dollymixedup spits from the heart

We're not going to make a habit of this, but dolly has something to say. The usual bile will resume shortly.

"I am a flat-chested size 16 with more cellulite than dover cliffs.

I have sailor tattoos on my right arm, breasts and pussy.

My left arm and right leg, torso and head are covered in scars.

I am a self-harmer in many different ways.

I cut, burn and beat myself, take overdoses.

I have more diagnoses than a Bernard Matthews turkey has sneezes.

I am a woman. I am a woman with many qualities, many talents many skills. And I'm a bit mad. I know I am.

If I were to cut off my breasts, inject toxins into my face, try to revert to puberty, look 30 years younger than my age and spend obscene amounts of money in chasing those rainbows; if I were to deny my gender, despise my gender, then I would be admitted.

And it wouldn't be nice.

I can't stand the way these women want to encourage other women to deface their bodies: the bodies of women. Observer Women.

I might be mad, but I do love being a woman. I am proud to be a woman. I love every fucking scar, every fucking wobble, every fucking crease on my body. Including the ones under my arms.

Self-harm is self-harm is self-harm, however you do it. It is about loathing, and that is not something to be bragging about. It is not pretty, it's not glamorous, it's not fashionable. It doesn't belong alongside handbags and shoes as a lifestyle choice. Whether operations and injections, diets and poisons or 69p razor blades from Netto - it is all self-harm.

When I'm ill, I damage myself. I engage in risky behaviour. I drink, self-medicate and hate myself.

But I don't glamourise it through a national Sunday newspaper. I refuse to be ashamed of who I am - but I do know that self-harm is no solution.

Observer Woman Magazine has the influence to make us as women feel better about ourselves. It could celebrate women as we are. It could love women for infinite reasons. Instead, it tells us that what we are, how we look, what a woman actually IS... is shocking.

Observer Woman is Self-loathing Woman.

Observer Woman - you are much more fucking mad than I am."




Some quotes from OWM:

Liz Jones

"I found big breasts revolting as well as terrifying: pendulous, covered in blue veins. I was scared of everything in those days - talking to boys, swimming lessons where others might glimpse my body or I might drown - and so I thought, it will be far easier to opt out. I starved myself, and so of course I didn't grow breasts; my adolescence consisted of precisely one period

/snip/

I was in my early twenties, working on a glossy magazine in London, and the starvation thing had got a bit out of hand. At a particularly arduous ballet class one Saturday morning (I did four hours of classes on Saturday, seven hours during the week), I caught sight of my emaciated frame in its pink tights in the mirror and knew I needed help, which I got (eating-disorder clinics, steroids, peanut-butter sandwiches), but no one told me that one of the side effects was that I would grow breasts. Oh God how I hated them. They meant I couldn't run properly each evening, they meant men looked at me, they meant clothes (Azzedine Alaïa bodies, Katharine Hamnett stretchy dresses) looked obscene. I started to hide my breasts (bear in mind that up to, and way beyond this point, no man had ever touched them or seen them);

/snip/

But then one day, on the bus, I had a revelation. I was reading the very first issue of British Elle magazine (the gloriously flat-chested Yasmin not-yet-Le Bon was on the cover), in which there was a feature that seemed to answer my prayers. It was about the fact that women in Paris were getting breast reductions to achieve that boyish, gamine, high-fashion look, and I thought, of course! Why didn't I think of this? And so, at the age of 29, I had my breasts removed

/snip/

I can't feel anything in my breasts, and I will never be able to breast-feed (a bit of a moot point, given my two-decade-long sabbatical from men due to my breast phobia), and the scars mean I have never felt liberated by my flatchestedness; I have never been able to sunbathe topless, for example, or wear Versace gowns slashed to the waist, but how often do those situations arise? When I was finally, fleetingly married, my poor husband never got to see or touch my breasts;

/snip/

Now that I am on my own again I can go back to not being a woman any more. I am alone, I no longer have to play netball or hockey. I no longer have to be seen naked. It's fine, really."

Kathryn Flett:

"I've lost two stones in 12 weeks on a diet not endorsed by any doctor, dietician, scary TV food guru or indeed anybody with half a brain. It amounts to a combination of stress, not eating very much and smoking like a volcano. Happily, Observer Woman readers are far too clever to follow such a patently idiotic prescription for rapid weight loss.

Whatever! This week I am prancing around reacquainting myself with my cheekbones and jaw line while wearing ballet pumps with skinny jeans"



Rosie Boycott,
(Founder, Spare Rib.)

"Two years ago, I was offered the chance to try out non-surgical face treatments for a newspaper article. Even though I hate the pressure that women are under to look good, there's no point in denying how much I try.

/snip/

I submitted my face to a course of microdermabrasion (a high-powered exfoliation), IPL (intense pulsed light), Restylane injections and Botox. The IPL hurt as it zapped laser-strength light into the skin on my cheeks and round my nose, burning away thread veins that cause uneven, blotchy colour. The Restylane was injected into the grooves on either side of my nose and into the wrinkle between my eyes."




From 'The Next Big Thing'
"We watched our models, Kate Smith and Elizabeth Satherlund, get transformed, made-up, and styled. We watched them pose. We studied early Polaroids. But still, we were shocked by the finished product. The photographs seemed illicit, transgressive. They seemed overtly sexual. Fetishistic, almost. They certainly seemed contrary to today's rules on glossy-magazine aesthetics. So much bosom! So much bottom! Such luscious rolls of back fat! Such extravagant thighs! Aren't there laws against this?

/snip/

Elizabeth and Kate are in fact both a size 16 - the dress size of the average British woman. They're (young, beautiful, statuesque versions of) us. They're the majority of women that pass us on the street every day. They're the most realistic representation of beauty in town. So of course, their image shouldn't be shocking at all. These photographs shouldn't be a statement, shouldn't be remarkable in any way. But they are."

Body of evidence

We wanted to post something today, really we did. But after obsessing at great length about dolly's toenails and Ally's nostril hair, we were pretty much exhausted. And then, we saw the most bizarre creature we have ever seen. The shock practically killed us.

So much bosom! So much bottom! Such luscious rolls of back fat! Such extravagant thighs! So many exclamation marks!

Suffice to say we might have a thought or two to share tomorrow.

In the meantime, do let the bile begin.

Shit for brains

We feel sick.

Nirpal has just been on This Week on BBC1. The look in his eye suggested he was weighing up a foursome with Andrew, Michael and Diane.

He didn't even have something stupid to say, just grunts.

We want to feed him to the cows to watch them go mad.

"Oh ya, I told her to stop writing that column..."

...IN YOUR FUCKING COLUMN!


Spit spit spit spit spit.






OK. That's it. The Liz & Nirpal moratorium begins here. They only do it for attention and we've given them far too much already. From now on all discussion of Those Who Shall Not Be Named will be restricted to the comments below this thread. But let it all spill out. It's therapeutic.

Around the bile-osphere

We know by now that we are far from alone in our feelings about OWM. Thank you all for your comments and support, it does help to spur us on so please keep them coming. We'll soon be distracted by hating the stupid simpering one (there's always one) so we might need you to keep us focussed.

From time to time we get curious as to what others think and go for a scooch around this interweb thing, and every time we find yet more likeminded souls. Take the lovely Oursin who actually makes us wonder if we might have been sleepblogging. But we think she is real and we think we might love her.

Just about everyone has been staring slackjawed at the charms of Nirpal and Liz. We particularly sympathised with Eleanor's overpowering horror.

But the unquestioned bottom-scraping bile-boiler of the month was of course Christa d'Souza's emotional botox burst. Everyone from the feministocracy down has been having their say. From the many, many comments on the topic, we can't help noticing that most of the people who hate Observer Women tend to write with far more insight and style than those who actually write OWM. Take a look at Yarnstorm if you doubt it, and compare it with - well actually with anyone. Although CharonQC comes close. OWMMS regular Jude has a brilliant observation about the Christa cover - the kind of insightful criticism that we would come out with if we actually knew what we were talking about. We also have to pay tribute to other new friends Belle de Jure (who is definitely not a slobby trout, we are convinced) and Sarah Salway. And credit also to Neil for this observation about Christa:

"she is dressed in a denim mini, pink long-sleeved tee and 4-inch wedges... she looks as though she`s about to stomp in a line to Gary Glitter, as though she`s idealised herself in 1974. "

But there is one phenomenon we can't help noticing every time we do a search on OWM. The results fall into two distinct categories - those who hate it with all their hearts, and those who express no opinion. Never yet have we found a blog or forum post by someone who actually likes the thing. You would think that somewhere there would have to be a subculture of strange credit-crazed Fashionistas who eagerly await the arrival of the highlight of their month. But if they are there, we have yet to find them.

Or so we thought {cue dramatic music, dum dum DAAAAH!}

Picture our faces when we typed "Observer Woman" into search engine and somewhere on the second page was a blog with the first sentence:

"I absolutely love Observer Woman magazine so..."

Could this really be true? Does such a creature really exist? With that curious feeling that accompanies a security blanket being dragged out from under your feet, we clicked through on the link and found this.

Which kind of begs a competition.

Can anyone find any blog, forum comment, or other written proof that anyone, anywhere actually enjoys Observer Woman Magazine? We don't just mean a vaguely neutral 'here's something a little bit interesting I saw in the Observer' type comment, we mean a full on endorsement along the lines of

"I absolutely love Observer Woman magazine so..."

The only rule is this: The person writing must not be either an OWM journalist or interviewee. They don't count.

The winner will possibly receive a prize. But probably won't. It depends whether or not dolly can find anything cool for £0.01 on eBay.

And while you're looking, if you find any other interesting stuff about OWM or anything else, do please leave us a comment or drop us a note.

When I am old I shall wear PVC

I do yoga 3 times a week.
Good for you. You're 47.

I wear denim minis
and wedges. I shop in Topshop.
But you're 47.

I am a mother of 2 but I
want the body I had
at 30.
But you're 47. And you have two children.

I will be 50 in 3 years time.
Yes, we know.

I am obsessed by age.
Yes, we know.

But admit it. aren't you too?


Well not really. And what's more, we really don't think you should be either. Christa, you look fantastic. You are 47 years of age and you are stunning. We looked at the woman in the photo on the cover and we saw an attractive middle-aged woman. That's what you are. And that does not mean you have failed.

"Indeed, if you were to look at the photograph on the previous page and tell me you see an attractive middle-aged woman (for that technically is what I am at 46) I'd not be merely insulted, I'd feel, on some level, that I had failed."

(Oops. But is someone fibbing about their age again?)

Christa you are not only attractive, you are extremely successful. But - and we say this with not only your best interests at heart, but personal experience too - you are psychotic. We are not psychiatrists (and would kill ourselves out of duty if we were) but body dysmorphia would probably be the diagnosis. This article is celebrating and justifying mental illness. And not in a good way. You are 47 years old. You cannot have the appearance of a 23 year old any more than you can turn a Netto bag into Prada.

We really aren't in the habit of attacking people for their mental health problems (although dolly has been known to attack herself), so we are not going to condemn or criticise you for the way you feel. But please don't try to normalise this delusion. Don't tell us that it is OK to want to feel like this:

"where one cannot seem to pick up a newspaper or magazine without reading about some granny who has just been vaginally rejuvenated, and where, furthermore, every aspect of life, including politics, is beginning to feel more and more virtual, the decision of a fortyplusser to dress like Peaches Geldof isn't so much a decision she makes as a cultural imperative that has been imposed on her. Be the schlumpy granny at the school gates whom none of the other dads fancy by all means, but only if you don't mind being perceived as something of a freak, or at a socioeconomic disadvantage."

A cultural imperative imposed on her? Imposed on her by whom exactly? By magazines like OWM and Vogue, you crazy, beautiful wingbat. You've just swallowed your own tail. The feeling you describe is called 'gagging.'

So lets talk instead about who, at OWM, decided that 'we all' feel like this and commissioned this exploitative, voyeuristic poison?

Who is this Observer Woman who does yoga 3 times a week, shops at Topshop and is obsessed by age? While we're about it, who is the 'we' in 'We know it's common but we love it anyway'? When you say 'Everybody' is park benching (In Manchester we call it dogging) or customising our dialling tones, who do you mean exactly?

The last time we checked, 'we' don't all live in Notting Hill and surround ourselves with media workers. Last time we looked there were women living and even working in places like Doncaster. And Birmingham. And you know what? Quite a few of them read the Observer. If you caught a train from Euston you might meet some of them. They won't bite.

You're a fashion magazine and we know the game. One percent inspiration and 99% aspiration, but that is no excuse. Just once or twice, at least acknowledge that not all your readers live your insipid, vacuous, cynical (where are the organic T-shirts this month, eh?), superfluous, spoiled, priviliged lives.

Maybe we're just bitter. Or more likely it's not us, it's you.

The Media family round-robin. May 2007

Darling friends

It's been a busy month for the Medias. What with running around from Kate's fantabulous launch to the Anya Hindmarch bag bash, we barely had time to stop off at Boots for some cream before catching up with young Lily at the New Look party (bit of a wash-out, only salvaged by her dad's legendary hospitality, so the less said about that the better.)

So what have we all been up to? Well frankly the youngsters have been a bit of a worry. We've scarcely seen young Polly at all since we last wrote. We think she's going into a bit of a Goth phase. She's got a new friend called Marilyn and they've been spending so much time together. We did wonder if she might be becoming a lesbian. Then when we asked her what they do together all day and she said they just chat and swap make-up tips and that put our minds at ease. You know what she's like.

If you think that's bad, you should hear what our dear friend Catherine has been up to. Well you've probably heard already. Been there, seen it, done it. And done it again and again and again. Of course we're a very modern family and don't object. We should really be interested in her stories. But somehow as soon as she starts talking our attention starts to drift. She was telling us one of her stories the other night and I think at one point she mentioned an aubergine. Can't think what that might have been about.

We'd been hoping for better news though from good old William. You can always rely on Wills to raise the tone, and sure enough he threw a party this month. It sounded just marvellous hoot. He invited some adorable friends. Of course it was a high class affair, lots of his writer chums, a few young chaps he met at a party and even a couple of musicians. Grandmama got quite giddy about it. But it turned out that everyone was on such a downer. William started droning on about how men never seem to express their feelings, don't like crying, always insist 'mustn't grumble' right up until the moment they attach the hose to the exhaust. Before we knew where we were, all these handsome young chaps were swapping tales about their divorces and tragedies. As they wept into their Monaco lagers, the sobbing sound was only punctuated by Grannie muttering over her sherry, 'And tell us something we don't know Poirot.'

But it goes from bad to worse. We can't say we didn't see it coming but Liz and Nirpal have finally called it a day. All a bit messy really. We think the final straw was when he realised that he was married to a toxic, self-absorbed fridge who could drive past a motorway pile-up and wonder where the corpse in the fast lane had found those shoes; and she realised that she was married to the single most vile, pathetic, skin-crawling shriveldick ever to plague humanity.

After all that, the trials and travails of poor old Christa just won't go away. We thought she'd sorted this out ten years ago with the boob job. But no, she's having her midlife crisis for the fourth time and is probably going to be spitting goosedown for months because we just called her 'old'. We all know what its like round at the Vogue household. Hard enough to keep the eye of the editor with all those skinny young girls from OWM hanging around in the lobby. She badly needed some advice and professional support for her pathological body dysmorphia this month. So she called Kirsty Young and Lionel Shriver. Must admit we were surprised when Lionel said she doesn't trade on her looks any more. For nine months we thought she was a man. Like that nice Mr Blair. No, the other one.

We'll write again very soon with lots more goss about Christa and some miscellaneous love. But we're now off to consider sponsoring one of those black people we've been reading about. We hear Madonna did it. Now of course we have lots of black friends already. There's Ethan, a frightfully nice chap who comes round in 15 minutes when we ring, but he never stops to chat. We have lots of disabled friends too, and some of our chums are really quite poor. You might wonder why we never talk about them, but you know what it's like - someone will always say something to bring down the tone. And wheelchairs and disfigurements can cause such a palaver, it's just shocking really. The government should do something.

Ciao, beautiful friends.

OWM


OWMMS: Note to readers. We counted 15 people interviewed in this month's OWM. Nine were journalists. One was in fashion retail. One was an actor. Three were musicians. One was a celebrity chef. We'll be back soon to ask the question: 'Who is Observer Woman?'

Old and loving it...............

Due to Euro hangover I'm too dehydrated to spit just now, but I plan to drink. Lots. After the AGM. Ally McB is playing out later too.

thinking lovely thoughts about ladygardens

just not Kathryns

love dolly xxx