gradually obscuring everything in the room. Her face is now at a half moon, yet she still tries to engage in a conversation with me.
It's been well documented that one of my best friends, Ross Hutchins, was diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma a few years ago. Ross and I had grown up together on the tennis circuit, and his diagnosis was devastating. He was treated with chemotherapy at the Royal Marsden Hospital and a year after his diagnosis, his cancer went into remission. He's now fit and well to this day - a testimony to the crucial advances we've made in cancer treatment thanks to ground-breaking research into the illness. But not everyone is so lucky. At the beginning Elena Baltacha, the former British number one, was diagnosed with cancer of the liver. She died in May, at the age of 30.
did a gig recently where a female audience member was really looking forward to hearing my work as I was the only female stand up there. Once I got on stage, I told a new story about about being from the same town as serial killer Fred West, and another where I urinated in the street wearing nothing but a Spiderman mask on.
I was thirteen and three-quarters at the time. And although kissing somebody was on my bucket list, Great Auntie Maud looked nothing like a) Andrew Ridgeley from Wham, b) John Taylor, the bass guitarist from Duran Duran, or c) Stephen Jones from Form 3C, who were the usual objects of my kissing fantasies.