Author Archives: Ian Hare

Lest We Forget – Last WWI Veteran Dies

Posted on by

With the passing of the last World War One veteran, 110-year-old Claude Stanley Choules, on May 5th, the terrible battles of the Great War also pass out of living memory.

When we look at pensioners on the street, it’s difficult to imagine that they were once young and in many cases performed heroics in global conflicts that we, with our largely cosseted lives, can only guess at.

So, for once, I am going to break one of my cardinal rules and use Frost for an unashamed plug, because it’s a book that everyone should read – and remember.

Ebury Press’ ‘Forgotten Voices of The Great War’ by Max Arthur captures the first-hand accounts of the men and women involved in the bitterest of wars that cost the lives of some 37 million people.

Gunner Leonard Ounsworth: “In the evening, we went up to Trones Wood. There were no trees left intact, just stumps and treetops and barbed wire mixed together, and bodies all over the place. Jerries and ours.

Robbins pulled up some undergrowth and as we fished our way through there was this dead Jerry, his whole hip shot away and all his guts out and flies all over it. Robbins stepped back and then this leg that was up a tree became dislodged and fell on his head. He vomited on the spot.”

Private Charles Taylor: “I started crawling towards our lines and I had never seen so many dead men clumped together. That was all I could see and I thought to myself, ‘All the world’s dead.’”

Private Harry Patch: “ All over the battlefield the wounded were lying down, English and German asking for help. We weren’t like the Good Samaritan in the Bible, we were the robbers who passed by and left them. You couldn’t help them. I came across a Cornishmen, ripped from shoulder to waist with shrapnel, his stomach on the ground beside him in a pool of blood. As I got to him, he said. ‘Shoot me.’ He was beyond all human aid. Before we could even draw a revolver he had died. He just said, ‘Mother.’ I will never forget it.

Lest we forget too.

In The Realm of the Census – The Changing Face of Britain

Posted on by

Any day now, postmen and women throughout the country will stumble, grumbling, to every residence in the UK delivering Census forms.

March 27 is Census Day. And every household will be legally obliged to complete it. Those who fail to do so, could, in theory, face prosecution, a fine up to £1000 and a criminal record.

For some, the ten-yearly pry into the affairs smacks of 1984 (what a shame that wasn’t a Census year) – and Big Brother.

The Government’s official line is that the Census is needed to ‘help government and local authorities plan the services and resources people need, such as transport, housing, healthcare and education’, although you can bet your last penny that there will be rabid frothing in a number of publications about immigration and Jedi Knights after the results are finally published.

The truth, at least according to the 2001 Census is more prosaic. Of course things have changed in 10 years, but the key facts of 2001 showed the population of 58.8m was lower than expected, a growth of just 17% compared to the European average of 23%. In contrast, Australia showed a change of 133%.

And while two areas of London, Newham and Brent, became the first in the UK to have a non-white majority, 87% of the population of England and 96% of the population of Wales gave their ethnic origin as White British. Only 9% of people in the UK said they were non-white.

As expected, London had the highest proportion of people from minority ethnic groups. Black Caribbeans accounted for more than 10% of the population of the London boroughs of Lewisham, Lambeth, Brent and Hackney. With the same figure for Black Africans in Southwark, Newham, and again, Lambeth and Hackney.

Yet countrywide, after white British and Irish, the largest ethnic population was Indian, accounting for a mere 2% of the population.

In the whole of England and Wales, just a little over 1% of people are Black Caribbean, while less than 1% were Black African.

Moreover, despite a media backlash over the Muslim community, Christianity is by far the main religion in Great Britain. There were 41m Christians in 2001, making up 72% of the population. In contrast, a touch under 3%  were Muslim – a total of 1.5m people. While that means that Muslims are now the second largest religion in the UK, people with no religion formed the second largest group, 15% of the population.

Under ‘Other Religions’, the largest of these were Spiritualists (32,000) and Pagans (31,000).  One cannot help but think TV programmes like Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer led to a large surge in the 7,000 Wicca, eclipsing the 5,000 Rastafarians.

An internet campaign to have Jedi Knight recognised as a new religion failed to resonate with the Government, who lumped them with the ‘No Religion’ crowd. Nevertheless, 390,000 called themselves Jedis.

Whether the Jedis actually met women and fathered children remains a question for this latest census, but the questionnaire continues to provide a fascinating snapshot.

The Census was introduced in 1801, when the UK recorded a population of just 10.9m.

Unfortunately, not even Frost has the space to document every change since, but hare are some key facts of our lifetime.

1911 – Population 36.1m

The average number of children that would be born to a woman over her lifetime – The Total Fertility Rate – was 2.8, higher than it is today. Infectious diseases were the main cause of death.

Sadly, 110 out of every 1,000 babies died before reaching their first birthday – almost one in four.

A child born in 1911 had a short life-expectancy – 51 for a boy, 55 for a girl.

1921 – Population 37.9m

The 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic caused 152,000 excess deaths in England and Wales between June 1918 and May 1919. Most of these were infants, children, and adults under 40.

The Great War drastically reduced the male population aged between ages 20 and 40 with a total of 723,000 British servicemen losing their lives between 1914 and 1918.

1931 – Population 40m

With the loss of so many marriageable men, many women were single and childless. The Total Fertility Rate fell to just to 1.8 children per household.

However, improved public health and changing childcare practices lowered infant death rates, to 62 per 1,000 babies born.

Life expectancy was now 59 years for boys and 63 years for girls.

1951 – Population 43.8m

There was no census in 1941 because of World War II, so the 1951 Census highlighted 20 years of change.

The post-World War II baby boom led to a sharp increase in the number of children aged between two and four – 5.4% of the population.

Meanwhile, the impact of the National Health Service, introduced in 1948 boosted survival rates among all age groups.

Infant death rates fell to only 27 per 1,000. A boy born in 1951 was expected to live to 66 years and a girl to 71.

1961 – Population 46.1m

Most deaths were now caused by degenerative conditions such as heart disease, cancer and stroke, rather than infectious diseases.

An NHS programme of vaccinations again boosted survival rates with that of men aged between 45 and 64 catching up with women.

The late 1950’s/early 1960’s baby boom showed the Total Fertility Rate had gone back up to 2.8 children, matching the 1911 figure.

Infant death rates continued to fall – to 21 per 1,000 born. A boy born in 1961 had a life expectancy of 68 years, a girl 74.

1971 Population 48.7m

While the 1960’s baby boom boosted numbers in the younger age groups, the 1970s showed a falling birth rate, with a Total Fertility Rate of 2.1, due in part to the availability of the contraceptive pill for married women.

More people lived longer and fewer babies were dying, with just 17 out of every 1,000 lost before their first birthday.

A boy born in 1971 could expect to live to 69 years, a girl to 75.

1981 – Population 48.5m

In 1974, the National Health Service made free contraception available to all women, which contributed to a period of very low childbearing in the late 1970s. The total population actually fell by about 200,000.

Infant deaths also fell to just 10 per 1,000 and survival rates among older people improved too. There were now noticeably more people aged 65 and over.

Life expectancy at birth reached 71 and 77 years for boys and girls respectively.

1991 – Population 49.9m

Births once again gradually increased throughout the 1980s. This was due to a combination of the 1960’s baby boomers having children and anxiety over the safety of the contraceptive pill – in particular, the link to breast cancer in 1987.

Life expectancy at birth was now 73 years for boys and 79 years for girls.

2001 – Population 52m

The 1990s again showed slow down in the birth rate, to just 1.6 children per household. The infant mortality rate also continued to fall, with just six babies dying before their first birthday for every 1,000 born – a massive sea change from the 110 per 1,000 in 1911.

2011 – ?

Census 2011 is likely to be an eye-opener. The population of the UK is estimated to be a touch under 62m. And there will undoubtedly be big changes in the diversity of the UK in all areas.

It remains to be seen whether the plethora of Harry Potter books and films, Twilight and True Blood lead to a UK  full of wizards, witches, vampires, werewolves or Lonely Ones.

Watch this space.

Male Cancers – A Whole New Ball Game

Posted on by

A triumphant, red-shirted Bobby Moore, proudly hoisting the World Cup while chaired by his victorious teammates, is English football’s most iconic image.

But the famous 1966 tableau represented more than just a sporting milestone for Moore. Just two years earlier, the West Ham United talisman had been treated for, and beaten, testicular cancer.

Regrettably, it proved only a respite for England’s favourite footballer, who tragically finally succumbed to bowel cancer in 1993 at the age of just 51.

The figures can be frightening. Prostate cancer is the most common form of cancer in men in England, counting for one in four of all male cancers, while bowel cancer is the second most common cause of cancer deaths in the UK, resulting in the deaths of around 16,000 people every year.

And yet, NHS research shows that while incidents of bowel and prostate cancer increase with age, awareness is relatively low.

Considering that early diagnosis increases the chances of beating the disease, the fact that men are less likely to visit their doctor than women adds to the risk.

Understandable embarrassment is one factor, allied to the fact that bowel cancer symptoms can be non-specific. According to Cancer Research UK, the presenting features of colon cancer can be weight loss and anaemia due to blood loss.

Rectal and distal colon cancers, on the other hand, usually present themselves as bleeding and/or altered bowel habits. Symptoms can also overlap with less serious, and more common conditions, such as bowel obstruction.

The causes of bowel cancer can vary. A high intake of red and processed meat will increase the chances of developing the disease, while a diet rich in fibre will reduce it.

An inactive lifestyle also increases the risk, with at least 10% of colon cancers in the UK related to overweight or obesity. Research has also shown that people drinking more than 30g/day of alcohol (around four units) have a greater chance of contracting the disease.

But just taking a small dose of aspirin (75 mg/day) can reduce the risk of dying from colon cancer by a massive 39%.

For prostate cancer, the strongest risk factor is age, with a very low risk in men under the age of 50, which then increases. And the disease can often be common among families. Men with immediate relatives – such as a father, son or brother – diagnosed with prostate cancer have an increased risk of being diagnosed themselves, especially if the relative was diagnosed before the age of 60.

West African men and black men from the Caribbean have a higher risk of prostate cancer than white men, while men born in Asia have a lower risk than men born in the UK.

The symptoms can be similar to prostate enlargement, namely frequency and difficulty in urinating, and occasionally blood in the urine. If untreated, bladder obstruction can occur, while men with more advanced disease may experience pain where the cancer has spread, especially in the back.

Meanwhile, testicular cancer in the UK is rising, particularly in Caucasian men and has doubled since the mid-70s.

Whether this is because widespread campaigns to encourage self-examination aren’t working, or contrarily, because many more cases are being treated as a result, isn’t certain. However, the facts are that around 2,000 men in the UK are diagnosed with testicular cancer every year and while it is rare before puberty, it is the most common cancer of men aged 15-44.

Despite this, if there is any good news story in cancer, testicular cancer is the one. Since the introduction of combination chemotherapy in the 1970s, survival rates for testicular cancer have risen every year. The cure rate is now over 95%.

As stated before, with any cancer, the earlier the diagnosis, the greater the chances of survival.

It’s a standing joke among men that we fondle our testicles every day – albeit not for a medical diagnosis. But with the most common symptom being a painless lump or swelling on one of the testicles, men – and their partners – need to take careful notice.

Other warning signals include testicle enlargement, an increase in testicular firmness, pain, an unusual difference between one testicle and the other, an ache in the lower stomach or groin and heaviness in the scrotum.

In advanced disease, symptoms can include chest tenderness, back pain, shortness of breath and coughing up blood.

In short, guys and girls – don’t be shy. And don’t be scared. I know from bitter experience that when you read a set of symptoms in a medical book, or in an article like this, it can feel like you have them all – and your world falls apart.

Remember, these symptoms can all be a result of something completely different, minor and sometimes, maybe, almost laughable, but your GP won’t care if it turns out to be nothing.

I had a cancer scare at the age of just 22. In the end, it was something relatively minor, but here’s the thing. It may not have been.

So. Simply. If you have any doubts at all, visit your GP. And now, I know it’s a cliché, and it’s one I’ve used before, but it’s valid. So here you go: “If one person gets checked out and something is flagged up, and if this piece affects even one person, I class that as job done.”

http://www.cancerresearchuk.org/bobbymoorefund

http://www.cancerresearchuk.org

The Scream of the Butterfly: Katie Jane Garside

Posted on by

Artist, musician, poet. Katie Jane Garside can make a claim to all three, and yet remains completely anonymous to most.

Words like Queenadreena, Daisy Chainsaw, Ruby Throat or Woom will mean nothing, but for those who are familiar with Garside’s incredibly diverse output, she represents a hidden and fragile treasure.

Her life story reads like a blend of fact, fiction and fairy-tale. It can be difficult to separate the myth that time and an air of mystery has wrapped around her like a vine.

Although sometimes appearing ill at ease, she’s not averse to giving interviews, but is inexplicably seldom questioned by the mainstream media. Instead her interrogators seem, in the main, to have been fans. Whether they have been so dumbfounded by her presence to be rendered mute, or just hold her in such esteem that to veer off the trodden path and into the realm of intimacy is impossible, the questions put to her have tended to be slight – largely focusing on her music and rarely stripping away the outer veneer.

But the truth is that Garside’s starkly unusual upbringing is one that has cause to be explored. There is little doubt that hers created an exceptional woman who walks her own path unashamedly, even though that route has been beset by hazards along the way.

Without the chance to confirm their validity, the facts appear to be that she was born in 1968 in Salisbury. She was plucked, aged 11 along with sister Melanie to sail the world with her parents. The youngster would spend the next five formative years afloat, at one time not going ashore for 47 days.

Only she can say how such an unconventional childhood affected a girl of such tender years. Suffice to say, years spent with infinity above and countless black fathoms below must have been a revelatory experience.

Speaking to Belgium’s toutepartout, she explained the experience as ‘seamless days of ocean and two little girls with dolls.’ Her confession regarding her eventual return to terra firma set the tone for what was to follow. “I just carried on making dolls but this time the doll was me. I was the puppet and I was the one that pulls the strings,” she said.

And it’s this introspection that has coloured Katie Jane Garside.

In the 1990’s, she joined the band Daisy Chainsaw after answering an advert from guitarist Crispin Gray. One album, ‘Eleventeen’ followed, spawning the single ‘Love Your Money’ and a live outing on cult programme ‘The Word’.

The performance is reminiscent of a homemade bomb. Barely contained and threatening to explode in different directions, it mirrored her brittle state of mind.

The apocryphal story suggests that during a live show while touring with Daisy Chainsaw, she took a razor to her dreadlocked hair, cutting both follicles and flesh. Either way, she succumbed to a nervous breakdown and retired to Rigg Beck, The Purple House, in the Lake District to rest and recuperate.

Some seven years later, Gray asked her to join his new project Queenadreena. Older and wiser, she embraced her demons and returned to the stage, where watching Katie Jane Garside perform remains both an entrancing and schizophrenic experience.

Whether it’s a legacy to years exposed to the vastness of the oceans, she wears very little on stage in an almost child-like innocence. But these are no Fashion Week model-draped outfits. Her self-designed clothes bring to mind a concentration camp – ripped, flimsy and stained. One of her fashion creations was simply entitled Treblinka, complete with internee number.

Even dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, she would still exude vulnerability. While she’ll bound across the stage to wrestle with Gray and bring him crashing to the floor, you find yourself waiting for her unwinding clockwork to bring her to a grinding halt.

Her only stage props are a bottle of wine and a rickety chair. Suicidally, she’ll clamber onto the piece of battered furniture with half the bottle downed. As she teeters, literally, on the brink, you have the urge to rush on, hug her and bring her down to safety.

At other times, she’ll curl onto the seat in a foetal position. From somewhere among the womblike figure, a breathy voice emerges, quivering and scarcely audible. Anyone who’s ever heard her version of ‘Jolene’ prostrate on the stage, alone and lit by a single spotlight can’t fail to be moved.

The overriding feeling when watching Katie Jane Garside is the desire to protect her, wrap her in cotton wool, and enclose her in a glass jar so no one can hurt her – and yet that’s undoubtedly doing her a huge disservice.

She has an unguessed at inner strength. Confessing to being watched at home by a voyeur with binoculars, she used the experience in her CD and DVD 2005 release ‘Lalleshwari – Lullabies in a Glass Wilderness’.

In the films, ‘At the Window’ and ‘In the Kitchen’  she uses herself as the subject – a lone figure framed by her lighted window in a pitch-black house as an unseen watcher slowly creeps ever closer. It culminates in a chilling close-up as the voyeur watches his unaware victim from immediately outside.

Using herself as both muse and canvas recurs frequently in her work.

Part of her 2007 art installation, ‘Darling, they’ve found the body’ in Birmingham art studio, Woom, contained Polaroids of herself looking like a victim among shattered mannequins. In others, she posed naked save for an equine mask for ‘Trixie and the Mule’, while shots simply entitled ‘Garden’ portray her again wearing nothing but an eagle mask and butterfly wings while posing among the trees and branches.

It suggests the actions of a woman who’s become happy in her own skin, although only those close enough to peer behind the performer’s mask could say for certain. But what doesn’t appear to be in doubt is that she seems at her most content in her most recent musical project, Ruby Throat.

Seeing guitarist Chris Whittingham perform on the tube, Garside told website Dieselpunks: ‘This man’s imperative brings the wild ocean of the South Pacific to the London underground. I could do nothing but immerse and fall in love.”

As the vocalist in Queenadreena, Garside switches between the haunting melodies of compositions like ‘Pretty Polly’ to the voice-shattering ‘Pretty Like Drugs’ as she tries desperately to compete with Gray’s chain-saw guitar and the tribal drums that shake every internal organ.

It’s no coincidence that Ruby Throat have taken ‘Pretty Polly’ into their own sets. Many believe it’s the softer work where Katie Jane Garside soars highest.

The minimalist Ruby Throat set-up, a duo, with Whittingham’s superb guitar accompanying and complementing her lone voice, gives her the freedom to both fly and dive, and explore her range and her lyrics.

And it’s this, her writing, which really exposes what makes up an extraordinary woman.

To read her, whether its her poetry, her blogs, her websites or her lyrics is to realise that she operates on a slightly different literary plane from most writers – in any field. Her words feel slightly out of kilter and you are left with the unshakeable impression that her phraseology somehow shouldn’t make sense – and yet it does.

Without speaking to her face-to-face and hearing her spontaneous replies, it’s impossible to say how much of this is a construct, but it’s doubtful. Instead, it feels a genuine part of her larger all, fitting in with every other multifaceted part of her.

Describing ‘Lalleshwari’ – which was a painstakingly self-produced and self-packaged release complete with genuine one-off personal effects inside in each one – she said: “This is my work. It’s a fingerprint, I’ve been barricaded into a room, but managed to slip it out through a crack under the door.

“It’s a message in a bottle caught in returning currents, a child on a desert island discovering these footprints are her own. It’s ingrown and corrupt with a terrifying impermanence and therefore safely beyond a critique,

“It asks everybody else’s opinion whilst ignoring its own motion and knowing it’s feet are bound and hobbled but I did the binding, she chooses her reflection in incarceration because she knows she could have the sky.

“It blames itself for blaming and chooses for herself a violent lover. The auditory is fractured and whispering in the blindspot, torrential downpour and splintered broken water. She is in another room, inches and a world away. Some collaborated and chose to stay the night so she fights me using his hands to throw the punches. I wash her face and hands and eventually sing her to sleep.”

The devotion Garside gives to her projects is phenomenal. Ruby Throat’s “The Ventriloquist’ came bound and laced in leather and diagonally wrapped in an individual page from a dictionary.

Their latest offering, ‘Out of a Black Cloud Came a Bird’ arrived in a mock-up of an office internal envelope, complete with prints of Garside’s own artwork and more personal items.

Such is the reciprocal devotion she inspires in her fans, a recent collection of individually hand-written poems – on paper and in script that seems as delicate as her – was released with her explicit plea that they should not be reproduced on the internet. A quick search reveals that her secret remains safe. It is difficult to think of anyone else where the bond between artist and audience is so unbreakable.

The ties are strong because simply, she appears adored by men and women equally and attracts those who were likely to be the talented, artistic misfits in their own sphere.

For men, her openness and seeming innocence brings feelings that are paternal, fraternal and sexual. To the young women who flock to her performances, she appears inspirational, aspirational and mesmeric. It would not be an exaggeration to say she holds them in thrall.

Whether it’s because she remains largely unknown, to be part of Katie Jane Garside’s world is to feel a solidarity with like-minded souls. The object of their affection, however, somehow stills feels remote, even when she is performing, literally, inches away.

While she will occasionally reach out, close in and hold a member of her audience, there still feels an unbridgeable gap.  She’s paradoxically untouchable and somehow alone even when surrounded.

She says in the poem ‘Meniscus’:

“dancing on a window ledge

15 stories high

i take it up upon myself

to learn me how to fly

i got a step on natures brim

and a head above the clouds

to take the leap

and dive right in

and learn me how to fly

the surface tension

snapping back

her walk-on-water eyes

consoled for mysteries deepest depths

would let me down to cry

would angels borrow me their wings

a surface tension lied

to tease me up against the brink

and learn me how to fly

but fear all made corruption be

her twisted wings denied

she could ever reach the stars

so i lay me down to die.”

It should be pointed out that there is much light among the dark in her work, but she has seen literal and metaphorical depths that most can only imagine.

To have once plumbed so deep, Katie Jane Garside may never reach the stars, but she can still fly.

Acknowledgements:

Ruby Throat picture taken from www.katiejanegarside.com

Main pic courtesy of Claude Z. Daisy Chainsaw 1991 pic courtesy of Mick Mercer.

www.katiejanegarside.com

www.toutpartout.be/adreena/adreenaRbody.htm

www.dieselpunks.org/profiles/blogs/interview-katie-jane-garside

Beating Around The Bush – The Hairy Issue Of Pubic Topiary

Posted on by

Those of you who read Frost regularly will know a number of my colleagues love fashion. Nothing wrong with that, I just wish I could afford it.

I once had an eye-opening trip to Milan where I went into Prada and had the epiphany that designer clothes aren’t actually TK Maxx stuff with a nice label sewn over the top of “Croydon Denim Inc.”

The assistants were, naturally, Italian, universally good-looking and stunningly dressed. They made me feel like a British string-vested oik with a knotted handkerchief on my head, broiled a warming lobster red.

So ladies, I get it. Well, most of it.

I physically want to get hold of Jennifer Love Hewitt and shake her until her brain falls out of her ears every time I hear her self-gratifying and terribly twee quote of: “After a break up, a friend of mine Swarovski-crystalled my precious lady,” she said. “It shined like a disco ball so I have a whole chapter on how women should vajazzle their vajayjays.”

It’s not just the Swarvoski bit, although that screams, ‘look at me, I can afford to stick over-priced jewellery on my ****’, it’s ‘vajazzle’ and ‘vajayjay’.

Personally, if anyone, man or woman, used the term ‘vajayjay’ in a conversation with me, I’d be looking for their doctor, or possibly their carer. But ‘vajazzle’ seems to be passing into an accepted term where women decorate themselves with clever designs around their nether regions.

Maybe I move in the wrong circles, but I have NEVER met a woman who admitted to decorating herself. Which is probably fortunate. I have enough issues with topiary.

Yes, I understand the arguments about hygiene – and swimwear etc. etc. Anyone who’s seen the “Smack The Pony’ sketch with an unshaven Doon Mackichan and Sarah Alexander will probably keep a lifetime’s supply of Veet or razors in the bathroom cabinet while examining themselves every five minutes in case of strays. But it seems there’s now an increasing pressure for women to conform to a perceived accepted norm.

I blame it on celebrities and porn, or maybe celebrity porn.

Porn, of course, gives the impression that all any man wants out of sex is a woman with bleached blonde long hair, false eyelashes, false lips, false breasts, veneered teeth, long nails, high heels worn in bed, an orange spray tan, a overwhelming desire to be spat on – and in porno terms – a shaved pussy.

As an aside, I’d expect any woman receiving some brain-dead bloke’s spit to stand up and kick him in the bollocks so hard, he’ll never find them again.

Anyway, thanks to countless, easily accessible porn clips on the internet, a generation of boys have grown up with shaven women and see it as the norm – and expect their teenage girlfriends to do likewise.

Don’t fool yourself ladies. Shaving came about on film just so slavering men could better see the ‘oh, so realistic’ lovemaking. OK, it’s called a Hollywood, but if you ever see Hollywood actresses in nude roles, they’re invariably sporting a neat natural triangle. Nope, the Full Monty on celluloid is almost exclusively the domain of the sleazy side of the industry.

Then the Brazilian came into its literal shining glory. Originally from Brazil (ah, so that’s where the name comes from) Brazilian girls had been shaving themselves for decades for the Rio carnival and its ilk so they could they wear the tiny thongs that South American countries favoured without fear of causing offence.

Not bad in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. Of course, maybe some priests approved because it reminded them of children.

Poor joke aside, that’s one of the arguments often put forward against shaving. A number of people of both sexes think it’s a sinister way of getting a woman to look like a little girl.

I should say that this is a point of view that conveniently forgets that the woman in question is an adult with a right to choose. Instead, I’d hazard it says more about the state of mind of those putting forward the argument. No, my thoughts are purely about aesthetics. Very simply, it’s a myth that every man wants a hairless woman.

In the 1970s, razors apparently didn’t exist. Anyone who’s seen ‘Emmanuelle’… (OK, bad example given that actress Sylvia Krystal was Dutch in a French film and therefore revelling in hair). Anyone who’s seen the ‘Confessions of’ films, or a Mayfair magazine from the era would know that women never shaved – or certainly not to the extent that they looked like they had.

And I can attest that was equally true in the 80s and into the 90s.

Now, 20 years later, women are being both pushed and encouraged to bare all in a complete u-turn. It’s a matter of centimetres as to whether a woman has a Brazilian, a Playboy, a European and even a Hitler. No doubt Der Fuhrer would be very proud that his legacy didn’t completely run to world devastation.

And now, men too are getting in on the act. Yep, brothers are doing it for themselves.

It’s odd. As a guy, I can reveal that we spend our puberty years praying we won’t be the last to grow pubic hair. Anything not to resemble a little boy in High School and so successfully stave off years of abuse. And now some guys are shaving it off?

These have to be men who obviously never play sport or appear in any environment where they have to undress in front of other men. Even when all grown up, the ridicule would be unbearable – no pun intended.

Men who shave their chest hair are in a tiny minority and really, really need to have that model physique before revealing their quivering man boobs shorn and shivering. I also know, in the straight world, a ‘back, sack and crack’ wax never set the male imagination alight.

Perhaps in the more body conscious male gay scene, a smooth operator is more desirable, but now that ‘bear’ has taken on a whole new meaning, I doubt it even more.

I don’t know. Do ladies prefer their men bare down there? Or are some men so blinkered that it produces an optical illusion of a few extra inches. If so, chances are that they’ll be found out if they ever find a woman who wants to sleep with a plucked chicken.

The money shot is that men don’t shave to please their woman and it’s all about a misplaced vanity. Equally ladies, shave and shape if that’s what makes you comfortable, but don’t do it just to please your man, or because you think it’s what every man expects or wants. You’ll be wrong.

We love you the way nature intended too and if a man isn’t prepared to accept you that way, he’s a clearly an immature boy – still desperately waiting for his hair to sprout.

Photo: Beware, merkin, by Miriam Nathan Roberts, 2006

Playing Tag With Cheryl Cole And Jennifer Aniston

Posted on by

Do you know, I’m almost embarrassed to post this, but it’ll be interesting – promise, even if it’s just for the top 10 further down.

Years of writing news stories and articles. Flogging over a hot keyboard to gain journalism qualifications. It means absolutely sweet FA if no one reads the results of the writer’s Herculean labours.

Journalism, as my colleague Holly Thomas covered recently, is an over-subscribed business. Writing seems to be something a lot of people think they can do.

Let me tell you guys, ranting over Twitter while misspelling everything ain’t journalism. But everyone’s out there, blogging, tweeting, Facebooking (or whatever today’s adjective for being on Facebook is) and rambling on for 18 pages – FRONT AND BACK!

Must be the glamour that attracts people to writing. The joys of getting rained on, on a bitterly frozen Arctic day covering an escaped prisoner from Feltham Young Offenders, waiting for the police to acknowledge your press card while reluctant witnesses hurtle off down the street pursued by journos and TV crew.

Yeah, I’ve done that, and covered a few sporting occasions, which can be another joy. Coaxing comments out of monosyllabic players and managers after they’ve just been on the receiving end of a brutal defeat.

On the bright side, I haven’t yet been clouted. Surprisingly, neither has my friend Emma who works in local news and sometimes has the unenviable task of speaking to grieving family members in search of a story.

As well as newspapers and magazines, I also write web copy for a sports website. Ah, the fun of being called a disgrace to journalism and a London-based hack on the internet. Admittedly, I’ll concede the second point.

Trouble is, that sporting web copy? Often live and very pressured. The moment you press the button, you’re out in the ether. Doesn’t matter if you spot it immediately and correct it, umpteen people around the world have seen it and already – rightly – commented on what a twat you are.

Now you may say that this is contradictory. How can I complain about journalists not being noticed and then whine about it when they are?

Fair point.

Truth is, from a purely personal point of view, I qualified in News Writing, Media Law and Shorthand among others. So while sport has been kind to me in the respect that I’ve been able to keep most of the roof over my head and occasionally eat, I also like to think I have a wider range to offer.

And that’s what Frost does. As a writer and editor, I have a lovely medium to rattle on about pretty much anything for your enjoyment and edification.  Which brings me to the point of this article 13 paragraphs on.

While we have thousands of regular readers, getting brand new, shiny people to pop in to Frost and read us, and hopefully stay to dip in to our box of delights is all about the tags. Those little words and hooks that grab your attention – even if you didn’t want it to. Sorry, but that’s what we do. Engage.

So with that in mind, Google’s most searched terms of 2010 were apparently, in order:

1. chatroulette

2. ipad

3. justin bieber

4. nicki minaj

5. friv

6. myxer

7. katy perry

8. twitter

9. gamezer

10. facebook.

Which is worrying, because as a duffer, I haven’t heard of some of those.

And falling faster than – oh, I don’t know, something really heavy and inert, say a cartoon safe – in 2010, was:

1. swine flu

2. wamu

3. new moon

4. mininova

5. susan boyle

6. slumdog millionaire

7. circuit city

8. myspace layouts

9. michael jackson

10. national city bank.

So, theoretically, if I add all those top 10 most popular terms into an article and tag them myself, (hey, look at that! I just did!)  It should garner some attention.

And then looking into my crystal ball for 2011… Actually, why bother? If I just throw in say, X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, Doctor Who, Cheryl Cole, Lady Gaga, Brighton Rock, Manchester United, Barcelona, Jose Mourinho, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, oh, and romcom, I think that’ll do it.

Welcome to Frost. Thank you for stopping by. We love you and please feel free to look around. And come back and tell your friends!

Or you can just wait for them to stumble on the same set of tags and blog/tweet/facebook each other about us. I’m easy either way.

Crossing The Bridge – Marilyn Monroe Reveals All

Posted on by

So, I suppose the first question is how are you? Assuming that it isn’t a redundant question.

Not at all. I feel fine. To tell you the truth, nothing much changes from before. You still feel everything you felt before. After all, it’s what makes a person, your emotions.  Without them, you’re kinda nothing at all. So, what you were before, you still are. But all the rough edges are sorta taken off. Does that make sense?

Without going into the religious aspect too much. Is it Heaven? Have you seen God?

Heaven’s what you make it, if you want to call it Heaven. It’s not like you’re taught at school. Let’s face it, no one can know what’s out there, so it’s all guesswork until it happens to you. It’s another state of mind really. It’s whatever you want. Some people prefer the green fields and flowing rivers, others prefer a city bar and a shot of bourbon. Me, I like both and that’s the beauty, afterlife’s what you make it! (Giggles).

So let’s get this out of the way, once and for all. August 5th 1962. What really happened?

Oh God, Here we go. I knew this would come up. OK. So let’s get it straight. You can’t help laughing at all the conspiracy theories. To be honest, if you didn’t, you’d cry. I’ve seen it so many times since. Jack in Dallas, Elvis, even your Lady Diana. It just seems like when certain people die, other people can’t accept accidents and have to put a different meaning to it. I don’t know, maybe because their grief demands it. It makes people less mortal, less weak if there’s something else behind it. Of course, Jack was murdered, but people are still tying themselves up in knots over the hows and whys.

So OK, who did shoot JFK?

Who do you think? Oswald was apparently on the sixth floor (of the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas). The first shot hit Jack in the back and came out through his neck. That’s not a shot from high up. Same with the second hit. (Governor John) Connally was shot in the back too and the bullet came out of his chest. The third got Jack in the head. Oswald didn’t make the shot. Wrong place. Plus he just didn’t have the skill. For the third shot to kill Jack and miss Jackie? That’s a trained marksman. CIA. They weren’t happy with Jack’s reforms. Bang.

And getting back to you in ‘62? You must be aware that there’s talk the CIA were involved.

Ha! I think they barely noticed me in a political sense. If anything, I provided them with a convenient distraction. While Jack’s with me, they’re free to carry on while the focus is elsewhere. Listen, I’m not proud of it, but the Kennedys were great people. Jackie knew Jack had a weakness for women. And let’s face it, I wasn’t the first or last. You’ve got the most powerful man in the world paying you attention? You’d have to be as hard as steel not to have your head turned.

Truth is, I really wasn’t well. You’re supposed to be a world-famous actress, adored by millions. But honestly? It’s surprisingly lonely. No one really wants you to be yourself. There’s Marilyn and there’s Norma Jeane. When the door closes, it’s just Norma Jeane.

I know it’s a cliché, but you really do suspect everyone’s motives for trying to get near you. They may be crazy, they may think they really love you, but it’s the image they see on film they love. You’ve met people in the industry. Their public persona is nothing like the people they really are in most cases.

The Misfits was so tough. I was drinking, drinking too much really. I wasn’t sleeping and the doctors were putting me on more and more drugs. It wasn’t good for me, but, you know, you think they know what they’re doing and you’re gonna get through it. And things’ll get better in time. There just wasn’t that much time for me, I guess.

When (Clark) Gable died just days after we wrapped, I felt kinda responsible. I hadn’t been at my best during the whole thing and I confess I went AWOL a couple of times. His wife Kay didn’t blame me, of course, but I could have made things easier, I suppose.

It was Something’s Got To Give that was a step too far really. It makes me laugh that the conspiracy nuts don’t really notice how appropriate the title was. I’d done the nude scenes in the pool, which they sold to Life magazine as publicity and then, of course, sang to Jack on his birthday.

I was exhausted, but the production sacked me ‘cos I missed so many days of shooting. I could’ve lived with that, although it was a blow, but next thing Fox are suing me for half a million bucks.

Let’s be honest. If I was gonna kill myself that would’ve been the time. But we eventually sorted it all out and I even had the two-picture deal in the bag. But yeah, it affected me. Who wouldn’t’ve found it tough? And you can see from the pics I did with (Bruce) Stern, I’d lost so much weight.

But what did it was simply a medical mistake. Dr. (Ralph) Greenson had given me an enema to help me sleep, because I was having trouble coming off the barbiturates. But (Doctor Hyman) Engelberg had given me more Nembutal the day before. From what I understand now, I had enough Nembutal in my system that it reacted with the chloral hydrate I’d been taking.

It was all very quick. I chatted to Joe (DiMaggio) around 7pm, but when Peter (Lawford) called about 30 minutes later, it felt like I was drunk. I figured the tablets were making me woozy, so got into bed. And, well, “That’s all Folks!” I just wasn’t strong enough any more.

So you would have made more films?

Of course. Like I said, I had a contract literally worth a million dollars and Something’s Got To Give was due to start filming again in the Fall. And there were other offers on the table, giving me more control. It would perhaps have been a springboard for other things. I was trying to get my head sorted and was ready for it this time around.

So how do you think your later career would’ve gone?

Hmm. I don’t know really. Let’s be honest. I was never going to be one of those character actresses. I truthfully wasn’t good enough. I mean, I reckon I had more to me than the kooky blonde, and that would have been difficult to carry off as I got older.

I would have liked to have done some more serious roles, perhaps as the mom, but I could see myself ending up as the kooky granny instead on the odd film or TV sit-com. Or maybe having a cat sanctuary like Bardot. (Laughs).

Some Like It Hot has been voted the greatest American film comedy of all time by The American Film Institute. What does that mean to you?

I’m very, very proud of Some Like It Hot. It was one of those films where everything comes together, you know? I mean Billy Wilder was superb, but it’s really Jack (Lemmon) and Joe (E. Brown) who steal the show. Jack was at the top of his game and Joe just played Osgood so well. This complete unawareness of everything’s that going on around him. He just has eyes for Daphne without taking in that she’s really this strapping guy. It’s hilarious.

Tony Curtis said that kissing you in that film was like kissing Hitler. What do you think about that?

That’s just typical of Tony. We knew each other from before, of course, and had a little fling when we were younger. He denies saying it, but it was actually a bit of an aside to the film crew. I reckon he was just trying to spare their feelings. (Laughs). He enjoyed it, at least in the early takes. There are some things a man just can’t hide! (Giggles).

Are you surprised about just how iconic you’ve become? Frankly, you are probably just about the most famous woman in the world.

Amazed. Completely, utterly amazed. I mean I was lucky enough to be around at the right time and grab the public’s attention. And, of course, I had famous men around, Joe and Jack were both American legends even then. But as I said before, I was never the best actress. I had no illusions about it, so to have books still written about me. You’d think they’d be nothing left to say and now here you are too. Talking about it almost 50 years later. It just goes to show.

Had I lived, I reckon there’s no way I would have had the same recognition. But suddenly dying at 36, I suppose all that unfulfilled potential, unfulfilled life, you could say, just grabs people. You become a sort of instant legend.

And what are your thoughts on the film industry today?

Truthfully? It doesn’t change much. Of course, the special effects are just out of this world. You can do so much more, so there are other areas of films that are opened up to actors, directors and writers.

But movie actors are still among the most overpaid people on the planet.

The quality doesn’t change either. There are so many great films, but people are still making appalling movies too. Except that they’re no longer called ‘B’ Movies. Instead, Joe Public forks out and don’t realise they’re likely to see something that’s honestly garbage until it’s too late.

I suppose the big difference now is that the studio thing has gone. It used to be that stars had to dress like stars whenever they went out. To keep that illusion that we were almost untouchable for ‘normal’ people. To keep that distance and sense of wonder so people want to see the movies. We were abnormal in that sense. We were always acting in a way, even when off-camera. Nowadays, movie stars go on holiday and there’ll always be someone with a camera waiting to get a shot of their boobs or saggy chin or whatever.

And people try so much now just to be famous, without really thinking how or why or even what it means. And they want it instantly. People should remember that fame is fleeting. It soon goes, sometimes before you know it. Like life. Trust me, I know.

In The Pink – How Doctor Who Turned Gay

Posted on by

Before Matt Smith became the 11th incarnation of Doctor Who, there was the usual excited comment in the media. Would – or could – the new Doctor be black, a woman, or gay?

Seeing as Time Lords seemingly don’t have the habit or ability of changing sex or race, the talk is always irrelevant and frankly, redundant. But that doesn’t stop the lively debate every time there’s a change of face.

As it turned out, Smith’s Doctor is, like all the others, male, white and seemingly straight, but William Hartnell’s irascible first Doctor from 1963 aside, Doctor Who has always bordered on camp with more than a degree of innuendo.

With the advent of the Swinging Sixties later in the decade, more overt sexuality crept in with mini-skirted female companions – and mini-skirted males, if you care to count Frazer Hines’ kilted highlander, Jamie McCrimmon.

Wendy Padbury’s Zoe Herriot often crops up in Whovian conversations thanks pretty much to a spangly, tight purple zip-up jump suit she once wore while scrambling on to the Tardis console. But it was probably Katy Manning’s character of Jo Grant who is most fondly remembered as the girl who first put the sex into Doctor Who.

Jo, apart from being a good screamer as the role frequently required, had a tendency to flash her knickers courtesy of her early 1970’s outfit of short skirt and plastic boots. Not only did Manning thus cement her role as the first crush of small boys and the lust object of dads everywhere, ratings went through the roof.

After Manning left the series, she capitalised by posing nude with a Dalek, but it was really only as Doctor Who began its decline in the mid-1980s that Nicola Bryant’s Peri Brown briefly stirred the watching public again by appearing in a much-commented upon – and criticised – skimpy bikini.

Peter Davison has also frequently mentioned how his intense death scene as the fifth Doctor was completely upstaged by Bryant’s cleavage as she knelt beside him, but even the Doctors’ famed regenerations eventually proved no match for the BBC hierarchy. Where numerous enemies had tried and failed, poor stories and a poor time slot brought the Time Lord’s career to a close in December 1989.

Enter Russell T Davies. The TV Producer and Screenwriter had a number of hits on his CV before he tackled the resurrection of Doctor Who in 2005, including Queer as Folk, a controversial series about the Manchester gay scene, drawn loosely on Davies’ own experiences.

Despite initial scepticism, under Davies’ stewardship the ninth Doctor – portrayed by Christopher Eccleston along with Billie Piper’s superb Rose Tyler – was a huge hit. When Eccleston left, David Tennant’s Time Lord took the ratings even higher.

It would take an extremely brave move to make such an iconic figure as the Doctor into a gay man. And chances are that if anyone could have done it, Davies is the one, but that’s always likely to be a step too far for the BBC.

And yet, the reborn Doctor Who embraces numerous gay references, all the more remarkable in a top-rated, worldwide, prime time TV show aimed at the family. In fact, it is probably the gayest, non-gay programme anywhere in the TV schedules.

Davies is responsible for writing many of the episodes, but it was the Steven Moffat-penned ‘The Empty Child’, which introduces John Barrowman’s Captain Jack Harkness, with Barrowman’s character the obvious crutch – pun intended – for what soon becomes a running theme throughout the entire series.

There are no holds barred when the viewing public is first introduced to Harkness. He caresses a fellow airman’s backside at a party before it’s revealed the two are having a relationship. Which, let’s face it, is pretty bold of them considering the law and public opinion of homosexuality in the 1940s.

And in the second of the two-parter, ‘The Doctor Dances’, the character of Nancy stops a black-marketeer from threatening her with the police by telling him she knows he’s ‘messing around’ with the male butcher. Although it takes a couple of more episodes before, following much innuendo, Captain Jack kisses the Doctor in what’s believed to be the series’ first same-sex kiss.

Davies himself took the opportunity to take a sly dig at gay stereotyping in werewolf episode ‘Tooth and Claw’.

When Tennant’s Doctor is asked why he failed to notice anything odd about the servants of a manor house, he replies: “Well, they were bald, athletic, your wife’s away. I just thought you were happy.”

Meanwhile, in ‘The Age of Steel’, a deleted scene from the DVD reveals Noel Clarke’s alternate Earth counterpart, Ricky, is the boyfriend of friend Jake.

Continuing the gay theme, Catherine Tate’s debut in ‘The Runaway Bride’ shows two men dancing together at her wedding reception, while in ‘The Shakespeare Code’ the Bard responds to Tennant’s comment about future flirting with: “Is that a promise Doctor?”

In ‘Gridlock’, the pensionable Cassini sisters are clearly married lesbians, while the Doctor’s sexuality is again called into question in ‘Daleks in Manhattan’ by New Yorker Tallulah who asks if Tennant prefers ‘musical theatre’.

Tennant’s Doctor is again involved in some mild male ‘bromance’, offering another New Yorker, Frank, the chance of a kiss, while John Simm’s Master asks Tennant if he is “asking me out on a date?” after the Doctor reveals they are the last of the Time Lords.

Tate’s character of Donna Noble returns in the fourth series, and after announcing a previous boyfriend ran off with another man, it’s all about the girls.

‘The Doctor’s Daughter’ reveals two of Donna’s friends are a lesbian couple who had a child with IVF, while in ‘Midnight’, the character of Sky Silvestry is on holiday to get over a relationship with another woman. Even the return of Piper’s Rose Tyler in ‘Turn Left’ is greeted by Noble with a heartfelt: “Blonde hair might work on men, but not on me!”

Meanwhile, in the series finale ‘Journey’s End’, Davies and Barrowman’s Captain Jack up the ante big time by hinting at a possible threesome with Tennant’s two identical Doctors.

Davies left Doctor Who at the same time as Tennant in 2009 after the two-parter, ‘End of Time’, but couldn’t resist a final scene involving Barrowman.

In a homage to the Star Wars cantina scene, Captain Jack sits alone at a bar next to Being Human’s Russell Tovey – Midshipman Alonso Frame from ‘Voyage of the Damned’. The Doctor passes Jack a note giving Frame’s name. A quick suggestive chat-up between Harkness and Frame follows before Frame asks Harkness if he can guess what he’s thinking.

Well, yes. I think we get the gist.

Since replacing Davies at the helm for 2010, Moffat has largely reined in the gay references. Indeed, Smith’s 11th Doctor remains asexual while Karen Gillan’s companion, Amy Pond, is the flirt.

However, Gillan has had some viewers and newspapers frothing and complaining over her short skirts. Which is odd, considering she has showed considerably less than Manning did, despite it being almost 40 years later in a time of a much more liberal media.

And there’s the irony.

Put against the usual right wing hysteria about traditional family values, Doctor Who has done much to open the doors to more liberal views about homosexuality at prime time and Davies should be applauded for having the guts to do so.

Too bad that the complaints about Ms Pond shows that tolerance of heterosexual sex appeal still has some way to go.