A damaging dream of Mad Men's Joan

When it comes to the ideal female body-shape the pipe cleaner is out, the hourglass is in – or at least it will be if the new equalities minister, Lynne Featherstone, manages to chisel out her will on the perfect body image.

"In the autumn the minister will convene the first of a series of roundtable discussions with members of the fashion industry, including magazine editors, models and advertisers, to discuss how to boost body confidence among the young," the Sunday Times reported yesterday.

One might think that one of the first steps to boost such confidence might be to abolish school weigh-ins and make puppy fat a normal rite of passage rather than the subject of a health warning via the National Child Measurement Programme. (Can any woman think of anything more likely to have produced a fear of being on the chunky side than turning up to school one morning and being plonked on a set of scales? If that's not going to make you skip your Dairylea dunker as a lass and develop a lifelong fear of bread, one wonders if a picture of Kate Winslet's thighs is going to do it.)

"All women have felt that pressure of having to conform to an unrealistic stereotype, which plagues them their whole life." Featherstone explained. "It is not just the immediate harm; it is something that lasts a lifetime."

And you might think Featherstone had a point – it is after all, pretty demoralising looking at image after image of Naomi Campbell after Keira Knightley after Eva Mendes and not feeling as though the jam doughnut you just stuffed in your mouth wasn't really so irresistible after all – but then Lynne goes and recommends that we now need a new set of curvaceous role models, to replace all the whippet-thin ones, like Christina Hendricks, who plays Joan in Mad Men.

So I'm sitting here, with my images of Joan, and I'm feeling a little queasy. I'm thinking even if I eat 12 doughnuts, my hips are never going to bloom out like that. What is she wearing, some sort of side bustle? Has she got pads on under there? There she is, Joan, with her immaculately coiffed red hive of a hairdo – while the Hill barnet looks like someone's just rubbed it very fast with a balloon. Joan's embonpoint is so formidable it could have your eye out – and the Hill eyes stare down at the Hill chest and command the Hill fingers to Google "conical bras – Madonna – Girlie Tour". Joan is encased in the best dress money can buy. The Hill wardrobe looks askance at the Hill wallet and sees a moth fly out.

It's time to get the point, Lynne. The Hill ain't ever going to look like Joanie. Giving the British woman Joanie as a role model is never going to make her feel good. At least Kate Moss's hair sometimes stands on end. At least Cindy Crawford's got a damn mole. If we're talking about images of unattainable perfection, Joanie, with her hips, bust and stature could take home a newly-invented Nobel for the accolade. Oh sure, she looks like she could pack a few Big Macs – although I'm sure Featherstone would warn us against those – but as an ideal she is quite as unattainable as any other. Her BMI, in fact, is precariously near that of a model's – at 5 foot 8 and 140 pounds it works out as 21.3 (according to Joanie's driving licence). In other words, she's the equivalent of an old-fashioned perfect 10.

Rather than replacing the old impossible images with new impossible images (as the creative director of Harper's Bazaar pointed out, the fashion industry exists to create the fantasy you'll never live up to) an equalities minister should throw out all notions of obsessing about feminine beauty and concentrate on helping young girls think about the size of their achievements rather than the flatness of their navels, and the scale of their ambitions rather than – in Joanie's case – the rather spectacular power of their bosoms.

Anna Kavan

Issue 188
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Anna Kavan: Undergound novelist who shot 'bazookas' in her veins and lived a life of multiple identities

By Emily Hill

It's time to cut this purposeless prince

In many ways, Prince Charles is like that other famous royal, King Knut, except instead of doing anything so useful as retiring to the seaside to order the tide to turn back, the Prince of Wales sits, enthroned at his desk, red in face and big of ear, emitting his own, personal vowel ‘aiiiiieeeeyyy’ as he searches for a felicitous phrase, writing letters, and striving, hard as he might, to reinstitute the feudal system. Last year, he wrote 2662 personal letters – an average of 51 a week.

‘Plough my way through a backlog of letters’, reads Prince Charles’s diary (as told to Craig Brown in Private Eye this week). ‘The first is to the Chairman of “Tesco”, suggesting that to replace his “fleet” of “lorries”, etc, for the good old-fashioned horse-and-cart would represent a tremendous saving on fossil fuel, as well as being infinitely better for the environment and perhaps he would care to drop round to Clarence House to discuss it? It’s so often the “personal touch” that swings these people round to a more enlightened point of view.’

This is only a jot more absurd than Charles’s actual scrawlings – apparently known as ‘black spider memos’ in Whitehall because of his handwriting. He revels in his reputation for being a ‘stirrer’ and a ‘dissident’ and in February used an annual conference at St James’s Palace to declare: ‘I was accused once of being the enemy of the Enlightenment, I felt rather proud. I thought hang on a moment, the Enlightenment started over 200 years ago. It might be time to think again and review it and question whether it is really effective in today’s conditions.’

Shaky ground for the dimwitted scion of Windsor to be getting onto – for if the ideals of the Enlightenment seem out-of-date to Charles on the basis that they are over 200 years old, how on earth must he view himself, whose entire position on society depends on the retention of a thousand-year-old system of hereditary monarchy.

Why does the nation continue to have to listen to his gubbins? Last week, it was revealed that he is still on an income many times that of the much-maligned former head of Royal Bank of Scotland, Fred ‘the Shred’ Goodwin – and yet when Charles turned up for a walkabout at Glastonbury, at no point did anyone smash his car up or threaten to make him dead, like they did with the Shred before he went into hiding. Charles’ entertainment bill makes an MPs’ expense claims look like petty cash, but rather than the tabloids roaring, they all seemed to acquiesce to a Clarence House press mantra that the Prince of Wails was now a ‘cut price Prince’.

‘Thrifty Charles slashes his costs’, ran the splash on the front cover of the London Evening Standard. ‘Prince gets half as much from the state… and pays more tax’. In his latest statement of accounts, the Prince received a mere £1.664million from the taxpayer – down from £3.033million the year before. His spending on official duties was cut from £12.5million to £10.7million. Considering that a ‘greedy, overpaid’ footballer who just ‘lost us the World Cup’, such as Wayne Rooney, or the ex-England star David Beckham will cause far more excitement in Japan than balding, charmless Charles will, where was the interrogation of the idea that he needs any of this money at all - especially when the Duchy of Cornwall, creamed him in £17.2million? The list of Charles’s ‘savings’ should make anyone in their right mind blench.

Whilst MPs have become national hate figures after it was revealed that some had claimed for duck houses, wisteria removal and moat cleaning on expenses, why is no-one spitting about the fact that Charles spent £6.3million on staff costs alone last year, so the Prince could continue to getting his newspaper ironed by a valet? Staring at a list of his domestic help alone makes Sarah ‘Fergie’ Ferguson start to look like a slightly more useful human being.

Asked whether Charles couldn’t fund a few more of his overseas trips without the public purse, his private secretary, Sir Michael Peat sniffed, ‘There’s not a lot of slack in the income. We are already diverting 90 per cent. I suppose we could get the prince and duchess to eat one fewer meal a day.’ What an excellent idea. Now MPs are sleeping in the House of Commons after their second home allowance was scrapped, this seems pretty reasonable. Perhaps the Prince could learn how to boil an egg himself or open a tin of biscuits.

The continuing existence of the hereditary system is an insult – and not just because Charles is heir to the throne. Along with the House of Lords, it is a ludicrous anachronism. Last week, former defence minister John Gilbert told the House of Lords that if there were an elected second chamber, rather than a house full of former Blairites, hereditaries and wonks ‘you would get the sort of oik — and for Hansard’s benefit, oik is spelt OIK —that could not get into the Commons, Europe, the Scottish Parliament or the Welsh Assembly and probably not into a half-decent county council. That is the sort of oik you would have here. That is barmy.’ He then added that he had ‘no intention of standing for a seat in your Lordships’ House for the simple reason that I know perfectly well I would not get elected’.

Would Charles be elected if the position of Head of State went before the people on the death of the Queen? I think not. Charles has all the charm of a wooden post. With all the talk about sacrifices that have to be made during the recession, perhaps cutting the cut-price Prince might be amongst the most painless.

Terrible drivers of the world unite!

I am a terrible driver. When I was 18 I failed the test three times for putting my foot down through red lights, driving straight over roundabouts and crashing into wing mirrors, whilst fighting the urge to scratch my own skin off. However, Ozzy Osbourne's diary for The Spectator this morning is infinitely more amusing than any of that:

"I'm a much better driver than I used to be - mainly 'cos I ain't on a lethal combination of mind-altering drugs 24 hours a day any more. I remember on one occasion in the 1970s,l around the time my old band Black Sabbath was just taking off, I tried to calm my nerves before taking one of my many [- 19] driving tests by taking a fistful of sedatives then smoking my way through half a brick of Afghan hash. It relaxd me, all right: when I stopped at the first red light, I nodded off. By the time I finally woke up, a little red-faced bloke from the DVLA was whacking me over the head with his clipboard and shouting, 'FAIL!'"

Farewell Sebastian Horsley: a true bohemian

Sebastian Horsley, artist and wit, who once crucified himself in the Philippines and wrote a superb memoir, Dandy in the Underworld, in which he exhibited his sinister and glittdring bons mots, was found dead on Thursday morning of a suspected heroin overdose. If, when the news gets round, the policemen wear black cotton gloves and there are crepe bows on the white necks of the public doves, Horsley would be worthy of the tribute – his attention to sartorial detail was second to none. The stovepipe hat of the man who ran up a £10,000 bill with his tailor and modelled for Comme des Garçons will be sorely missed.

Last time I mentioned Sebastian Horsley here was in an article bemoaning the slow demise of the English eccentric. Many an outraged commenter suggested that Horsley was not eccentric, only idiotic, and a hopeless artist to boot. Bill Drummond would be a better example, Lord Bath, Brian Sewell …

But what was so wonderful about Horsley was that, whether he was any good or not, he was striving, very hard, to make his life something more than a nine-to-five grind, to chisel his quips until they hit the funny bone, to live in a flat filled with skulls if he wanted to, to take his totally miserable childhood and make of it the antithesis of a misery memoir: "This is the perfect book for every fey, victimised 20-year-old with dyed black hair in your family," said the New York Review of Books. He had a larger view:

"You may look back on your life and accept it as good or evil. But it is far, far harder to admit that you have been completely unimportant; that in the great sum of things all a man's endless grapplings are no more significant than the scuttlings of a cockroach. The universe is neither friendly nor hostile. It is merely indifferent. This makes me ecstatic."

In the words of Jeremy Vine, he was "a pervert who stands for everything that is wrong with British society today". He was the symbol of seamy old Soho, when the whole wonderful place was full of foul behaviour rather than chain restaurants. He claimed to have slept with over 1,000 prostitutes and to have worked as one himself at one time.

Reviews for the stage adaptation of his book, Dandy in the Underworld, a one-man play currently showing at the Soho Theatre (starring Milo Twomey as Horsley), have not been good. "For much of the 80-minute monologue this is every queeny, smart-ass undergraduate poser you have ever edged away from at a party (and then spent the night feeling guilty about, in case your rejection is the last straw and he jumps out of the window)," said the Times's new theatre critic, Libby Purves, with unfortunate timing.

But the posers of Purves's youth probably didn't have Horsley's sense of humour. After being crucified, and falling off the cross because his foot support broke (it was sheer luck that someone was there to catch him before the nails ripped right through his hands), he wrote in his diary:

"There is no question in my mind. I have been punished by a god I don't believe in and he has thrown me off the cross for impersonating his son, for being an atheist, and for being a disaster. I have made a complete fool of myself. I am going to be a laughing stock. The film will end up on Jeremy Beadle."

In an age of corporate press releases touting Lady Gaga's latest outfit and the betting odds on Cheryl Cole's latest beau joining Strictly Come Dancing, Horsley was a blessed relief. Totally obscure, totally weird; always interesting, always funny. Deported from the United States on the grounds of moral turpitude, banned from Germany, objecting to Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ on the grounds that the actor didn't have to haul about the cross like he did – he was the diary reporter's secret valentine.

Horsley may have died pretty much destitute and denounced as a mediocrity, but in this, he's in good company. So did Van Gogh, Caravaggio, Vermeer, Rembrandt … all feted only after their deaths. His book, at least, is due to be made into a film by Stephen Fry's production company, and as with the death of any artist nowadays, the price of his works will surely rocket. The saddest thing, though, is that Horsley won't be around to see it. Only last month, he was proudly saying of the new one-man play, "You realise all people will be saying every night is: 'Who's that cunt in the front row with the top hat on? I can't see a fucking thing.'"

Except now, of course, they won't.

Two Thunderbirds versus Colonel Blinky

As we approach the 9 June deadline for nominations, the battle for the leadership of the UK Labour Party is getting about as exciting as a wrestling match in which combatants are only able to flex their facial muscles.

By that rationale, David Miliband, possessed of a face made of pure eggshell plasticine, is already winning the bout. The former foreign secretary now has the most nominations (57) and has claimed that he would use his own vote to aid a rival candidate if he or she couldn’t get on to the ballot slip without him. In the words of Diane Abbott, the Labour MP for Hackney who stands little chance of gaining the 33 supporters she needs to go forward, even with Dave’s sympathy vote: ‘I looked at the frontrunners, all male, all white, all former policy wonks, and it just seemed wrong.’ The Daily Telegraph’s political editor, Benedict Brogan, added that the gruesome foursome (two Milibands, Balls and a Burnham) are, in fact, so interchangeable that ‘Westminster is having fun with rumours that they once even shared a girlfriend’.

Despite these exciting rumours of woman-swapping, Burnham’s days as a contender look numbered, leaving us with a handy Venn diagram for those struggling to visualise the contest. After 13 years of New Labour, in which any hint of ideology was shunted in favour of the politics of personality and the cult of Blairism, the party now looks set to elect an individual (whether that individual happens to be named Ed or happens to be named Miliband) who has absolutely no personality whatsoever. In short, it’s going to be a contest between Two Thunderbirds and Commander Blinky, as the wooden Milibands make speeches with complex hand gestures that make them look as if their arms are attached to wires, and Ed Balls… well, can’t stop blinking.

As Baron Mandelson wrote in The Times recently, New Labour is entering a ‘new phase’. ‘It is about Labour not being a party of class or sectional interest, but about being a broad-based party of conscience and reform’, said Mandy. ‘An outlook that remains in tune with the priorities and ambitions of families across the country. Open, not tribal. Pluralist, not statist.’ Or as Blair once said: ‘Forward not back.’ Or as David Miliband has now added (summing up his launch speech on Twitter): ‘Labour must look outward and forward not inward and backward.’ Or as little Andy Burnham (a character so dynamic that I just had to pause typing, go cross-eyed and stare into the air before I could recall his name, along with the fact that he sometimes appears to be wearing mascara) would no doubt add, if anyone would listen to him, while holding hands in a ring with all his supporters, ‘You put your left leg in, left leg out, in out, in out, you shake it all about.’ In the Labour leadership, the political hokey cokey really is what it’s all about.

If I was a betting man (and being tight and female I am, of course, neither), I’d stake all my money on Ed Miliband. A controversial choice (or as controversial as you can get without plumping for the no-hoper John McDonnell) because his elder brother David is the more famous figure who has a greater number of supporters – but Ed strikes me as the only one of the contestants who might pull off photo opportunities with the sort of grinning confidence that Blair managed. You may not think this important – but believe me, under New Labour, it is vital. Alastair Campbell built the whole deal on little more than Tony, a sofa and a strategically handled mug. In 1995, Campbell and Peter Mandelson came to blows on the subject of whether Tony should or should not wear a tie to address young Labour activists. Gordon Brown’s striking inability to crack a grin in a normal, human fashion pretty much did him in. By the end he was gurning so much during his televised apology to Mrs Duffy that he looked like he’d done a fistful of pills and was suddenly hearing snatches of the beat.

Yes, the look of things is still vitally important to the pugnacious New Labour inner circle and its disciples. Only last weekend Campbell revealed his own particular appeal: ‘Somebody sent me a text about somebody else – they’re both well-known people. It said she was trying to put her finger on what she found so attractive about me. She said, “It’s the way he looks at you as if to say: I’d like to fuck you, but I just haven’t got the time.”’

Miliband the elder, of course, did himself in by being photographed brandishing a banana at the 2008 Labour Party conference. His complete disregard for the nuances of looking human before a camera has been a constant ever since. Along with his mangled prose, as seen in his articles that used to occasionally cause Westminster to choke on the old ‘Will He Won’t He Challenge Gordon?’ rigmarole, which always ended with the same answer: No, he won’t, and actually he’s expended a thousand words in the Guardian/The Times saying absolutely nothing. (An achievement, in one sense, but in others, downright scary. Multiple monkeys might after thousands of years be able to write the whole of Shakespeare, but could they churn out a manuscript that said diddly squat? Almost equally as tricky, in its own way.) Balls and Burnham, need I remind you, once frolicked on a swing. Balls, also, cannot skip. He spent 10 years slavishly following Gordon Brown and the last few weeks trying to deny this fact. And everybody hates him.

Yes, really, Ed Miliband is the only one amongst the Eds and Milibands who hasn’t, yet, been photographed looking like a complete plonker. It may be only a matter of time, but for that reason he has my vote. (Not literally, of course: were I really a part of the Labour grassroots I’m sure I’d feel honour-bound to pour paraffin and a match on my own ballot paper and stand well back.)

I would like to note that this article was written over week ago and only just published. Key supporters of David Miliband and Ed Balls opted to support Diane Abbott and Andy Burnham respectively - meaning both politicians are now in the running. The ballot for nominations closed just after 12.30 today.

Londoner's Diary

On Friday 4th June, I edited the Londoner's Diary. See selected gossip below.

Mandy cancels Hay premiere of his own film
LORD Mandelson may have named his forthcoming autobiography, The Third Man, after a celluloid classic but it seems he is far less keen on appearing on film himself. Hannah Rothschild’s fly-on-the wall documentary, The Real PM: A Portrait of Peter Mandelson, was due to premiere at the Hay Festival today but has been withdrawn at the eleventh hour “on the insistence of the subject”.

In January I revealed that the Prince of Darkness had submitted his dark arts to the cameras — letting Ms Rothschild film him for the previous three months as the centrepiece of a documentary on both his political and private lives. Perhaps Mandelson now worries that the film will detract from all the publicity surrounding his book.

Certainly, Ms Rothschild, the brains behind the documentary, will remain close to Mandy’s heart. An award-winning independent filmmaker and writer who has made documentaries for the likes of the BBC and HBO, she is the daughter of Lord Rothschild — a friend of Mandelson who is, of course, a regular at the family villa in Corfu. Roths-child’s other recent subjects include socialite Nicky Haslam and painter Frank Auerbach and she is a trustee of the National Gallery, making her a natural person for Mandy to confide in.

“All tickets will be refunded,” a spokesman for Hay tells worried Mandy-lovers. The replacement event will be a preview of the new film, One Night in Turin, which tells the story of the Italia ’90 World Cup. Mandy the Movie will have to wait. Whatever revelations can there be in store?

Prince Philip picks climate change sceptic for RSA talk
HAS Prince Philip put his foot in it again, or is he just teasing Prince Charles? His recent choice of speaker for the RSA President’s lecture at the Royal Society for the Encouragement of the Arts seems to place him firmly in the opposite camp to his eldest son when it comes to global warming.

As president of the RSA, Prince Philip was entitled to choose a speaker for its annual lecture last month but his first choice, Ian Plimer, professor of mineral geology at Adelaide University, was rejected by the society on the grounds that he has caused too much controversy in Australia. Plimer’s book, Heaven and Earth, says that global warming is the biggest, most damaging and ruinously expensive con trick in history, a view at odds with Philip’s position as President Emeritus of the World Wildlife Fund, which claims the polar bear is vulnerable to climate change.

Plimer was replaced by Danish professor Björn Lomborg, whose latest book, Cool It, denies the imminent demise of polar bears.

“I suspect Prince Philip just wants to get a discussion going,” says Luke Johnson, chairman of the RSA.

Monty Don mourns his BBC sacking
Insurrection at Hay. Festival director Peter Florence has asked for festival goers to bombard Mark Thompson, director general of the BBC, with letters to complain about the pulling of Monty Don’s last BBC2 show, Mastercrafts, which featured blacksmiths and thatchers explaining their niche trades.

Don, left, gardener and head of the Soil Association, movingly described the depression he had been suffering from during a talk yesterday, before revealing that the BBC has dispensed with his services as a presenter.

“Dream Farm will certainly be done without me because I haven’t been asked and I learned yesterday that Mastercrafts is not going to be repeated or renewed,” said Don. “I’m pretty devastated.”

Daphne's bare-faced cheek
DAPHNE Guinness, above, showed a lot of front (and rear) at the private view for Antony Gormley: Test Sights at the White Cube Gallery last night. She went on to combine high fashion with high society at the dinner to celebrate the great Picasso biographer, John Richardson, at 87 Lucian Freud’s oldest friend. Sir Howard Hodgkin was the éminence grise at the gathering in Spencer House, thrown by gallerist Larry Gagosian. Sir Nicholas Serota conversed with Mick Jagger; Jacob Rothschild with artist Jenny Saville. Let’s hope Guinness’s gown didn’t distract anyone from their loin of rose veal.

Elephant art raises £200k
A taste of India came to London last night as artist Sacha Jafri auctioned a series of paintings in aid of The Elephant Family, as part of the 2010 Elephant Parade that’s been taking London by storm.

Hosted by Tamara Beckwith and Amanda Kyme and funded by Tanaz Dizadji, the party was held in the Covent Garden home of Dutch computer tycoon Jan Mol. Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and Mark Shand, brother of the Duchess of Cornwall, were both in ecstasies about the elephants.

“I heard that Mark called his first elephant Tara,” said TPT. “The only time I touch ivory is when I play the piano, though.”

“The elephant Gerald is painted by Johnny Yeo,” said Shand. “If you look closely at the leaves they’re a little pornographic — the leaves are body parts. We put Gerald in the street to start off with but we had outraged calls from people, so we moved him to Selfridges. But then I got a call saying he had to be moved immediately. So Gerald is now seen by appointment only in our offices.”

The auction raised £200,000 in total. Heather Kerzner bought a painting for £20,000.

* COMMUNITIES Secretary Eric Pickles is seen as providing some social balance to a Cabinet top- heavy with ex-public schoolboys. But his credentials have taken a knock from the Opinium Research survey which gives 13 questions as a guide to poshness. More than three yeses and you are on your way. “For a working-class lad I scored a worrying eight,” says Pickles. “Thank goodness I don’t have an Aga.”

* OSCAR-winning MP Glenda Jackson briefly considered running for the Labour leadership, I hear. The 74-year-old, who won her Hampstead and Kilburn seat with a majority of just 42, said she weighed up her options after being approached by colleagues. “People were asking me to stand but I haven’t put my name forward,” she says. “At the time I thought about it there were two reasons — a lack of female candidates and people saying ‘you should put your name up’. But I want to focus on my new constituency. I’ve got no plans for a late bid.”

Peer seeks Hackney virgin
DAVID Boyle, economist, author and Lib-Dem policy wonk, recalled a meeting with one of David Cameron’s newly appointed lords. “Lord X of Hackney, shall we say, asked me what he could do as a peer,” recounted Boyle at a talk at the Hay Festival yesterday. “And I said, ‘there’s always droit de seigneur’” — the mediaeval right of a lord to take the virginity of girls on his estate. “‘What, in Hackney?’ replied the lord.” As the new peers have yet to take up their titles with locations, we look forward to seeing who picks Hackney.

04 June 2010 12:25 PM