You Know You 're Old When Your Face Needs Shearing

This morning, I finally succumbed. 

I knew I eventually would, and that, when I did, it would mark the real end of middle age and the beginning of old.

   

For months, I have been watching the TV commercials on both sides of the Atlantic: gorgeous women with beatific smiles, promising a transformation with a little electronic device and “virtually no pain” (being a coward, that “virtually” was what had been holding me back) and, at £200, a bargain.

   

Yes, I bought a NoNo and, after breakfast, set about shaving my face that has turned into a fleece.

   

I’ve never had what one could call a bald face. From puberty, the black hair on my upper lip made me look like Hitler’s less attractive transsexual brother, and there has always been a touch of the orang-utan about me from the knees down.

   

But I managed to keep it under wraps, thanks to the hair remover Immac on my face and a Gillette double bladed razor on my legs. Men never noticed, because if I thought I was in with a chance, I always de-haired before leaving the house. Most of the time, my efforts were in vain; either the men never materialised, or they were too drunk to notice if they were sleeping with a yeti.

   

More hair started to appear in my late Forties and, in my early Fifties, I started to buy 10x magnifying mirrors just so that I could keep a careful eye on facial events. And I mean events. Suddenly, there were concerts of hairs competing for space and, on my chin, a particularly vicious black hair that rose from its pore like a Vesuvius of devastation.

   

Immac had, by now, changed its name to Veet. I’ve never really understood name changes on products. When the canine food Mister Dog changed its name to Cesar, they printed on the tin “previously known as Mr Dog”. If it hadn’t worked as Mr Dog, why remind consumers of the failure? I never ate another Opal Fruit when they became Star Bursts. And what was wrong with the word Marathon, before it was changed to Snickers, which sounded like a smelly shoe?

   

I just don’t know about Veet. I’m not at all sure it is as powerful as its predecessor, but maybe that’s a good thing. I recall a date I had with a TV comedian 20 years ago and decided to remove my Hitler disguise before dinner. It all but stripped my skin from the nose down. I tried everything to restructure the damage, but everything just made it worse. Eventually, donning at least 20 layers of foundation, I made it to Soho’s Red Fort restaurant, where I was indistinguishable from the Tandoori on my plate. He never called again.

   

The Veet stripper has done a pretty good job of de-fleecing my jawbone, and so I tried it all over my face. It was incredibly effective, even if I had to spend the day looking like a premature newborn. So I thought the NoNo might be the answer: a little contraption that promises to remove all unwanted hair, both for men and women. In addition to the “virtually no pain” (How much is “virtually”? I screamed at my TV screen), the price seemed ridiculous (“NoNoNoNoNoNo!”), especially as I could accumulate a lot of Superdrug points by stocking up on Veet, but I succumbed when I saw it at the reduced price of £170 in the British Airways magazine on a flight.

   

I knew not to start shaving after a few champagnes and wake up with no eyebrows and a Mohican, hence my breakfast appointment with my new toy.

   

I read the instructions very carefully. I knew it was working, they said, because there would be a smell of burning. Eh? I was prepared for the pain, but burning? After half an hour, I was rather enjoying it, until I realised I had the roller round the wrong way and the contraption had not actually been operating.

   

Then I started. And couldn’t stop. Staring into my ultra-magnifying mirror, I decided that never had so hairy a woman ever walked the face of the planet, and it all had to go. Roll up, roll down, roll across, figure of eight. Neck, cheeks, forehead, moustache, jaw . . . the NoNo slalom was never going to end. And what’s an eyebrow here or there.

   

My face is now as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and I am very pleased with the results, even if the smoke alarm battery needs replacing. The treatment has not, however, touched my moustache, and the black hair is proving as stubborn as Hitler, so it’s back to the supermarket to stock up on Veet.

   

At my age now, though, I’m almost beyond caring. The men who are interested are so short-sighted they won’t see it anyway, and the others are dead.

   

It’s what I call a NoNo Win situation.  

Don't Mention the J Word

Journey. 

It’s the dreaded J word you can never escape here. There are whole sections of bookshops devoted to the personal growth Journey, and everyone’s on one. Or had one. Or is looking for one. Or is on one but wants a different one.

   

I’ve tried to get myself a Journey, I really have; but it’s more of a stop and go affair. While others extol the virtues of yoga, meditation and self-help books, I just don’t seem to be able to clock up the spiritual Air Miles in the endlessly optimistic, upbeat world that is Hollywood. I like the shallowness.

   

A friend recommended that I read Eckhart Tolle, whose books come highly recommended by Oprah Winfrey. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have gone near him; his beard lies in a half-crescent at the bottom of his face, as if he was caught mid-shaving when the doorbell rang and forgot to return to the bathroom mirror.

   

His basic premise is that we spend too much time dwelling on the past and the future and miss the joy of the present. Quite why it takes him 236 pages to say that is anybody’s guess, and nothing contained therein gives any indication as to the difficulties of implementing the philosophy.

   

I thought that with my dwindling finances, the chapter headed “Mind Strategies for Avoiding the Now” might prove particularly useful.

  

 “Tomorrow’s bills are not the problem,” states Mr Tolle. If I make them so, I am apparently holding on to a “core delusion” and turning a “mere situation, event or emotion” into a personal problem, which is the real cause of the suffering.

   

I tried it out with my bank manager, who is curious to know when my overdraft might be paid back.

   

Right, the thing is, I explained: what we have here is not a problem, it is a mere situation, and if you were to free yourself from yours, and the bank’s imprisonment in psychological time, you would start to see my debt in a different way. In fact, you would begin to see it as something in which to be joyous, because it is of the moment, the now; in losing the Now, you are losing your essential loss of Being, which is a common problem the egoic mind faces when it takes over from presence being your dominant state. Okay?

   

He said I still have to pay back my overdraft.

   

I hoped that “Ganeesha speaks” online would give me a kick start, as he/she/it promised to tell me how a solar eclipse was going to change my life forever.

   

The sun, it explained, was about to become overpowered by the moon; “this rare event”, it told me, was going to “increase your problems manifold”. And they weren’t just going to be problems; they were going to be “problems of astronomical proportions.” It got better. “You, in particular, will be grossly out of luck.”

   

Gee, thanks. You have a good day, too.

   

On La Brea in West Hollywood, almost every other shop is a psychic. Everyone tells me that I cannot possibly live here without one and they are stunned that I do. So I walked up to a doorway offering a $10 reading.

   

I was greeted by a disinterested girl of about 18. “What d’you want?”

   

“Well, what is there?”

   

“Tarot, palm, crystal ball, eye.”

   

“Okay, I’ll have the eye.”

   

“You want me to read your eyeball? That’s $45.”

   

“But your sign says that you’re doing a $10 deal.”

   

“Yeah, that’s a palm reading.”

  

 “Okay, I’ll have one of those.”

   

“To be honest, it’s not very accurate.”

   

As trips go, I feel this is going to be a long one, but I’m going to persevere. I may be on the hard shoulder at the moment, but I can sense a service station coming up. There always is. 

And not knowing exactly when is all part of the J word.



This blog first appeared in the Expat column of The Oldie 300th issue

Nicole Scherzinger, Me and (no) Knickers

Underwear. 

What’s that all about, eh? I’ve never been a big fan and, for the last 25 years, haven’t worn any.

     

I haven’t been trying to make any big feminist statement; I just worked out that, in a lifetime, if you work out how long it takes you to buy it, fit, it, wash it, get it on and off, tell men where the hooks are, unhook yourself when the men are incompetent . . . Honestly, I reckon that in an average lifespan, I could save eight years.

    

Nicole Scherzinger made the headlines today because she wasn’t wearing any underwear. No one has ever written about my not doing that. Maybe it is because she is more beautiful (can’t see it, myself - JOKE!); maybe it is because she has more to show (honestly, I am gorgeous). Who knows.

    

But why is the lack of underwear such a big deal?

    

I have never understood it. I came from a family where my mother would have hired a parachute to stop anyone seeing my ankle on the beach. I was lucky if I made it into the sea before dusk because of the complicated towel arrangement she engineered to prevent anyone seeing my four year old nipples.

    

One hot summer’s day after school, I was way too hot, so took my dress off and walked home in my petticoat. Cars stalled in horror. At home one evening, I came downstairs in just my vest and no pants when my parents were entertaining my father’s boss for dinner. I was just seven, but I swear that an escape from Alcatraz could not have set off more alarms.

    

I stopped wearing bras around the age of 20. I read a great deal of material about the zero incidences of breast cancer in countries where they are not worn. Science and medicine are split on the issue, but I stopped using chemical deodorants for the same reasons – I just felt it odd to have anything preventing and/or constricting natural blood flow in incredibly delicate areas. I am not going to play doctor and pretend that I know it if is right or not; it just felt right for me. Research it for yourselves.

    

I stopped wearing knickers because they are, quite simply, pointless. If you are a man and you need to secure your gear before setting off for work of a morning, fine; but come on, girls, why are you wearing them? If guys like a lacy number on a night out, great (just make sure they foot the bill, for the undies AND the restaurant); but why would you wear them otherwise?

    

I wash all my clothes after wearing them once, so it’s not as if knickers are protecting me from any lurking horrors in my trousers or tights. I’m not incontinent, so don’t need them as a drainage unit. Seriously, ladies – what is the point of knickers?

    

I confess to having spent a great number of my rugby watching days getting my kit off for the lads. I am way too old to be doing that now (give or take a pint of Stella or three) but, when I did said kit-getting-off, at least the guys never had to wait long for the show while I struggled with superfluous material (by which time, we would all have sobered up and not fancied each other anyway).

    

Unless you are a man sporting a picnic hamper. underwear is nothing more than a social nicety or a fashion accessory; but it is utterly superfluous to requirements. 

Especially when it's a drunken bloke trying to get it off you.

  

  

Simon Cowell, Judge Alex and George Clooney - Consummate Gentlemen

Gorgeous George. 

What can I say. You are, undoubtedly, beautiful, even though I confess to having had a much bigger passion for Dr Mark Greene (Anthony Edwards) when you were in ER together.

I also confess to having a much bigger passion for (at any rate, this week) @judgealexferrer (Judge Alex) @gabrielmacht (Suits) @maxbeesley (Suits) @simoncowell (Son of God) . . . but I don’t in any way want to diminish my utter joy in meeting you on Saturday.

Charming, sweet, diffident – you are every bit the consummate superstar, without, in any way, being smarmy or false. I was/am smitten (and not in a I HAVE TO MARRY HARVEY SPECTER) kind of way.

Julia Roberts and suntanned Milky Way Harvey Wotsisname were not so forthcoming. When I asked George for a photo, he very politely declined but said he would oblige later, which he did. When I asked Julia and Milky Wotsit, they said they were looking for someone (ie someone else – not me). In the time it took them to turn me down, we could have done a photo shoot. On safari. For a month. I finally got Julia (reluctantly) later on and had to take the picture myself. 

In the words of her character in Pretty Woman: BIG MISTAKE.

   

It’s set off a bit of a debate among my showbiz friends here. Personally, I have no qualms going up to anyone and asking for an autograph or photo. The stars are there to publicise their wares and be photographed; they pose for photos; they set up “situations” with other stars that they know will make it into the papers. So don’t pick and choose who you want to be photographed with when you attend an event where photographs are all. DUH!

I have one journalist friend who expressed disbelief that I would go up to George; people on my table nearly expired with the same disbelief. 

WTF. He’s just a man.

   

Now, take Isla Fisher. Brilliant actor, beautiful woman and wife of genius Sacha Baron Cohen. I have met her on numerous occasions. I adore her. Admire her. And, before I took our picture, she asked where it was going to be used. I told her it was just for me – no Twitter, no Facebook, just for my album. And I will 100% honour that commitment. She was right to ask, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. Love her even more now.

   

Simon Cowell is the ultimate joy in this respect. He’s in the business and he knows the utter pleasure he gives to people in having their picture taken with him. He knows what it’s all about and who pays his salary – the public asking for a photo. More to the point, he loves it. The showbiz. The adulation. 

That child in the womb has a great father awaiting it in the light. To be honest, I wish I was there.

   

I see so many stars who get it like Simon – Judge Alex Ferrer, Idris Elba, Tom Jones, Rob Brydon (names may be lost on friends either side of the Atlantic, but trust me!) . . . Stars who may not like being photographed by fans (and I have no idea whether they do or not) but know that this is the gig they signed up to.

If you don’t like the heat, get out of the limelight.

   

And I’m going to say it again, Julia. BIG MISTAKE.

Braving the Storm - My Life as a Chicken Drumstick Thief

As Britain prepares for “the worst storm since 1987”, which will apparently hit southern England and south Wales on Monday, I have been thinking back to that memorable day 26 years ago.

  

I had been in London for three years, signing on the dole and living a miserable existence gate-crashing events just to stuff my handbag full of the bread-crumbed chicken legs from the buffet, as I had hardly any money for food.

I used to arrive at events with a virtually empty bag in order to stock up for the week, and I also had a duffel coat in which I could pack a bottle of wine in each arm (apologies to the Reform Club cloakroom, by the way, when I forgot about the cache and put my arms in the sleeves, only to smash both bottles over the floor).

  

At this point in time, I had been TV critic of the London Evening Standard for eight months. I wrote five columns a week, watching TV all day, writing the column at midnight (by hand – I couldn’t afford a computer) and getting up at 7am to file to the copy-takers over the phone. Then, the sub-editor would ring me at eight to go over any corrections. I did that for nearly four years and it was gruelling – but great training.

  

On the day of the storm, my phone was not working. The TV was reporting the weather, but it never crossed my mind that every other journalist in London was in the same position as me, unable to file their copy (or, indeed, every employee whose phone line had been cut off).

  

I was hysterical. I was crying. I had been brought up with an incredibly strong work ethic: if you are late, behind with your work et al, it is NEVER, EVER your employer’s fault; you alone are responsible for getting your work in on time. My dad drummed that in to me from the year dot, and I have never missed a deadline as a result.

  

So, with copy in hand, I set off from my Belsize Park bedsit at 7am to walk to the Fleet Street offices – over four miles: in a storm, with wind, rain, branches falling on my head, fighting against the current. I was in fear of losing my job, of not fulfilling my duties; it never once occurred to me, I swear, that everyone else might be in the same position; I had a job to do, I was being paid to do it, and no natural disaster was going to get in the way of my doing that.

  

I wonder how many people – of any age – are instilled with that same work ethic today. I know many wonderful young people who do a great deal for their community and go unnoticed for their efforts; but I also know a great many others who, because of the lure of reality TV, are after the quick fix. They want to be famous, and they want to be famous now.

  

To them, fame is everything they think they want: lights, camera, action. Premieres, red carpets, the attentions of famous boy/girlfriends, money, fast cars, TV shows. Fast Fame has replaced Fast Food as the easiest – and, seemingly, cheapest – route to satisfaction, on the part of participants and consumers.

  

I receive many letters from young people asking me how to get into journalism and, in particular, how to become a TV critic, which is my area of expertise. In over 25 years, I can count on one hand the number who have even managed to spell my name correctly when they write. My view is: if you can’t even copy my name out of a newspaper, why do you think I would take the time to tell you how to take my job?

  

Many of the people in my working environment when we were all relatively young 30 years ago are at the top of their tree today, and many of us are still on the top branches. Boris Johnson is Mayor of London; Piers Morgan is anchor on CNN (I could name many others, but you know who they are). What they all have in common is not just fierce ambition, but an ability to harness that ambition and find increasingly new routes (because, in a changing society, you have to have adaptability) to see it realised.

  

There will always be storms. And wind. And rain. Literal and metaphorical. The survivors are still the ones who don their Wellingtons and brave the elements.

I am proud to be of the generation that learned – and continues to do – just that.

  

  

Binge Viewing is the New Black

The Binge Viewer is the new couch potato.

Forget the image of the sloth getting fatter on the sofa, the BV is an altogether more glamorous concept. A highly motivated, high energy, enthusiastic viewer, who doesn’t just love and watch TV but needs to share his/her views with others who have enjoyed the same experience. Where the couch potato was a loner, the BV is out to show just how much they are capable of consuming without tiring, and to out-rival all viewer competitors in that consumption. The BV is a greedy creature, but can chew TV up and spit it out at an alarming rate.

  

Binge viewing is the new black, and the two words that anyone who’s anyone in the TV industry is using now. Although, according to reports, 90% of people still watch TV in real time, increasing numbers of us are taking advantage of entire series being made available in one great feast, and gorging ourselves over hours, days, and even weeks.

  

The box set has been around for a long time. It was the thing people bought before Catch Up and On Demand, when they wanted a permanent memento of shows that had already been aired. Some bought box sets because they had missed key episodes and wanted to experience the narrative from start to finish.

  

But the trouble with box sets is that they are what they say on the tin: boxes. Having only just recently dispensed with my video library (what were those bricks all about, eh?) and replaced them with DVDs in boxes, I now find myself consigning them to the scrapheap too, in favour of storing everything online and running it, through a feed on my laptop, to my 50 inch TV screen. The pain in the neck is having to keep getting up if I wish to pause viewing, as my sofa is on the other side of the room from the equipment, but I’m sure there’s a geek working on that even as I write (the magic tool might even already be out there).

  

Box sets were undoubtedly the first generation of binge products; but now, a new generation of bingers is on the block, and Netflix is leading the way.

  

Netflix was the word on everyone’s lips at both this year’s Edinburgh Television Festival and the Cambridge Convention. Kevin Spacey, whose House of Cards was an original series made for Netflix, delivered the MacTaggart lecture at the former, while Netflix’s Chief Content Officer, Ted Sarandos, spoke at the latter. Sarandos said that he hopes spending on original programming to rise to 20% in the coming years (it is currently under ten).

 

I was one of many (Sarandos will not reveal numbers of viewers) who watched Kevin Spacey in Netflix’s first original series House of Cards. Based on Andrew Davies’s original UK 1990 series (based on the Michael Dobbs novel), starring Ian Richardson as ruthless politician Francis Urquhart (changed to Underwood for the US version), it is a feast of massive proportion. I watched the first eight episodes on my laptop from my bed one Saturday and the remainder via the feed to the TV the day after.

  

Binge viewing is a bizarre experience. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, go anywhere, or do anything else. I couldn’t even be bothered to cook. The production consumed me, not only for its extraordinary quality and Spacey’s breathtakingly brilliant performance (the man can do no wrong in my book), but because I lived within my own little bubble throughout, feeling protected from the the horrid things going on in the real world.

  

It could be said that the box set can deliver the same, but there is something very different about opening a box, putting on a DVD, and the experience of watching online, which has a greater fluidity. I have just finished watching another Netflix original series, Orange is the New Black, set in a women’s prison, and no sooner does one episode finish than a caption comes up saying “Your next episode will start in 10 seconds.” And so you’re hooked. What the heck, you think, now that it’s started, I might as well watch another one. Finally, I got to sleep at 5am, having found it impossible to tear myself away.

  

It is the sharing experience, however, that makes binge viewing online different from the old box set viewing. I can count on one hand the people I know who bought box sets, but the former has caught something unique: it is obviously not the shared experience as TV in real time, but it is shared in the medium that brings the message: the internet, the web we feel that links us all together, and it is this that creates the sensation of being part of a global viewing audience. Traditional viewers continue to talk about big shows such as The X Factor the morning after the night before; but the discussions about House of Cards are ongoing.

  

Someone once said at a television festival that we watch television as we die – alone. That, however, is what I love about binge viewing. I love to binge alone and I have a huge appetite. But then I like to meet other people to talk about what I had and how much I enjoyed it. Then, I’m onto the next feast to start the process all over again.

  

Kevin Spacey said at Edinburgh that we are entering a golden age of television, and he credited the viewers as the people who now hold the real power. We do. Increasingly, we can have what we want, when we want it. And not having to move from the sofa to open a box makes it all the more pleasurable.