#you can prise this film from my cold dead hands

[backintimeforstuff]

next up on my txf rewatch: I WANT TO BELIEVE M Y B E L O V E D

#you can prise this film from my cold dead hands #i have always and will always be obsessed with it #angst fix 100 #don't give up #let it try #my god #i want to believe #iwtb #txf

[reylokisses]

🎬🍿Comfort Movie Tag! 🎬🍿

Thank you for tagging me, @safarigirlsp! I love games like these 🥰

Rules: tag 10 people and list 10 of your comfort movies

No pressure tags: @affidecrystal @pandoraspocksao3 @glamourouslife99 @welsharcher @carloswilliamcarlos @allgirlsareprincesses @reylo-of-light-blog @theladyship @novelsandnerdiness @urfavstargirl1

1. The Nun’s Story (1959)

My absolute favourite Audrey Hepburn movie 🥰 I wish I were like Gabrielle/Sister Luke. She’s so inspiring!

2. Sleeping Beauty (1959)

A childhood favourite that I never get tired of! I can’t believe that it’s been 64 years since it was released, and this is still the only movie Disney has made where the female characters get more dialogue than the male ones

3. 65 (2023)

I love how this is a sci-fi movie where there are more female characters than male, and that Koa gets to rescue Mills and work together with him to save them both at the climax. Mills is the perfect GirlDad and his interactions with Koa are my favourite part of the movie 🥰

4. The Force Awakens (2015)

The movie that changed my life for the better in so many ways! I have no idea who I’d be if I hadn’t seen it. Even though I know how it all ended, I never lose the feeling of wonder and excitement I first felt when I saw it.

5. The Last Jedi

Likewise, even though the following movie blasts it all to smithereens, The Last Jedi gives me hope for the future of the characters and always cheers me up

6. Mulan (1998)

Mulan has been an inspiration to me my entire life 🥰 Her movie always makes me feel like I can do anything

7. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018)

I have no idea why this is a comfort movie of mine, since the ending is pretty depressing and the treatment of the female characters is outrageous 🤨 Toby’s character journey and bond with Javier is so sweet though 🥰 At least Toby got to rescue Angelica in the end, although poor Jacqui and Melissa are stuck with the Boss and Alexei 😖

8. Godspell (1973)

I stopped going to church about ten years ago, but you can prise that film from my cold, dead hands

9. White Noise (2022)

The family scenes are so sweet and the ending is really uplifting 🥰

I can’t go up to ten for this game, sadly! 😔

I have loads of films that I love, but when I’m stressed I can’t concentrate on watching films. I hope you enjoy the game!

#tag games

[snaccademia]

Me: historical accuracy is important in films - modernising the medieval times to fit contemporary trends only means that the film won't age as well as if you hadn't added anything

Also me: you can prise the We Will Rock You cover in A Knight's Tale from my cold, dead hands

#dark academia #studyblr #light academia #books #history #mediaeval #medieval #a knights tale #heath ledger #chaucer #geoffrey chaucer #medieval films

[wat-the-cur]

Some More Frog Brothers Headcanons:

- Both of the Frog Brothers believe in the existence of fairies. Alan, who wished he could meet some fairy folk, even before he really believed in them, is certain that they should attempt to make contact with one. He maintains that association with such a creature could be beneficial to their cause. He is sure it would hold some invaluable information. Edgar, as always, is a lot more wary, uncertain if a fairy could be trusted any more than a vampire, or a werewolf. He keeps tidying away the enticements that Alan leaves out, around the house, scolding him for his careless behaviour. He decides it would be much safer to go outside and seek out a fairy than to invite one into their home, were it could cause untold mischief. So that is what they do, when they feel they have time. 

- Alan is a fantasy fanatic and you can prise that from my cold, dead hands. He definitely has a Falcor toy that he uses as a pillow. 

- Edgar has a gargantuan crush on Jodie Foster. Once, Alan caught him giving a magazine clipping of her a goodnight kiss, while he thought he was asleep. Though Alan assured Edgar it was no big deal, at the time, in certain circumstances he does threaten to tell Sam. 

- Alan fiddles around with his gum, far more than he chews it. He will wander around the shop, playing cat’s cradle with his slick web of masticated bubblegum, before shoving it back into his mouth and putting his slobbery fingers all over the merchandise. 

- One of the only film scenes to make Edgar tear up, was Rambo’s breakdown at the end of “First Blood”. He tried to hide it, but his eyes were rubbed raw by the time the credits rolled. 

- Early in his friendship with the Frogs, Sam never heard Edgar laugh, nor did he see him smile very much. For quite a while, he believed that Edgar was probably just someone who was born without much of a sense of humour, or else he simply did not understand anyone else’s. This misconception came to a sudden end, one afternoon at Frog Comics. 

The shop was rather empty at that particular hour. Sam had seated himself on the counter, munching his way through a bag of pick ‘n’ mix. Alan was restocking nearby and Edgar was sweeping up around the counter. Sam had been vaguely aware of Scooby Doo rerun, playing on the aged television that propped up dozing elder Frogs, but paid it no mind as he sifted through his sweets. He did not even notice when Edgar paused his work to squint at the cartoon shenanigans, flickering across the cloudy, little screen. Sam’s confectionaries nearly went flying from his lap, when he was startled from his selection by an unfamiliar sound, beside him. 

Edgar was resting his chin upon the tip of his broom as he gazed at the TV screen. A thin, yet oddly toothy grin had crinkled his eyes into bright, little slits. He was laughing. Little snorts, huffs and voice cracking giggles bubbled from his nose and through his teeth. It was an image so unlike that of the Edgar that Sam had known, up until then, that he did not know whether he thought it beautiful, or nightmarish. His rapt attention was distracted momentarily, by Alan marching by him and when he looked back to Edgar, he was sweeping again, looking as stoic as though he had not been amused at all. Months elapsed, before Sam heard Edgar laugh like that again. By then, he was ready to welcome and enjoy it. 

- When there is some down time at the shop, but Alan knows he may have to spring back into action at any time, he likes to recite things to himself. Song lyrics, poems, entire chapters of books, or conversations from his favourite comics. If he makes any mistakes in his recital, he will go back and start from the beginning. 

- Edgar likes Scooby Doo, but Alan is also partial to cartoons. One of his favourites is “The Pink Panther Show”. Edgar cannot understand this, as he finds that show very boring and will not let Alan forget it. 

- Alan prefers to eat with his fingers, whenever he possibly can. His food will have to be pretty wet, or soft, or hot, before he will fetch himself a fork. He rarely, if ever sits down at the table to eat a scheduled meal, preferring to graze throughout the day. He never, ever uses crockery. He eats out of packets and tins and drinks straight from the carton. You can always tell where he has been eating, because he leaves crumbs and spatters and bits of cereal on every surface. 

- Edgar does not have scheduled meal times, either, but he does prefer to eat at the table, with his food on a plate. He will forego a knife, preferring to cut up his food with his fork. His diet I said extremely repetitive and bland, full of carbohydrates. He is always noticeably defensive of his meal when he is eating, leaning right over it, setting his elbows on either side, like a cage. This is because, despite their differing palettes, Alan likes to see if he can grab morsels from his plate, before he can stop him. In spite of the fact that his habit has and still will get him choke slammed onto the kitchen table, Alan always likes to see just how speedy he can be about it.

- The fandoms seems to be on the fence about who is the eldest of the two brothers. Personally, I like to think it is Alan, by a year, or two. The reason that Edgar always seems to call the shots, is because Alan has exactly zero leadership skills.

- Whilst Edgar is hugely resourceful, excellent at making quick decisions and saying “Let’s go here and then do this.” he also has some pretty huge weaknesses. He has a really poor memory for things like directions, names and times and he cannot read a map to save his life. These are areas where Alan has to step up, because his memory is immense. 

- If Edgar does not do something important, that he was meant to do, it is because he has genuinely forgotten. If Alan does not do something important, that he was meant to do, it is because he does not care enough to do it. The important things that he fails to do, are invariably related to himself, alone. 

- When Edgar was little, his idea of “playing”, was to run laps up and down the board walk, or the beach. Alan would set limitations, so that he would never run too far away from him and he could keep an eye on him. 

- Alan sometimes walks around the shop barefooted, because something being barefoot calms him down when he is feeling anxious. 

- It was some while before Edgar actually started wearing trousers. When he was young, he had two, or three smock garments that his Mother made for him, which he wore until they were too short for him and falling to pieces. After they became officially unwearable, he transitioned over to shirts and jeans, but took a while to get used to it. He now has a few smocks that he has bought from charity shops, but only wears them to bed, because has gotten used to wearing a lot of layers. 

- Edgar is the best at drawing, out of the three Monster Bashers. 

- Edgar and Alan’s common ground when it comes to music are The Balfa Brothers and Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band. If Sam has one more thing to say about either of those, Edgar will throw him out of the shop, for blaspheming. 

- Whenever they go to over Sam’s house, Alan always asks him if he has seen any rabbits in the fields, nearby. 

#the lost boys #Lost Boys #frog brothers #the frog brothers #edgar frog #Alan Frog #sam emerson #monster bashers #awesome monster bashers #headcanons

[alchemine]

the time travel saga continues

In which there is a failure to resolve anything, but at least Danny finally gets fed a proper meal. 

previously on: part 1 | part 2  | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

Before Danny even opened his eyes, he knew that it was morning, and that Jo’s test hadn’t worked. The air around him smelt of wood and paint and carpeting instead of his discarded socks and those disgusting sausages Scott kept buying and cooking, and he could hear the faint hum of an industrial-strength ventilation system instead of the ordinary early-morning traffic in their road. 

The good news was that the library staff hadn’t found him and handed him over to the police. The bad news was that he was still locked in a room deep in the underbelly of the library, that his neck and back hurt from sleeping stretched across two chairs, and that he desperately needed the toilet. On balance, it seemed bad news was winning over good for the second day in a row.

Groaning quietly, he unfolded himself from his torture rack, pressed the power button on his phone to check the time, and found that the library had opened ten minutes ago, which meant he could at least leave the room instead of pissing in a corner like some sort of wild animal. He stretched arms and legs as best he could, gathered up Jo’s books from the night before, and tried to smooth his sticking-up hair before unlocking the door and easing it open far enough to check the corridor. He had a brief vision of himself abruptly coming face to face with a floating, spectral librarian, but all was clear, and he made it up to the main floor without seeing anyone either living or dead.

There were already surprising numbers of people coming in through the doors where he’d entered the night before--mothers arriving with their toddlers for the morning rhyme time session, old men settling in to spend the day perusing the racks of newspapers, and grubby-looking students prepared to stake out the best seats in the study area. Danny merged with them as nonchalantly as he could, glad that the dark trousers, white shirt and tie he’d worn to work two days and twenty-three years before were nondescript enough to blend into almost any decade (although he had a nasty feeling they were beginning to smell less than fresh), and deposited the stack of books on an empty bit of shelf before escaping to the men’s toilets. With his most urgent need out of the way, he examined his dishevelled, red-eyed self in the mirror, then washed his face and hands and rinsed his mouth, which tasted as if something had prised it open and crawled inside to die in the night. Maybe Jo had a toothbrush he could use. And a razor. And a shower.

And a spare roast dinner wouldn’t go amiss, he thought. The hunger that had been an annoyance yesterday was a bottomless roaring pit today, and as he gulped down a double palmful of water from the sink to try to quiet it, he realised he felt dangerously shaky. He had better hurry up and get to Jo’s, or he’d fall over along the way.

The sky outside was still grim with clouds, but it wasn’t actively raining, which he decided to count as another tick in the “good news” column. He stood on the library’s steps for a moment to get his bearings, and noted that while no one passing by was on the phone, either talking or typing away madly with their thumbs, no one looked particularly interested in giving him directions either. They were a grim lot, these citizens of twenty years ago, tramping along in their ugly vintage jumpers and plastic rain bonnets and gigantic square-lensed specs, or sitting on benches and reading newspapers full of events he only remembered from modern history lessons at school. Well, he’d find his way without their help, the miserable beggars.

He’d never missed Google Maps more in his life, but he unfolded the paper map he’d acquired and from that, managed to locate the address Jo had given him, which was back in the direction from which they’d both come yesterday. It had been a five-minute bus ride, but it took nearly half an hour to walk, and he really was ready to fall over by the time he got there. Her house was a large, semi-detached one fronted by carefully tended shrubbery, in a road not unlike the one where she would eventually live with Iain, and he felt weak and bedraggled and unsightly as he pushed the bell and waited.

After a moment, Jo opened the door--not in school uniform today, thank God; being seen with her in it had made him feel pervier than he ever wanted to feel again--and greeted him with a disappointed expression.

“It didn’t work, then.”

“No,” Danny said, and she sighed.

“You’d better come in. Don’t worry, there’s no one else here.”

He followed her through the house to the kitchen, where she sat him at a cluttered breakfast bar covered with the detritus of the Rourkes’ daily family life.

“You’ve got to be starving,” she said, and he nodded, hoping he didn’t look too pathetic. “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything. Everything. If you’ve got a dog I’ll fight it for one of its biscuits.”

Jo snorted with laughter. “I don’t think you’ll have to go that far.” She turned away to open cupboards and peer into the fridge. “Cornflakes? Cold chicken? Leftover cake?”

“Yes please,” Danny said, and she banged a box of cornflakes, a jug of milk and a blue plastic bowl down in front of him.

“Here, start with these and we’ll see how you get on. Don’t make yourself sick, though. I don’t want to clear that up.”

He got through two bowls of cornflakes, three slices of buttered toast, a fist-size chunk of cake and a chicken leg before he admitted defeat and stopped, stuffed nearly to the point of pain, but finally able to think straight again. Jo had made them both a cup of tea while he was head down in the cereal bowl, and now she perched on the stool beside his, her cup wrapped in both her hands, and regarded him with curiosity. She’d put on pale-pink lipstick this morning, he saw: with Future Jo, that would mean she was girding herself up for some sort of battle, but this Jo was probably just taking advantage of a day out from under the nuns’ gimlet eyes.

“Well, Daniel,” she said.

“Well, Joanne.”

Jo scrunched her nose up at the sound of her full name. “All right, all right. Obviously what we hoped would happen didn’t happen, because here you are, but did anything happen at all? Did you have any prophetic dreams or mysterious flashes of insight in your sleep?”

“The only thing I got in my sleep was a sore neck.” Danny tilted his head gingerly from side to side, wincing. “I’ve still got no idea what happened, and I had lots of time to think about it, sitting there on my own in the dark. It really was a completely boring, ordinary Tuesday right up until the moment when I did my Marty McFly impression.”

“Your what?”

“Another film. It’ll be in the cinemas in a few more months. You should see it. Anyway, I honestly can’t remember anything weird happening, just going to work and then coming home in the rain.”

“It was raining here too,” Jo said thoughtfully. “I wonder--no, that couldn’t have anything to do with it. Was the date here the same as the one you left?”

Danny nodded. “Tuesday, the nineteenth of March, both places.”

“And there’s no significance to that date for you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“This is making my head hurt,” Jo said. She finished her tea and set her cup down. “Have you checked your pockets? Maybe someone did a reverse pickpocketing and slipped you some miniature time-travelling device disguised as a coin?”

“I showed you my coins yesterday, remember?”

“Still.”

Danny pushed aside his bowl and plate, empty now except for a few drops of milk and a gnawed chicken bone, and turned his pockets out on the worktop, trousers first and then coat. “Wallet, coins, mobile, map, that slip of paper you gave me--”

“No keys?”

“I put them down after I let myself into the flat,” Danny said, thinking back to his movements on that night. He’d been tired, running on autopilot, not thinking of much beyond whether he was going to have pickle on his sandwich or not.

Jo nodded. “Anything else?”

He dug deeper into his left coat pocket. “Notepad, gum--that’s for you, you’re always asking me for some--oh God, don’t look at that.” He grabbed for the bright foil condom packet he’d accidentally thrown down alongside everything else, but not fast enough to stop Jo shooting out a hand and picking it up.

“With ribs and dots,” she read aloud. “Designed to speed her up and slow him down. Really?”

“It’s not mine.”

“It’s not?” Jo looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Don’t tell me this is the disguised time-travelling device.”

“It’s my brother thinking he’s funny.” He snatched the packet back from her and stuffed it down into his coat pocket again. “He’s always hiding them in my pockets, for good luck, he says.”

“Does it work?”

“Does what work?”

“Hiding them in your pockets,” Jo said. “Not the other it. I’m sure that works.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Danny said, exasperated. He could feel a slow burn starting in his face and knew it was only a matter of time until it became visible.“Look, can we not have this conversation? Let’s just go through the rest of these things and make certain there’s nothing strange about any of them.”

“Sorry,” Jo said, not sounding very sorry at all. She touched the spread-out items delicately, with the tips of her fingers, as if she were a medium trying to contact him through his possessions. “It all looks perfectly normal to me, but it’s not mine. Does anything look wrong to you?”

Danny stared down at the small, sad collection of objects that now represented the whole of his real life, searching for some sort of pattern or anomaly, and then slowly shook his head.

“No.”

#btw i'm not tagging these with actor names anymore because i don't want to clog up the tags #it's cracky crackfiiiiiic #party animals #jo porter #danny foster

[gyrlversion]

JAN MOIR: Is Mel B the right kind of champion for abused women?

Mel B, pictured outside 10 Downing Street, apparently talked to the PM’s team about helping abused women 

Excuse me. Is that former Spice Girl Mel B posing in front of No 10 as the new champion of abused women?

Apparently, this week she ‘talked’ to the Prime Minister’s team about how the Government could be doing more to help women who are trapped in abusive relationships and cannot afford to leave.

In reality, it seems, she handed in a petition on behalf of Women’s Aid and made sure to have lots of photographs taken, including one with the ghost writer of her memoir.

One cannot be too churlish. Well done to Melanie Brown for supporting such an important cause — it is certainly one of the better things she has done in her life. Yet it does have the occasional self-serving, even ridiculous, element.

I mean, what does Mel B — and her sordid, extravagant and wasteful existence — have in common with ordinary women who are poor and abused?

She has claimed that ex-husband Stephen Belafonte controlled her money, beat her up and forced her into making sex tapes and having threesomes during their ten-year marriage. Yet several involved witnesses claimed that she was an enthusiastic participant in the sex games. She was no slouch at spending money either — and why not? She had earned it, after all.

Certainly, Belafonte has a history of violence against women and is such a ghastly character he might as well have ‘BAD LOT’ tattooed across his forehead. But can she really blame her marriage collapse entirely on him?

The divorce that ensued lasted more than eight bitter months, as both sides battled over her £40 million fortune.

In the end, as the principal earner, she was furious about having to pay his legal bills plus £12,000 a month for three years as part of the settlement. Yet if a husband had to pay such sums to a wife, no one would have batted an eyelid. In fact, it would be seen as a feminist triumph.

Mel B said that, at her lowest point, she ‘had no money to buy Christmas presents, so I had help from my best friend who bought all the Christmas dinner for me and bought all the kids’ presents and stuff’.

When you think of those women who are truly trapped in abusive relationships, who really don’t have money or rich friends to pitch in when times are tight, well, it is such humbug. After all, Mel B is about to go on a Spice Girls reunion tour and make millions. She’s not bunking up in a shelter with no money and no home to call her own.

Yet here she is propounding the ideology that women are the weaker sex and portraying herself as the hapless victim du jour. Not only is that hard to swallow, it also plugs in to the currently fashionable narrative that the mere fact of being female confers a kryptonite shield of innocence.

At a Women’s Aid fundraising event on Wednesday night, Mel B was photographed with David Challen. He is the son of Sally Challen, who was jailed in 2011 for murdering her husband, Richard, with a hammer.

David has been campaigning for his mother’s release for years, on the grounds that she was a victim of emotional abuse during the marriage.

Now that coercive control — a form of emotional abuse — is recognised as a crime, Sally Challen has won the right to a retrial. And Mel B has hitched herself to Challen’s cause, which means that Challen and other abused wives have her as a champion.

There was Mel at Downing Street, posing in her marvellous designer frock (left) — did I see a Chanel handbag peeking out? — with her lovely face reportedly altered by expensive procedures. No money to buy Christmas presents! How she has suffered!

The lure of celebrity and the accompanying coverage that it brings must be overwhelming for organisations such as Women’s Aid, but surely there are better patrons than Mel B?

Yes, she has much to be proud of, but I still see her as a girl-power fraud; a woman who always portrayed herself as independent, smart and tough — until it suited her not to. Is she the kind of role model they really want?

She will be writing messages on bananas next, mark my words.

The Prince of psycho-babble

Listen up people! Be braver, be stronger, be kind to each other — change your thoughts and change the world.

So says Prince Harry, who has taken a sudsy bath in eternal wisdom bubbles, been through the Meghan mangle and come out the other end spouting Californian yoga-speak and thinking that he is some kind of new age messiah. And we all know he is not the messiah, he is just a very naughty boy.

Until his laughable speech at the WE Movement this week, it had been difficult to gauge the true extent of his wife’s influence on Harry’s thinking, his drinking, his every royal blinking.

Certainly, he has lost weight and stopped smoking. He doesn’t drink much — or he doesn’t drink as much, but who could? There are rumours that he has even stopped shooting game, a formerly much loved pastime, because it upsets the missus.

Elsewhere, he wears open necked shirts and suede desert boots to official occasions and has gone all touchy feely, even though he often storms around looking strained and furious, as if an urgent trip to the bathroom is required.

Prince Harry is pictured at London’s Wembley Arena this week. He has lost weight and stopped smoking, does not drink as much and is rumoured to have stopped shooting game 

Most noticeable of all, he has eschewed the services of the canny royal speechwriters he has used to good effect over the years. This week he left behind the traditional and squirearchal for the full blast Markle, embracing the kind of pseudo-profoundo new age blather that goes down a storm in Malibu juice bars.

Oh lordy, how the scales have fallen from our eyes. Now we can see that dopey Harry was just an empty royal cipher all along, one into which Meghan has poured all her fresh-pressed, dreamweaver jabber — and he has swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

Values. Change-makers. Raindrops. Your true north. Jupiter aligned with Mars. Love will steer the stars. Please make it stop.

The result is awful to behold, like The Beatles going through their Maharishi phase. The question is, what next?

Will the Duke and Duchess of Sussex really raise their child gender free, make a pilgrimage to Burning Man, and move to a commune in Brighton? If Prince Harry really believed in all this nonsense, he would give up his titles, donate his fortune and — at the very least — insist that commoners did not bow or curtsey in his presence. Don’t hold your breath.

The thigh’s the limit, Cinders!

Hang on to your loin cloths and strategically positioned pot plants. One of the world’s greatest supermodels is posing a question about nudity.

‘At what age is being naked not beautiful any more?’ wonders Cindy Crawford (above), as she poses nude at the age of 53.

‘At what age is being naked not beautiful any more?’ wonders Cindy Crawford (pictured above), as she poses nude at the age of 53

To be honest, Cinders, I think for a great number of us in the civilian population the answer is somewhere around six months old.

Yet Cindy feels there is no sell-by date on her looks — and she is right. With the right flattering filter and a kind photographer, she could probably carry on until 86 at least. ‘If we take care of ourselves, why not?’ she says. 

Begum blame game goes on

The Shamima Begum blame game continues. The jihadi bride has said people should ‘have sympathy’ for her because basically nothing was her fault.

Then her lawyer, Tasnime Akunjee, blamed her bloodthirsty choices on a ‘litany of failures’ by Tower Hamlets Council, the Metropolitan Police and her school, Bethnal Green Academy.

He also said that it was ‘almost inconceivable’ that no agency had been investigated or held to account over the schoolgirl’s departure for Syria in 2015. Anyone else?

Shamima Begum is. pictured in a camp in Kurdish Syria. Her father, Ahmed Ali, has called for immigration authorities to be investigated for allowing his daughter to travel to Turkey

Yes. Apparently the Met Police’s counter-terrorism department’s ‘inadequate’ handling of her case was one of the key reasons she was ‘pushed’ to join her friend in Syria.

Now her father, Ahmed Ali, has joined in, calling for immigration authorities to be investigated for allowing his darling daughter to travel to Turkey on someone else’s passport in the first place.

What about his role? Couldn’t he and Shamima’s mother have done more to instil decent values in their daughter and teach her the difference between right and wrong? That is a question he doesn’t answer. Meanwhile, Shamima would still be in the caliphate raising warriors, had her side not been defeated.

Come fly with me, lipstick and mascara! 

Virgin Atlantic has said it is fine for female flight attendants to stop wearing cosmetics, and Air New Zealand is following suit. No doubt other airlines will do so, too.

Air travel is so dreary these days, an ungroomed female attendant pushing a breakfast trolley down the aisle would be no surprise. However, it would be a shame. If I want to see a pasty faced hag with wild hair in the morning, I’ll look in the mirror.

Virgin Atlantic has said it is fine for female flight attendants (stock photo) to stop wearing cosmetics, and Air New Zealand is following suit

No female flight attendant should be ‘forced’ to put on make-up and keep her hair tidy. But if you are face to face with the public as part of your job, shouldn’t you take a little care with your appearance?

Personally speaking, I just adore make-up. I don’t feel subservient wearing it, I feel empowered. In years to come they will have to prise my mascara wand out of my cold, dead hand.

That’s why I hate to see lipstick and blusher portrayed as something demeaning and even sinister. Don’t give up the warpaint sisters! It is our armour against the world.

Shallow to say drinking is a disease

In the hit film A Star Is Born, Ally (Lady Gaga) goes to visit the disgraced Jack (Bradley Cooper, pictured together in the film) after he has been in rehab for two months in a bid to cure his alcohol addiction.

‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault. It is a disease,’ she tells him in a moving scene.

However, that is simply not true. In fact, it is indeed shallow. Claiming that addiction is a disease is not only scientifically baseless, it hinders rather than helps many addicts because it undermines hope.

It makes them believe they do not have agency over their condition, that they are helpless in the face of a greater force.

Whereas they are the only ones who can help themselves. 

Bradley Cooper in A Star Is Born with Lady Gaga, whose character goes to visit Cooper’s disgraced Jack after he has been in rehab 

The post JAN MOIR: Is Mel B the right kind of champion for abused women? appeared first on Gyrlversion.

from WordPress https://www.gyrlversion.net/jan-moir-is-mel-b-the-right-kind-of-champion-for-abused-women/

#Entertainment News