The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs (17 page)

Storm in an AA Cup

I loved the 1939 movie of
The Wizard of Oz
. I loved it so much I could have pooped rainbows and it would have been no biggie. Dorothy was my girl crush du jour with her cutesy gingham pinafore, her silken pigtails and her feet made of rubies. I knew her songs by heart, even that funny verse about chimneys in
Over the Rainbow.
Bored in the Christmas holidays, a gang of us decided to put on a pantomime for the street we lived in. We had to make our own amusement somehow. Well, the rest is history, because in my opinion
The Wizard of Oz
was the best pantomime known to mankind and the Dorothy part was going to be mine, my pretties.

My mates didn't argue with the plan. Well, who would when faced with someone in a gingham apron and their mother's red slingbacks? During rehearsals, I spent many an hour wowing them with my impromptu whipping of my hair back and forth, running from side to side, my arms Muppet-flailing, and then falling into the hastily painted cardboard backdrop of Kansas. I was in an imaginary tornado, you see. I WAS living and breathing Dorothy Gale. My friends recognised me for the visionary genius I was.

Oh yes, I took it seriously. Street show or not, you can't channel Dorothy Gale half-heartedly. That would be criminal. For a start, the red slingbacks needed rhinestones. When I mooted the idea of gluing rubies to her shoes, my mother said no, fearing she'd have to walk the yellow brick road to town every time she wanted a bag of oven chips. Apparently, a modern-day Dorothy wasn't all about the money. Or the bling. My mother was Miss Gulch in disguise. I thought about offering her the part.

The sad sequin-less ruby slippers without rubies I could just about cope with, but finding out that Judy Garland was actually sixteen and quite curvy when she played Dorothy, not so much. All would have been fine if I wasn't still under a vest. I wanted everything to be perfect for my Dorothy homage and that meant growing my boobs in time for the performance and allowing them to spring forth like Toto frolicking in a field of poppies, or puppies. Okay, I admit it. It had ten per cent to do with Dorothy and ninety per cent because I JUST WANTED BIG BOOBS!

Give it a few weeks and you'll be juggling cantaloupes in the Emerald City, I thought. Those flying monkeys won't be able to carry you because of the weight in your front carriage
.
Slow to catch on to this idea, my boobs remained tiny. With the performance looming I attempted to show them their true potential by shoving tennis balls down there. A sort of: ‘Hello boobs! Wake up, you lazy lumps of fat, milk glands and tissue!'

They stayed more Munchkin than melon. Never fear, there was one thing I hadn't tried: the power of mind over matter. I mind and my boobs matter. My boobs were not weak; they would rise to this challenge. Had they not already survived some eejit in the chip shop, battered sausage in one hand, honking them with the other? Had they not survived me falling off a wall and slamming the concrete with my entire body? Yes, I put my teeth through my lip but my chest was made of steel girders. Destroy my mouth but mess with my boobs at your peril, concrete pavement. Ha! And so it began. Day one: I waved my palms over my naked boobs shouting, ‘A-bra-ca-boob-ra!' After fifty further attempts, I figured I was a candidate for RSI. Day two: I swore there was tingling in my boobs. Proper actual internal prickling, the kind of which only comes from one million Lilliputians wielding needle swords inside your boobs
or
swelling. I opted for swelling as I thought the Lilliputians were probably elsewhere, chaining Gulliver. Okay, I couldn't see any movement in my breast department but as my mother said, ‘You don't need to see God to know he exists.'

Um … yeah.

Day three: I learnt ways to make my mini-mammaries mahoosive. Move forward like a juggernaut of jugs, that's what I'd do. After much research, I massaged them with butter. Hands up, who'd like to smell of eau de croissant in their quest for big boobs? Me, that's who. Hands up, who'd like to eat dry toast because there's no butter left? Excellent! Day four: the tape measure was out. They had grown a millionth of a millimetre. That's cool, right? One million of anything is awesome. Except germs. Today, a millionth of a millimetre: tomorrow, straight to Dollywood on the fast bus out of Flatsville. Day five: Glinda the Good. I'm not ashamed to admit, I prayed to the good witch. ‘Wave your wand and give me some boobs or else,' I said. I was good with threats. Unfortunately, no kaleidoscope bubble floated into my bedroom. I swiftly followed this with: ‘I'll die if you don't make me a C cup and then you'll be sorry.' I pondered that this threat was a touch tricky as it involved actual dying. On day six and seven I drank loads of milk and ate carbs. Before long, I was so full the gingham apron barely stretched across my middle. Time to stop, I thought, before I ended up in the wrong production. Two words: Augustus Gloop.

Three days before the big Dorothy moment, I sprained my ankle on dog poop. All I can say is using a hedge to wipe dog dirt off your rollerskated foot while balancing on the other rollerskated foot is the highway to an elephantine ankle. But the show goes on and my street performance as Dorothy went ahead, despite the agony. There was a standing ovation, no less. Perhaps it was pity applause for my perky little peanuts caught up in a Beaufort number twelve. Or maybe it was because the Munchkins got distracted and sat on their mothers' laps. Or was it sympathy that I had to hobble down the yellow-bed-sheet-cum-brick-road, leaning on a scarecrow who when he shouted that he needed a brain an audience member (from the house at the end of the street) hollered back, ‘You think you've got problems, mate? Dorothy needs a new leg!' Who knows? Who cares? My ankle was leaden but the feather lightness of my boobs was liberating. I didn't have to worry about my baps popping out of the apron. Nor did I think for one second that they'd zoom over my shoulder like calamine-lotion-coloured ear muffs. I was small down there and hey, it was okay. No, it was better than okay. I was cool with it.

That night, just like my girl crush Dorothy, I discovered that you can spend your whole life searching for something only to realise that what you desire is right back where you started. That's the big and small of it. From that point on I decided to embrace my boobs, whatever their size. I treated my puppies like Toto: loved them, kept them safe, stroked them on occasion, and allowed them a special kennel in my heart. And if I was ever in doubt about their brilliance, I clicked my slingbacks three times and repeated: ‘There's no boobs like mine. There's no boobs like mine. There's no boobs like mine.'

‘Has he latched on?'

Um, excuse me? As in, attached? As in like a latch on a door? To what exactly? Do I tie him to the bed? The curtains? Come again? Wait, don't leave. You asked me something confusing. He's small, he's perfect. Latched? Have you seen his little feet? No, don't start commenting on the weather. You seem to have uttered something important. I'm wearing bandages all over my stomach, I haven't slept in forty-eight hours, I seem to be covered in my own sick. I haven't called my friends. He's got the cutest nose and we're not sure what we're going to call him but you seem to have said something vital. Latched? Like a pincer? Hold on. Come back.

‘Sorry, love. I mean latched, as in has he started drinking your milk?'

MILK? Oh, I hadn't got to that section of the ‘what to do when you're pregnant' book. I see, so
that's
what they're for…

That was March 17
^th
2003. As a young person I had thought my boobs were for making boys fancy me, I thought that ‘getting them out' was a way to attract others. I thought that having big round bouncy boobs was the actual answer. Like everyone else I thought a Wonderbra would make all the difference. I wore big bras, red bras, skinny-strap 70s triangular bras. I flattened my breasts so I could look all fashion and cool and I threw real chicken fillets (they only really smell if you use them more than twice) under them so that I could lift and separate and make the tops all wobbly. And here I was a hundred years later and I was working out the pure and real magic of a boob.

He did latch on and he suckled and drained and squeaked and got all full up and then he would sleep on my neck like a little drunkard. Girls and boys, boobs are brilliant. Mainly because you can whip them out and feed a baby – at Café Rouge (April 2007), at the cinema (apologies to the people next to us at
Bad Santa
but I thought the snuffling didn't
totally
ruin the movie) and at the airport when you've been delayed nine hours (no, Iberia, I still haven't totally forgiven you).

Breasts are excellent. And if you don't believe me – ask my kids.

Benjamin's Breasts

Benjamin was eleven.

One day,

As he checked out his willy,

He found he had breasts.

Benjamin was confused.

His mum told him he was a boy,

But Benjamin thought –

Only girls have titties.

Benjamin was not going to tell anybody.

He kept it a secret.

But then his breasts got bigger and bigger.

And then they got even bigger.

Benjamin was upset.

At night, before sleeping he cursed his breasts.

He thought breasts were supposed to feel nice,

But Benjamin's breasts began to hurt.

Benjamin was getting ready for football

In the school changing room,

And all the boys started to laugh at his breasts.

Benjamin began to hate his breasts.

Benjamin was sure he was becoming a girl –

A girl with some boy bits.

So Benjamin told his mum,

And she told the doctor.

Benjamin was told that he had

Gynecomastia,

‘Gyne-co-whatia?' he asked.

‘Such a big word,' he said.

Maybe big tits need big words, he thought.

Benjamin was excused from swimming.

Benjamin was excused from PE.

Benjamin was always excusing himself from girls.

Benjamin was always excusing himself from boys.

Benjamin was told he must have an operation.

His two breasts were sliced.

Just around the nipples,

So no one could see.

Benjamin was happy then.

He began to play football,

He began looking at girls' breasts,

But he never did learn to swim.

Benjamin was a poet,

He forgot about his breasts,

With his nipples that do nothing.

Because all men have them.

Benjamin was forty.

One day,

As he checked out his willy,

He found he had a breast.

Benjamin was unhappy.

One of his breasts had grown back.

The doctor said he had

Gynecomastia,

Again.

Just one this time.

Benjamin was told he must have an operation.

One breast was sliced.

Not around the nipple (like before).

Right around the muscle, for all to see.

Benjamin was told the doctor had no choice.

Slight complications.

Benjamin was not going to tell anybody.

He kept it a secret.

Benjamin was doing stuff

With his girlfriend. (She had breasts).

She looked at Benjamin's breast and asked –

‘How did you get that scar?'

‘I got it in a fight in Brixton,' said Benjamin.

‘You poor thing,' she replied. ‘Let me rub it.'

‘It's nothing,' said Benjamin.

‘You should see the other guy.'

Benjamin was wondering,

How will she feel when she reads this book?

Maude Apatow is a student, actress and writer. Her work has appeared on websites such as Rookiemag, HelloGiggles, and Teen Vogue. She co-starred in the films
Knocked Up
and
This Is 40
. She is addicted to technology even though she knows it's destroying her.

Edith has been at Radio 1 since 2003 and also became part of the BBC 6Music family in 2012. She's a massive music fan and fanatical gig goer. Her love and passion for film has allowed her to interview some of the biggest and most important names in film both for her radio shows and many TV specials.

Other work has included BBC's coverage of Glastonbury, T In The Park, Reading and Leeds, BBC Two's
Rough Guide to the World
, Sky One's Big Bash Comedy Awards, RISE for Channel 4 and hosting the BAFTA film awards red carpet for BBC Three for the past five years.

Amanda Byram is one of Ireland's biggest exports. In 1999 she began presenting the TV3 morning show in Ireland, and she then moved to British TV, hosting
The Big Breakfast
on Channel 4. Amanda currently hosts
Total Wipeout
for CBBC, which was voted Best Gameshow at the 2010 TV Choice Awards.

2012 saw Amanda present two exciting new shows for SKY1:
The Angel
and
Don't Stop Me Now
. Amanda was also part of the team including Denise van Outen and Fearne Cotton that trekked Machu Picchu to raise awareness for Breast Cancer Care, which was documented for ITV2.

Melanie C has released six solo albums. She achieved over three million album sales as well as reuniting with the Spice Girls on tour. Her theatrical debut in the West End show
Blood Brothers
was well received by critics; earning five-star reviews, a nomination for Best Actress in a Musical at the prestigious Laurence Olivier Awards, and Evening Standard Theatre Awards shortlist for the Milton Shulman Award for Outstanding Newcomer.

Whilst working on album number five, Andrew Lloyd Webber asked Melanie to join
Superstar
, the primetime TV show looking for the new Jesus to star in the UK and Ireland arena tour of
Jesus Christ Superstar
. She took the role of Mary during the arena tour alongside Tim Minchin as Judas Iscariot.