What a tit

The inimitable McPhee has beaten me to it but I was going to blog about boobs and, more specifically, last night’s viewing: Trinny and Susannah Undress the Nation. Actually I’m probably not qualified to comment on the latter, given that I missed the first half entirely and had to watch the second half with a barrage of alternatley lascivious and bemused remarks coming from the other side of the room. But I do feel I am qualified to comment on the former because, indeed, I do have an ample bosom.

Okay maybe not as ample as some of my dear friends but the girls are hanging in there, bless them, and I’m not sure I’d want it any other way. Having appeared myseriously when I was about 20 (yeah I know) they’ve since become about as part of my identity as, say, the fact that I have brown hair. I could dye my hair, of course, or get a boob job, but you’d all know I was faking it.

At least the girls would… and by that I mean there should be more shows like Trinny & Susannah but pitched at men so they can see what a real boob looks like. Okay so Trinny is annoying as fuck and I wouldn’t like Susannah fondling my rack, particularly, but they do, bless them, have their hearts in the right place. And quite frankly looking at a pair of giant, saggy cans onscreen instead of glimpsing an improbably perky pair peaking out from the chest of some waif or other, is rather nice. Boys should be forced to look and to study to avoid scenes like my frustration when a certain boy I know insists the perky boobs adorning a certain woman on TV or in a magazine are real.

“They’re NATURAL,” he has been known to insist, like a 15-year-old refusing to admit Santa Claus is a sham, despite the fact the nipples have their eyes to the ceiling and that D-cup is clinging tenuously to the emaciated torso of a 25-year-old twig.

I couldn’t care less if people want to have boob jobs and would try hard not to judge anyone who wanted one, whether going up or down, but the idea that everyone’s boobs should look like that, and should look like that without the help of a surgeons knife, is disturbing. My girls may end up around my belly button one day, and they may never have quite the sky-high gaze of their silicon sisters but they are a part of me: they are filled with fat and blood and my DNA. Plus, you know, they do distract the eye.