Contents
Title Page
Introduction by Dawn O’Porter
Dedication
Maude Apatow
Edith Bowman
Amanda Byram
Melanie C
Amanda de Cadenet
Gemma Cairney
Sara Cox
James Dawson
Laura Dockrill
Jenny Eclair
Sophie Ellis-Bextor
Caroline Flack
Kristin Hallenga
Cherry Healey
Will Hill
Rufus Hound & Simitchell
Amy Huberman
Jameela Jamil
Maureen Johnson
Alex Jones
Marian Keyes
Annie Mac
Sarra Manning
Julie Mayhew
Davina McCall
Sarah Millican
Lee Monroe
Caitlin Moran
Patrick Ness
Erin O’Connor
Chris O’Dowd
Dermot O’Leary
Dawn O’Porter
Holly Baxter – The Vagenda
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett – The Vagenda
Victoria White
Laura Whitmore
Matt Whyman
Lara Williamson
Claudia Winkleman
Benjamin Zephaniah
Contributor Biographies
About the Charities
Thanks from Dawn O’Porter
Acknowledgements
Copyright
INTRODUCTION BY DAWN O’PORTER
I am obsessed with tits.
I stare at them – I can’t help it. I am the woman you catch glaring at your nipples in the gym changing room, and I find it almost impossible not to pass comment on a pair that I find attractive. It’s a perversion that I don’t bother trying to hide. Most of my female friends will tell you that I sneak a peek whenever I can. Skype me and I will flash you, then probably ask to be flashed back. Get changed at my house? Expect to be gawked at. I can’t help it. I just love them. Tits. BRRRRRRRR.
As well as my appreciation for the way they look, their function blows my mind. Having watched my sister’s children suckle from them and grow, I understand the value of their power. But I only have to let down the guard of my subconscious down for a millionth of a second to have my mind flurried with reminders that those fountains of life may also be the source of death. It’s a negative connotation I have learned to suppress enough for my love of boobs to be a true pleasure in my life, but it’s always there somewhere. I was six years old (two days off seven) when my mother died of breast cancer, on 21st January 1986. I am still full of questions about who my mother was, and why it happened. Everything I am stems from a fear of abandonment or the fear of history repeating itself, and at the age of thirty-four I can cry on demand if I dare think back to being six years old.
And now, still, boobs are scarcely off my mind. So off the back of the obsession I give you: The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs. An entire book about boobs. You. Are. Welcome!
What you are about to read is a vibrant mix of fact and fiction, prose and poetry. We have drawings too – even a photo of a feminist’s torso! When my publishers, Hot Key Books, gave the go ahead for this book, the brief was simple: ‘Get as many famous people as you can to write whatever they like about anything to do with boobs at any point in their life.’ So that’s what I did – I shamelessly approached everyone I had access to, and the result makes for brilliant reading.
What makes this even better is that proceeds from the sales of this book will be split between my three favourite breast cancer charities. I couldn’t decide which one of them to pick so I picked them all. We have Breast Cancer Care, Breakthrough Breast Cancer and CoppaFeel! So that’s care, research and awareness all covered. At the back of the book you can find out a bit more of what each charity does along with all of their contact details.
The thing about breast cancer is that if you catch it early, the chances of you being absolutely fine are very very high. Most breast cancers are found by self-examination, so before you start reading, please put down this book, lift up your top, and have a good feel of your boobs. Also at the back of the book is a step-by-step guide on how to check your boobs properly. Make it part of your routine, get to know how they feel so you know if anything changes. Who said groping couldn’t save lives?
Done? Great, let’s crack on …
Dedicated to … jugs, baps, tits, bangers, knorks, melons, airbags, Jedwards, funbags, flop-a-dops, over-the-shoulder boulder-holders, bozangers, wangers, jubblies, boobies, waps, Phil and Grant, Golden Globes, hooters, the Girls, cans, mollies, babylons, nip nips, chesticles, bazookas, Bristols …
I Am Fifteen, and Have Nothing Figured Out
MAUDE APATOW
I often wonder why I am so full of rage. I like to blame it on my boobs. I have always been mad at my boobs. When I was ten my aunt had just finished chemotherapy and my grandmother was dying of cancer. I didn’t have boobs then, but I already hated them because all I knew about them was that they fed babies and hurt people.
When I got boobs, I was ashamed of them and hid them. They also kind of grossed me out and I thought they made me look deformed. The first memories I have about my boobs are how I would constantly run into things and how it would hurt so badly that I would cry. I would also cry because it was like life was never going to be the same. In fourth grade, I was very nostalgic and emotional.
I used to think if I lay down on the marble floor, face down, maybe they would go away. I also liked the pain. I made myself cry, but I didn’t get up. I was so confused, I decided to torture myself. After doing that a few times, I was afraid they would pop or crack open (a horrifying thought) and stopped. That was when I first started getting nervous. I wish I could say that I’m over this and laugh at how at how neurotic and strange I was, but I am not any less confused now.
I feel like by sixth grade, mostly everyone had boobs, but it was hard to tell because a majority of my friends would hide them with baggy T-shirts. I invited four girls to sleep over at my house at the end of sixth grade. They were a lot more mature and comfortable with themselves than I was (and still am). I like to have more than one person at my house because I’m easily overwhelmed and offended, and so I could leave if I wanted to and it wouldn’t be as weird (still a little weird though). We watched the film Cabaret, which, I think, is what inspired the events that followed. I had only met these girls a couple of months prior to this night, so I was not comfortable with them at all (that has not changed). After the movie ended we were all in the room and a few minutes later, everyone was topless. I was not. They all started to yell at me to take off my shirt, but I said no. Then they cornered me and locked me in the bathroom with them. I closed my eyes because I didn’t need to see that. I felt their boobs touching my face and shoulders. They laughed and thought it was hilarious. It scarred me.
In middle school my friend had a crush on her neighbor. She kept track of the days he would go on jogs and on those days she would stand by her window and flash him. The details are sketchy and we aren’t sure if he ever even saw. I remember this enraged me. I told my parents right away because no one in my grade thought there was anything wrong with it.
There was a Bar or Bat Mitzvah almost every weekend in seventh grade. Thirteen-year-old girls would wear super-tight black dresses and five-inch heels and that appalled me. This is probably when I separated from my friends and became more like a mom. I would yell at everyone to stop texting during the services, because I didn’t understand how someone could do something so disrespectful. I think I did t
his because it gave me something to do (not sure why that was fun for me, it only caused pain). I remember sitting behind a group of girls, so I could get a good look to see if they were on their phones or not, and noticing that they had their bras tightened all the way. The clasp was all the way up their backs. I later noticed that they were pushing their tween boobs up so high, it looked painful. I used to think that I was the strange one for not wanting to do that to myself, but now I know I wasn’t.
I’m afraid to show people my boobs. There is a chance they look really weird and I don’t know it – or no one has told me before. I’m pretty sure they’re normal but I don’t want to risk it. I am so charged with hormones, I can’t handle any type of comment that would make me feel bad.
My mom always tells me to show my boobs off now, because they will never look this good again. That makes me feel terrible and sad because thinking about aging makes me feel depressed.
My best friend is a 34DD, so it is hard to avoid the boob topic.
I’m fifteen and I am still trying to understand why people my age do certain things, like why a girl would send a picture of their boobs to a boy and not expect everyone in the school to see it. Is she really that confused and careless or is it a cry for help and attention? I feel alone in the sense that not many people my age care about people as deeply as I do. I get worked up and upset about things that other people don’t even think about. I didn’t think about why girls were wearing such padded bras at twelve and thirteen and how it says something about who you are. Right now I am trying to figure out what that is. Experimenting comes with getting older. I know that there is nothing I can do to stop my friends from trying things like drinking or drugs, but it is really hard to accept that. I have always been anxious and have felt like I need to control what everyone around me is doing. I figured out that the reason I try to protect people is because I am trying to protect myself. I don’t want to help my friends through things I feel like I could have prevented. I know that I don’t have control and that I really can’t prevent bad things from happening, but I still feel worried. My friends have isolated me because I don’t support them and it feels terrible. As soon as boobs come, everyone wants to grow up. To me, boobs symbolize change, growth, puberty, and the reason all of my friends and I all went crazy. Maybe if my grandma didn’t die so young, I wouldn’t be so freaked out that bad things would happen to everyone all of the time. I haven’t had a baby or a boyfriend yet, so I don’t know any of the positive reasons to have boobs. All I know is I hit them on doorways sometimes and it really hurts.
EDITH BOWMAN
You are a thing of wonder, both in the vein of intrigue and amusement. From the very start you set out to have a mind of your own, changing and developing at your own pace, binded to each other but at the same time occasionally estranged.
I remember way back then, when you started to grow. I was the subject of ridicule from others who presumed it was all premature on my part. Who was I to think that I needed to support you, help you evolve! I felt shame and confusion.
Even now as I sit here in between relying on you to provide nourishment for my newborn I can feel you tingle, regale and prepare. You give, you fatten, you strengthen, you comfort and you leak.
And yet you also take, you allow life to be devoured by an evil poison. A poison that threatened to take away the very person who has chaperoned our relationship from the start. You were the reason I nearly lost my mum. Mistrust between us that I hope will never reappear.
Then there is your seductive side, affirming powers of flirtation, feeling sexy, provocative and womanly. Something to thank you for and something I never want to lose.
Onwards we go on this journey together, a journey that neither of us can predict nor regulate, but one that I know will continue to test both our very existences.
AMANDA BYRAM
Boobies, mammaries, mams, titties, tits, Bill and Ben, puppies, the Girls, whammers, knockers, breasticulars, boobage, bazookas, cleavefest. Somehow it seems our most prized possessions are always void of a moniker with class. So many silly words to describe our precious bumps! Yet the truth is, as much as we moan about them, they are our most treasured assets.
The story of the life of my ‘Girls’ starts quite late. I was thirteen and the only girl left in my class with a pink vest complete with ribbon at the chest, just where my cleavage should have been. But alas, cleavage would have to wait. I was flatter than a pancake.
Being the only girl in my year without a training bra was fast becoming an issue for my thirteen-year-old self, especially in the changing room after P.E. class, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I snuck into my big sister’s underwear drawer and – gasp – stole a bra. I wore this little sucker 24/7 for a year, only undoing the back clasp when I went to kiss my parents goodnight, so they wouldn’t feel it when they hugged me. I was a bra ninja. Stealth and cunning.
Post-ninja years, I became a model. I had outgrown my feeble training bra with gusto and blossomed a great big handful of boobage. I was commonly known as ‘Boobs Byram: the Best in the Biz’ (true story).
Then unfortunately, like with most young girls, along came dieting. Diets ‘boob-napped’ my precious puppies in one fell cup of lettuce leaves. Much to my disappointment I never regained full possession of those bouncy eager breasts ever again.
And now, with age they have settled. Settled for a life of comfort, just hanging around. ‘The Mams’ and I have been through quite a lot together. They are always there for me, and with me, every day. They are neither big nor small now, but I love them unconditionally. And they will always be mine.
MELANIE C
I’ve always had a strange relationship with my boobs, ever since those difficult puberty years. I remember the first girl at school to get them, everyone else sprouting and moving out of vests into ‘training’ bras, and eventually persuading my mum to get me one when I really didn’t need one! ‘Nature is cruel,’ I thought. ‘Maybe I’ll wake up with big bazookas one morning?’ I never did. Being a sporty type I’ve always had an athletic build, and no amount of padding, toilet tissue or chicken fillets could create a cleavage. That was until I got pregnant, and then … boom! Hello, boobies!
This was when everything changed – not only with my boobs but my whole body. Having a new life growing inside me was miraculous and liberating. I suddenly saw my body as an incredible, magical machine.
When I had my little girl I was lucky enough to be able to breastfeed. It was an amazing experience, incredibly painful and frustrating at times, but I felt like my newborn was teaching me what to do. I forgave nature. What an incredible thing! My boobs helped me nourish and nurture a healthy and wonderful child. I couldn’t be more proud of them!
AMANDA DE CADENET
My boobs … I’ve said those words so many times.
My boobs have been talked about for so long they are almost more famous than me.
I understand why – they are a great pair, despite breastfeeding three kids. You can’t ignore them, and I’m OK with that. I must say that having larger boobs – mine are currently 38DD – can be a real distraction, though more to other people than to me. It’s not like I sit around thinking about them or fondling them, but more when I try a new bikini on and realise I need a size 12 for my bum and a size 16 for my boobs. I am sorry to say it, but I have swapped sizes out on the rack many times to accommodate my ample breasts.
In all seriousness, I know enough about breast health that I went for my first mammogram last year, even though I was told I’m ‘too young’ to worry. I wasn’t worried – I just want to be safe. I went with a girlfriend, and we made a day of it, had some food, a catch-up and went in to get our boobs squashed in the mammogram machine. Much more fun to do it in the room with a pal – I highly recommend it.
I figure that it’s my job to take care of these precious beauties, even though some days I don’t speak nicely to them, like when none of my bras fit or they go up a whole size when my period
arrives. But, let’s face it, even though I would fit into dresses that have otherwise evaded me and people would look at my face when I walked into the room instead of my tits, I just wouldn’t be me without these breasts, and I am learning to love them a day at a time.
GEMMA CAIRNEY
I’m not really sure how to tell this. But once my boyfriend accidentally bit my nipple really, really hard. It was a memorably painful moment, though done with nothing but love. Weird and embarrassing, but true. One day it may happen to you.
The NBB
Beware of the NBB.
When the feeling is right
On red a red-light night
It’ll be his penchant for bazongas
His sheer enthusiasm for areola
Tit-allation, is his adoration.
It can sometimes get the better of him, like when you take the first bite of a strawberry lace
The NBB gets giddy (at occasionally an alarming pace)
Beware of the NBB
O just how he loves to feast
That Nipple Biting Beast.
SARA COX
In the middle of a neatly trimmed lawn in the north-west of England stands a small tent. Inside the tent, four eleven-year-old girls huddle closely together, mainly because it’s not a very spacious tent, but also because one of the Joannes (whose lawn they are currently sitting on) is about to unveil something magnificent: her first bra. It is a size AAA training bra in pristine white. The girls’ gasps of admiration can easily be heard through the flimsy canvas as Joanne whips up her top. The other Joanne, Lisa and the young me glance at each other enviously.
Joanne-with-the-bra was that kind of girl. Long blonde wavy hair, almond-shaped eyes. She was a success. Unlike myself at that age, her knees weren’t wider than her thighs and her forehead wasn’t big enough to double up as a five-a-side pitch. In the great netball game of life, she was the centre to my goalkeeper. And now she’d beaten me to boobs as well, and with it, a training bra. Quite a curious name for what was essentially a crop top; what would these bras train your fledgling boobs to do? Jump through hoops? Of course as all girls eventually learn, the only tits jumping through hoops would be boys desperate to shove a hand up your Aran number for a squeeze of your jumper bumps.
The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Page 1