Now what? - Lauren Booth stuffs her bra with pads of cotton wool
Published 26 January 2004
Why I had to stuff my bra with cotton wool when I went on Richard & Judy
Clare Short has again labelled page three as "porn", incurring the wrath of the Sun editor, Rebekah Wade, who has since devoted pages of the paper to photos of girlies in hot pants yelling abuse outside Short's home. Short's head was then superimposed on to a photo of a topless model, creating a sort of soft porn Frankenstein. It's doubtful, even in the darkest reaches of the internet, that there's a sex site for this sort of unpleasantness.
Women need to be "cool" about sex. If a guy makes a joke about "birds" with "big knockers" and we object, a big "Ooooh" goes around the pub (or City bar - same difference). My objection to crass sexism is more total boredom than offence. Hearing grown men titter at a pair of tits reminds women that you're still in the playground - even when you're in the boardroom.
On the back of this clash between Short and the Sun, I was invited on to the Richard & Judy show as part of a panel to discuss page three. In the make-up room, I sat next to a pair of busty teenagers, both (I think) called Jo. The entire repertoire of Sun womanhood was there. Jo number one had long, straight, brown hair; Jo number two, long, curly, blonde hair. Beneath the hair were identical pneumatic bodies: four shoulder-high melons, two pencil waists, no hips whatsoever. As my make-up lady tried to cover bags and invent cheekbones, their hairdresser teased and tousled, swept and shooshed. Finally, under mountains of make-up and lacquer, they were gone.
Then it happened. For the first time since I stopped breastfeeding six months ago, I took a proper look at my own breasts - and horror! They were gone. My bra was suddenly the wrong size, so empty that ridges of folded, saggy material showed through my tight top. It was five minutes until showtime. Five minutes until I would sit next to four pumped-up playgirls, my crinkly chest on display to the world. I'd love to tell you intelligent New Statesman readers that I laughed, flicked my head back and thought Germaine Greer thoughts. What I did instead was shriek "Help me!" at the make-up ladies, who leapt into action. Together we began shoving handfuls of cotton wool pads down my front. Twenty, 30 even, must have gone into each cup before the floor manager came in. Then I somehow got myself and my breasts on to the set and mentally prepared myself to tell the page three girls exactly why breasts aren't important enough to women for them to appear in a daily newspaper.
Richard Madeley (and most of the crew) concentrated on the girls. I was resisting the strong urge to fiddle with my front like a Les Dawson impersonator.
"So tell us all why you think Clare Short is wrong," said Richard kindly to one girl. I barely heard her response above my mind whispering: "Those can not be real."
At last, I began to concentrate on the arguments at hand. Basically, here's what the girls said: Clare Short has no right to call for a ban on page three, because a) "She's ugly. Well, she is!"; and b) "Page three ain't porn."
We got a bit bogged down on the technical question of what exactly constitutes porn. And, if you thought photos of near-naked women taken specifically to turn men on is pornography - well, duh on you. The Jo's told me that page three is not porn, because in porn they don't smile. Wearing a smile and nothing else but a piece of string isn't sexy - it constitutes "glamour" or "fun".
I asked what a porn face looks like and the girls pursed their lips, lowered their eyelids.
"Ahh, I see," said Judy, keeping her voice (just) the right side of patronising. Keeping her sense of humour.
I was just intent on keeping my padding straight.
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