Body Positivity

Two Falstaffian women appeared recently on a breakfast-show to promote body positivity. One of them was a journalist who I believe has published memoirs, chronicling, I am sure, her heroic struggles against drugs, weight, the ennui of a privileged upbringing, the unhappiness of being sent to a posh boarding school— swimming, as they say, like a shrimp in cocktail sauce, in her misery, a product, probably, of inwardly directed florid imagination.  Misery can be like cocaine; when you develop a taste for it, you can’t have enough of it.

In the breakfast show, the journalist was joined by another woman, who was introduced as a plus-size model. What’s wrong in that, you may ask. There is no law against chunky people appearing on television. That would be discrimination. You might be interested to know that the ‘two fat ladies’ appeared in the breakfast-show wearing only their undergarments. Obviously, there is no law against that either; however, you might think that that was a tad unusual. By and large people do not present in a partial state of undress when they appear in public. Call me old fashioned, but I think that there is some merit in the idea that you should be adequately covered in public places unless you are at a swimming pool or a beach or in a sauna. In addition, if your stomach has reached the dimensions where it looks as if it is hiding a football stadium, there is an outside chance that you will attract ridicule if you went around in public only in your frillies. Fair? Probably not; but such is life. If life were fair, Bashar-Al-Assad would realise the folly of his ways and immediately hand himself over to the Western forces; the Islamists would accept that blowing themselves up in Western cities is terribly messy and not fair on the road-sweepers; Putin would appreciate that the British get awfully upset when you poison people on their soil; and the bar-maid would be complimentary when your ordered the third pint of lager and a plate of onion rings. But life, regrettably, is not fair. People have stereotyped ideas about aesthetics. So, when it comes to human beauty, for most it is skin-dip. Only a minority of human population would find the sight of someone, who looks like they have enough body fat to keep a village in Afghanistan going for a few months, arousing. I know. Not cricket. But there it is.

Why did the two women appear on the breakfast show?  They appeared on the breakfast show to inform the viewers that they were planning to run the London marathon the next day. In their undies. That was the news. The women were threatening to strip down to their underclothes and run 26 or whatever are the required miles for marathon.

Why were the women planning to run a marathon in their underclothes? They explained, the journalist and the model, their underwear roomy enough to hold a Tory party conference, and their rumps filling every inch of the seats of the plastic chairs which looked in danger of crumbling any minute. The aim, they informed, was not to gain cheap publicity—perish the thought. They wanted to promote body positivity. They wanted to prove that exercise is for everyone—small, big, tall, short, size 8, size 18; that you don’t have to be an athlete to run a marathon; that a runner’s body comes in all shapes and sizes!

Give me a f**king break. You don’t have to make a spectacle of yourself to prove that even fat people can and should—indeed must be forced to—exercise and get fitter (spare a thought for our NHS). If you are so intent on doing exercise, go to a f**king gym and get on a treadmill.

What was the message? The two roly-polies said they were planning to enter a marathon and not a donut eating competition. Which suggested that that at least one message was that it is good to do regular exercises. One can’t take issue with that. Why is it good to do regular exercise? Because it will make you healthy. It will make you fit. And, if you become fit because of these endeavours—I am going to go out on a limb and make a wild guess, here—maybe you will not resemble a bouncy castle.

As you watched the two women, neither appearing to lack egotism, you could be excused for wondering whether it was necessary to parade gigantic abdomens and elephantine thighs on national television only to prove that anyone, even the obese, can run a marathon. People by and large do not have difficulties in determining the size and shape of things unless, I don’t know, they are visually impaired, or are afflicted by one of those rare exotic neurological conditions Oliver Sachs used to write books about. It is, how shall I put it, an innate ability people possess. Therefore, just as trying to camouflage the layers of fat by wearing black clothes (a delusion shared by many lard-arses; squeezing your excess luggage into black jeans and hoping that it will somehow make your lardy arse vanish is about as optimistic as farting in a party with your palm pressed to your butt and hoping no one will notice; it fools no one) is futile, there is no need, really, to strip down to your underclothes and run a marathon, resembling (from behind) a marshmallow doing hurdles, to promote body positivity.

The women were described by some as brave. The viewers were invited to consider that they were displaying courage. That’s a load of codswallop. What was on display was the size of their ego, bigger than their baps. The narcissism, masquerading as some sort of feminism, made you despair for the future of our race.

Why is this going on? Why are such people still around? Small Pox is gone. Polio has disappeared. Rickets is on its way out. German Democratic Republic disappeared. Yugoslavia imploded. Soviet Union vanished. But these self-publicists are not going away. They continue to hog British television time. It is enough to make you want to emigrate to North Korea.

I don’t believe that the two women decided to strip to promote body positivity and increase awareness of the importance of exercise for everyone. They are depressing examples of the length to which some p-grade celebrities—gasping for publicity like an asthmatic gasping for air—will go to get five seconds of air-time. 

Book of the Month: Untold Story (Monica Ali)

Monica Ali is not an easy writer to pigeonhole. She has published 4 books—3 novels and a book of short stories—so far, all on very different subjects.

Ali’s debut novel, the best-selling Brick Lane (short-listed for the Booker Prize and also made into a film, I think), was about the experience of a girl, who had an English mother and a Bangla Deshi father. This was followed by a book of short stories set in Portugal. She followed it up with In the Kitchen, which, as the title suggested, was set in a hotel kitchen and told the story of a feckless but likeable chef.

Untold Story, Ali’s 2011 novel, has the late Diana, the Princess of Wales, at its centre.

Untold Story is a ‘what if’ novel. It is also a pot-boiler. What if Lady Diana, the ‘people’s princess’ (as described by Tony Blair), did not die in 1997, while fleeing the paparazzi, in a Parisian tunnel? What if she survived the crash, but, being totally fed up of living constantly under the spot-light of the world, faked her own death? What if, after successfully faking her death, she began living under an assumed identity, a life of total anonymity, in a small-town in America? And what if, by chance, a photographer who had ‘papped’ her on numerous occasions in her former life spotted her and threatened to blow her cover?

If you are curious to find out answers to the above (hypothetical) questions, Untold Story is the novel for you.

Diana has faked her own death with the help of a loyal aide who is (conveniently enough) dying of cancer (so he won’t be around long to spill the beans). While holidaying in the South American seas on the yacht of her most recent paramour, Diana goes for an early morning swim and ‘disappears’. Her body is never found and she is declared dead. What has in fact happened is she is picked up and stays incognito in Brazil for a while. From there she goes to America and finally washes up in a small town, called appropriately enough, Kensington. She has lived in Kensington for a few years under the name Lydia Snaresbrook. Not possessing anything useful in the way of academic degrees (like the real Diana, apparently, who flunked her exams), Lydia tries her hand at first being a beautician. However she discovers that "pulling hair out of people’s crotches" is not how she wants to earn a living. She is now working for an animal charity (awww!). She has made a few friends in Kensington, all women, heroically battling to keep at bay the advancing middle age. She is also in a relationship of sorts—with a man named Carson who has a sob story of his own. Carson would like to have a long-term relationship with Lydia, but she is not so sure, partly because she is worried that once she is in a relationship she might drop her guard and he will guess her big secret (although you can’t help thinking she is worrying unnecessarily; Carson strikes you as the soppiest person in the town, the kind of guy who believes everything said in the advertisements for men’s shaving blades). Lydia / Diana is of course devastated that she has left her two sons behind in England, whom, in all probabilities, she will never meet. She has—what’s the word?—guilt feelings (and the poor woman can’t even enter therapy because it’s a secret.) Then out of the blue arrives in Kensington a photographer called Grabowski. Grabowski has photographed Lydia in her previous life on innumerable occasions, not always with her permission and cooperation. Why is Grabowski in Kensington? Even he doesn’t know. He is drifting around from place to place in America (as you do), having accepted an advance from a publishing house for a book of photographs of Diana he has taken over the years, and Kensington is as good a place as any to hibernate. In Kensington Grabowski spots Lydia and something rings a bell. From here on, the novel ratchets up its tempo and reads like a thriller. A cat and mouse game develops between Lydia and Grabowski. Grabowski is certain that Lydia is in fact Diana, but is not sure whether she knows that he knows; and tries his best not to make her suspicious until he is ready with all the evidence. Lydia recognizes Grabowski the moment she lays eyes on him. For a while she tries to convince herself that he hasn’t recognized her, and behaves so as to not let him know that she knows who he is. Lydia’s doubts about Grabowski’s intentions are removed once she learns that he is snooping around with her friends and employer. It all, as you will have guessed, is heading for a spectacular climax; and Ali duly delivers it with a degree of panache, if rather too neatly.

Untold Story is a well crafted novel that flows smoothly most of the time. Monica Ali has an accomplished way of turning out a phrase and keeps up a steady supply of witty asides throughout the narration. Although the main theme of the novel (I think) is what if Diana had not died in 1997, a substantial proportion of the first part of the novel is devoted to how she manages her escape with the help of faithful Lawrence. This is in the form of a diary Lawrence keeps in the months leading to his demise. Not a great deal of explanation is provided, however, as to why the fictional Diana decides to leave behind her glamorous existence and live a life of total anonymity for which, it would be fair to assume, life has not prepared her until then, and which would per force involve separation—possibly permanently—from her two sons for ever. I wouldn’t have thought any woman who is devoted to her children would take the decision of faking her death and being separated from them for ever— ightly. All that is provided in the way of explanation is that the fictional Diana is fed up of being hounded by the paparazzi. While a celebrity might occasionally wish for a life of anonymity away from the glare of the media, for her to take the drastic step as Monica Ali’s Diana does, something more, you’d imagine, needs to be there. (The real Diana on whom the fictional Diana is based was not exactly shy of publicity.)  The picture of Diana that emerges from Lawrence’s personal diary is commensurate with that which was associated with the real Diana in at least some section of the media: an emotionally unhinged, insecure and manipulative little creature trying to find comfort in disordered eating, therapies and unwise sexual liaisons; not what you'd readily describe as a well-balanced personality. The Lydia who lives in Kensington, USA, is a rational, considerate, reliable, and stable. Quite how this transformation in Diana's personality comes about is also left unexplained. One would have thought that being forced to fend for herself without any support would be a recipe for disaster for an inadequate woman who, in her Royal life, was used to giving orders and probably thought halibuts swim in the fish section of Harrods. For the fictional Diana, it is her making; she finds deep resources of resolve in herself to triumph, as they say, over adversity. That is all very well, but it is a tad unconvincing. The Diana in Untold Story is a figure you almost feel sorry for. Similarly, Ali has resisted the temptation of depicting Grabowski, the other protagonist in the novel, in crude generalization of the paparazzi. Grabowski is not an evil man. He is a paparazzi photographer—believe it or not—with a conscience.

Untold Story possibly shows the direction Monica Ali’s fiction might take: commercial and entertaining. If you are looking for Untold Story to provide you with an insight into the life of Diana, you will be disappointed. If you are looking to read a well-written book that is also an above average thriller, this is your ticket. Read it on a long train journey; you won’t know how the time will fly.