I’ll be freeing my nipples like Florence Pugh – even if they look like tablets on an ironing board says Ulrika Jonsson
I NEED to make a declaration: I am the supremely proud owner of two tiny, tiny breasts. They are somewhere between a couple of paracetamols on an ironing board and two cute cinnamon buns. For that reason, I’d like a round of applause for actress Florence Pugh. She had the gumption and intelligence to attend […]
I NEED to make a declaration: I am the supremely proud owner of two tiny, tiny breasts.
They are somewhere between a couple of paracetamols on an ironing board and two cute cinnamon buns.
For that reason, I’d like a round of applause for actress Florence Pugh.
She had the gumption and intelligence to attend a fancy-schmancy do in Rome last week wearing a sheer designer dress — exposing her gorgeous, itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy but perfectly shaped cupcakes.
She isn’t stupid, our Flo. She knew the nipple-baring garment was going to cause a ruckus. And it sure did.
Exposing her petite breasts through the translucent fabric, she found herself in the midst of a storm in an A-cup.
Before you could say “knockers”, Florence found herself on the receiving end of a barrage of criticism — and a bevy of disparaging comments.
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Men, appalled by her audacity, and supposedly shocked to see a pair of fine breasts, immediately went on the attack on social media, calling her “flat-chested” and mocking her “tiny t*ts”.
Strange, really, when you think these men presumably have two of their own adorning their cowardly, pathetic chests.
And to think this is 2022. Quite what the issue with breasts is I’ll never know. We all have them. And Florence looked the epitome of beauty, class and purity, showing and owning what is biologically and physiologically hers.
She’s a proud young woman who says she was brought up in a household of “very strong, powerful, curvy women . . . who find power in the creases of our bodies”.
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Living, as we do, in a society where implants and over-inflated breasts have become the norm, you could do worse than have Florence as a role model for the next generation.
I don’t get involved in many campaigns but the fight to #freethenipple has been a cause close to my heart. Literally.
Predominately because it’s worth remembering that breasts are not singularly objects of sexual gratification.
Their sole purpose is not to excite and provoke. They are merely skin and flesh but for some reason we can’t seem to separate breasts and sexual tension.
I’ve been given a scolding on Instagram when I’ve accidentally had a nip-slip. It’s beyond ridiculous.
This platform can’t weed out racism but it can shut down a picture of a nipple. And the inequality is there for all to see.
We’re quite happy for men to parade around revealing their saggy boobs.
We admire the taut pecs of the men on Love Island on our TV screens every night. But if a woman goes topless, all hell breaks loose.
She will not only be judged for the size, shape and condition of her boobs, they will be regarded with noisy, sexual overtones.
Women have been reduced to being nothing more than two mammary glands. My own breasts have had quite the journey.
Originally big enough to enter a room some minutes before the rest of my body, I detested them.
I longed to have them reduced. Then, at the age of 41, I finally had the opportunity.
It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Going against convention at the time, I was desperate for small breasts. While every other woman appeared to have theirs enlarged, I marched into my surgeon’s clinic and pleaded with him to give me “a pair of Kate Mosses”.
I wanted breasts more akin to bee stings, small enough not to require a giant hammock to contain them, which was giving me back pain and round shoulders. I had to compromise with a slightly bigger pair to suit my frame, but that surgery changed my life and improved my relationship with my body.
As I look around me now, all I see are young women with big, unrealistic, solid, surgically enhanced breasts. I look at Katie Price, who has had so many breast surgeries I’m sure even she has lost count, and I see what can only be described as two unnatural, deeply uncomfortable watermelons forced under her skin.
Those things are weapons of mass destruction and look vile. So for men to accuse Florence of having “tiny t*ts” is not just insulting but also a telling sign of the times.
Women are expected to have perky, pert, round, plentiful breasts that sit where they’re supposed to, command attention and invite sexual provocation. It’s all so wrong.
We should be lauding Pugh for her naturalness, her confidence and her determination to take pride in her body. It’s a thing of unadulterated beauty, inspiring and empowering.
But women are, of course, more than just their bodies. They are so much more than just their breasts.
So I intended to carry on my crusade to free the nipple and release the boob — all while admiring my own little fried eggs. Do feel free to join me.
All natural? Who does Kim think that she’s kidding?
AS the owner of probably the most-photographed body in the world, Kim Kardashian loves showing it off at every given opportunity.
Granted, it’s voluptuous, smooth and curvy. Perhaps even flawless.
Her face is unblemished and never appears to age. Getting older definitely suits her.
But I laughed so hard when she claimed she’s had no cosmetic surgical interventions, no fillers and only “a little bit of Botox”.
We’ll have to take her word for it. But no one can deny there appear to have been some changes to her body and her face over the years.
Having “work done” has become normalised. There is no shame in it.
We can disagree about the results or the need for it.
But if she’s had work done she should tell the truth.
With a social media following of more than 300million, Kim must be frank.
She is a role model to many. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we valued honesty more than aesthetics? Be more frank, I say.
Worst pain in the world
THE loss of a child is the worst grief a parent can endure.
But the loss of a newborn must add yet another layer to your mourning.
It’s the loss of the unknown, the loss of hope and possibility, and the absence of reward for enduring nine months of pregnancy.
News that Lauren Goodger had lost her newborn daughter Lorena this week, at just two days old – and only days after Lauren’s ex-boyfriend Jake McLean was killed in a car crash – was overwhelming and shocking.
Stillbirths and the death of newborns is so rarely talked about and shared.
I don’t know if that is because people subconsciously feel the loss is somehow less because so little time was spent with the child.
Or if people are somehow willing to accept that childbirth always presents certain dangers.
And yet, as with miscarriage, these bereavements represent every bit as devastating a loss as any other.
I don’t know how you recover from losing a child, whatever their age.
I sincerely hope I never have to endure it.
And I can only hope Lauren and her partner Charles Drury take their time, surround themselves with kind people and then, when they are ready, shine a light on their bereavement so the rest of us can get better at talking about it and learn how to empathise more deeply.
This heat is murder for dogs
ONCE again we find ourselves in the middle of a heatwave.
A national emergency has been declared and a red extreme heat warning has been issued for the first time.
As I write this, I am possessed by lethargy. Every step feels like wading through molasses.
In the days when I lived in our overpopulated capital – in a compact, one-bedroom flat with no ventilation – I would refer to spells like this as “murder weather”.
I knew, in a flash, at the merest hint of irritation, I might not be responsible for my actions. The heat would always get to me.
And with every day that passes, there is hectoring from the authorities about how we must do all we can to avoid getting heat exhaustion or, worse still, heatstroke – which could cause permanent damage to our organs and even lead to death. I know they mean well.
But surely we all know by now to keep hydrated, stick to the shade, do our best to stay cool, avoid over-exertion and check on the vulnerable?
The advice feels a bit “nannying”. But while we know what we ought to do to look after ourselves – and I worry less these days about committing a crime, I worry considerably more about my four-legged furry friend Leo, my bulldog.
He’s a brachycephalic breed (flat-faced and short of nose). Breeds such as his really struggle in anything over 18C.
As a consequence, I don’t walk him in anything above that temperature.
But I am infuriated daily when I see people out walking their dogs – paws forced to endure burning hot Tarmac, thick fur insulating them and forcing their body temperature up.
Dogs do not sweat like humans and their overheating can be harder to spot.
They can take a turn for the worse in next to no time.
It is a fallacy to think you have to walk your dog every day.
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Your dog won’t die from you not walking him.
But in this exceptional heat, he or she could very well die if you do.