Boobs that are news, and boobs that aren't

There's been a little bit of a frenzy regarding boobs lately. Though I must admit I'm no expert, even in my role as boob-layperson I've been noticing a lot more attention on them in the last few weeks.

First of all, there's Royal boobs. Everyone's in a tizz about Kate Middleton's pair being on show. Personally, I'm a lot less interested in seeing them than the French and Italians (and Swedish and Irish, apparently) are.What has caught my attention is how the fuss that's surrounding Kate's chest doesn't even remotely compare to the fuss that kicked off not long ago about Prince Harry's-ahem- crown jewels being made a public pastime.

Really, what happened to Harry is worse, on paper at least. He genuinely was in private- a hotel room- and the picture really is of his privates. Yet Kate, in reach of a public road, had only her breasts on show. Yet it's her, not his, highness that is suing all relevant newspapers. And it's her, not him, that we're all feeling outraged for.

Perhaps it's because everyone's kind of come to expect it from Harry- the Royal family's answer to banter. Perhaps it because Kate was more hurt by the -cough- revelation. I sympathise with the pair of them equally- if not with Harry a little more. Imagine having to explain to your gran why your balls are on the front page of The Sun. That said, I'd be mortified if midway through a bikini change someone snapped a picture and whacked it onto Facebook- nevermind onto the front pages of French mags. No one wins, really.

Whatever the actions of either party are irrelevant. My point is, everyone is more upset for Kate than they were for Harry. Apparently, boobs are worse than balls.

Which leads me nicely onto this campaign.

No More Page Three is growing in popularity. With over 23,000 signatures on the petition and a crapload of Facebook/Twitter attention, it could very well be the beginning of the end of bare chests emblazoning the front pages. Sit up, The Star, take note Daily Sport. This time, we mean business.

In fact, people are getting quite angry about boobs all of a sudden. A tiny part of the feminist inside of me is a little defensive- hey guys, women's bodies aren't offensive, let's not get upset over them being proudly displayed- but the rest of the feminist inside is pretty excited.

Page Three's are normalising the objectification of women, and for a profit. While Ria, 21 from Essex, might have a lovely figure and a dazzling smile, I'm willing to bet she's also got an interesting opinion or two. She might even helpfully contribute to society in some way. But that's irrelevant, because she's attractive enough to make men hand over thirty pence.

It's a little pathetic really. All this outrage about publishing pictures of Kate Middleton topless, and a general acceptance of others having their tits splashed over the daily rags. I'm aware that there's a lot more to it that this- consent and privacy and the money being made out of it for starters- but we are all getting a little excited over nothing.

Think about it. If almost every woman has your standard two breasts, and the population of the world is split roughly into 50% for each gender (give or take the exceptions), then we're basically on more boobs than there are men in the world. We should all be used to them by now. It's not news that they exist, and if it is, then it's old news. And it certainly doesn't deserve a reservation on the third page of newspapers round the world, globally.

I think if we can all agree that 1) boobs aren't there as entertainment, 2) that they don't warrant daily publishing internationally on NEWSpapers, 3) that there'd still be plenty of things to talk about if we weren't talking about tits, then we'd all be a lot calmer. The Sun could find other, less offensive things to publish on p3. and Kate Middleton could get on with smiling and waving and having fabulous dress sense.

And for the people whose existences are going to be at a loss without a daily tit-fix, there's such a thing as porn. It's a little higher up the shelves at the newsagents, but I'm sure you can manage the reach.




You can sign the petition by clicking here.

Was my summer worth it?

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it, but I've had a pretty eventful summer. 

I've jumped into ice cold lakes, been to a rave, cleaned and emptied an entire house, been kicked out of a hotel, scaled rockfaces and bookshelves, defrosted my first freezer, been a translator, gotten lost, made unlikely friends, eaten a steak at 10pm covered in mud, moved house again, read approximately one thousand books, written approximately ten thousand articles and blogs, dived into the Med, almost been kidnapped a couple of times, stargazed listening to Czech folk music, slept in tents and cars and mansions and left my teenage years behind me. And that's just some of the stuff I was sober enough to remember.

With all this excitement to try and draw some kind of life experience from, I don't really know where to start. It's been a haphazard whirlwind of rushing trains, buses and flights. Countless bags packed and unpacked, outfits changed and taxis home; always on the way to somewhere else. I've not really had time to take stock of it all- and now I'm about to hurtle myself into a whole host of work- of Yorker, degree and part time varieties.

So have I learnt anything? I'm not sure. I definitely feel more grow-ed up, though I'm a far cry from a proper adult just yet. I now know not to get onto a boat with creepy men, not to snigger at people sincerely singing into the middle distance, not to take pyjamas to a rave. I can more or less bake bread, I've memorised the rules of Fuck the Dealer, and have endured the pain of a triple figure phone bill.

I'd been joking that my mini gap-yah was a soul searching mission, that I was going off to find myself in a bookshop, south of France. I wasn't genuinely expecting an epiphany while sunbathing in a hammock, but I think I secretly was hoping to find something out about myself. I blame reading Eat, Pray, Love. Truth is, I'm not sure I did. No- I'm not struggling with an existential crisis, I just don't think these three months have been a life-changing event for me. Not overtly, anyway.

That's not to say I haven't really, thoroughly enjoyed myself. I'd do the whole "memories that'll last a lifetime" spiel, but it's a bit cheesy and tired so I'll just take it for granted that you'll all agree I've had a great time. Saves on me using up a load of clichés and gushing about how fabulous my life has been. You'd only get jealous.

Looking back, there is one change I'd make. I was certain at the beginning of summer that I'd do just fine on my own; and while Regina, Alex, Jerry & Kevin will always house a lovely little alcove in my heart; I don't think I'd do it alone again. For one thing, there's no one to take picture of me when I'm gallivanting around, but more importantly; it would have been cool to have always had someone with me, experiencing the same things at the same time- and who isn't going to get sick of me constantly retelling anecdotes.

I've especially loved having Anna with me in my last week in France- someone who's cool and funny and interesting- there to take the piss out of my accent and to have "you had to be there" moments with. I'll forever refer to distant places as "Ain't no man collecting your bins", and tell people that they've got the wrong end of the leek.

One of the best things about my summer has been all the reunions I've been having. Stressed Mecca Bingo experiences with the BFF, fancy meals in London, nights out with the boys and walks round Sainsbury's with my mum. Those are the little moments that have really stitched all the antics of my summer up together- and I don't care how disgustingly cheesy that sounds. I love coming home just as much as I love getting my one way ticket out again.

Though I've come out a little battered, I've come out in one piece. In related news, my mum is now giving away all the kittens she had while I was off making a fuss somewhere to any good home. Back to normality; to work and studying and facing up to graduation (gulp). It's time for the tan to fade(!)