A Tale of Two Titties
I have always found owning big boobs incredibly offensive because they have never suited my personality.
It feels so old fashioned to me that diet pills, photoshop and surgery aside, we still can't just pick the body shape that we think defines us best. I can pick the colour theme on my website, the layout on my Instagram page, I can order a personality, and have it delivered the next day, so it feels so primitive to be stuck with a body shape so incongruent with my brand.
I am a socially awkward nerd who can only experience joy for brief bursts of time - what the hell am I doing being five foot two with big boobs? I should be tall, wiry and look amazing in vintage men's shirts. It is ludicrous that I instead look like I should be scolding Sid James right before my bikini pops open; what sort of cosmic joke is that?
In TV and films, it’s very clear: big boobs equals working class, flat chest equals posh. Gals with heaving norks are the shrieking lasses that the hero has to leave behind before he can reach his full potential in the city, with flat-chested Sophie who can read.
“Oh Gary!” Northern wife will shriek, costume jewellery clattering, as she shakes her cleavage in rage, while Sophie looks on concerned, all demure elegance in a button-down shirt that closes all the way without the use of safety pins.
Flat chested girls are fragile, boyish dorks who don't even realise how beautiful they are. In films they sigh and wish their boobs were bigger and it makes them seem even more relatable. We the audience think “Oh the girl with the body of a Russian ballet dancer and the bone structure of an elf is just like me!” Instead of gaudy boobs, the leading man will instead be enchanted by her personality, pluck, and perfectly symmetrical facial features.
Who could ever fancy this dork?
There might be someone in this film with big tits. Usually, she will be the ethereal romantic lead's sassy best friend; cheerfully dolling out blow jobs in carparks, pausing only to offer wisecracks on the unfolding romance and to wish them both the best of luck. As the lovebirds drive off into the sunset together, they might pause to wave at Bessie Big Tits as she heads down to the port to entertain a visiting fleet.
Big boobs are a lot to live up to, I follow my boobs around like a killjoy, a sad trombone - I do not have the banter to carry them off.
Men look at your boobs like they own them, you're just minding them for them and should really give them back when you’re done. They are a Men’s Embassy on your body, a jocular meeting point for good times.
Big Boobs have the worst fans. I’m not saying anyone should be responsible for their supporters but It's embarrassing to know they're here with you. You don’t blame Oasis for having the most terrible devotees in the world, but do you ever wonder how Noel feels looking out at a thronging mass of the most horrific people on Earth thrilled to see him? That's how any woman with boobs feels walking into a crowded pub wearing anything low cut. Oh great, all the worst type of attention and it's aimed at me.
Julia Stiles’ sassy best friend.
Growing up in the wilds of the Irish countryside, I associated a heaving cleavage with provincial frumpiness. Didn't they realise, I’d sigh, leafing through The Sunday Times Style section, how uncool big boobs are? Glamorous city girls like Tara Palmer Tomkinson and Anna Friel had chests as sleek and angular as a glossy magazine, not big and cumbersome like bags of laundry.
The 90s was a rough time for big titties. It was the height of heroin chic, waifish beauties who dressed like they just waited for a gauze in the wind to catch on one of their collar bones.
The nerdy boys I liked took it as a matter of pride that they didn't find busty Pamela Anderson attractive. The pretentious boys would pause and, like they were recalling a lost Jack Kerouac novel, announce that actually Kate Moss was much sexier than anyone on Baywatch. It's a shame International Supermodel Kate never knew how many 15 year old boys from Navan were willing to go out on a limb for her. They delighted in their preference for flat chested celebrities, like they were bands from the 70s only they knew about. I, of course, fumed. How dare they explain to me what I already knew? How dare they act like Christopher Columbus just discovering America when I’d be studying the terrain for years?
I thought if I just refused to buy a bigger cup size maybe, like goldfish, they would not grow any bigger. But no matter what size I bought, a muffin top would mushroom across the top of my bra, letting me know it was time for another trip to Dunnes Stores underwear department.
My saddest moment of defeat was when I was finally fitted for my correct size and an older, bean pole lady, leaning around me with measuring tape tutted. “You've very big. I know everyone wants them big, but I think if they get too huge, they don’t look nice.” No shit Sherlock. I wonder where the lady discovered this unique opinion.
It is why I love Kelly Brook so much; she was the one big breasted lady from the 90s permitted a soul. There was a cheery wistfulness to her curvy beauty, she seemed to be always merrily getting another broken heart. “That'll teach a farm girl like me for falling in love with the landlord's son. Oh well, one more roll in the hay before you marry Millicent, Milord?”
Oh Kelly, whoever he is, he’s not worth it.
I still refuse to shop at clothes shops designed for bigger boobs. I will not be patronised, I will not give in. I’ve spent five years constantly on the verge of losing a stone so what would be the point? Instead, I have a cupboard full of clothes that I can't fit into. If anything happens to me and detectives had to piece together what I look like from the clothes in my wardrobe, they will be searching for a six-foot model who weighs eight stone and is amazing at carrying off capes.
I am trying to be more body positive. I recently bought a corset top to wear on a night out with work friends. I was determined to be confident. If anybody said anything about my boobs, I’d wink and say something sassy like “if nipples are the eyes of the face, I think I have cataracts!” Then at the last minute I panicked, threw on a duffel coat and spent the entire night sweating in the corner, too self-conscious to take it off, like a Paddington Bear flasher.
For this piece I researched celebrities with larger breasts for inspiration. I thought, the world has moved on since the tawdry days of the noughties. The old-fashioned idea that big boobs are exclusively sexual is probably as outdated as bootcut jeans. We have Lizzo, Nigella Lawson and Joan from Mad Men now. So, I put “celebrities with big boobs” into my Google search and my internet provider blocked the results.
Things that have annoyed me this week: SUNNY WEATHER
How idyllic! Two hours later, I was vomiting over the toilet with sunstroke.
Like most people I find the recent sunny weather unsettling. After months of constant heavy clouds and drizzle, looking up at the clear blue sky feels uncanny. Like I am in a science film and there are casually two moons in the sky.
Still, I don’t like sunny weather. The pressure to be happy and doing something fun. If it's rainy and you feel halfway human you are a winner, whereas with hot weather, you're supposed to abandon your personality and gallop around parks. Hot weather makes my thighs chafe, you can't eat chocolate without feeling carsick, and everyone loses their personality. I sit in the sun for ten minutes and I get burnt or I go for a walk and get sunstroke. So, I end up in a floppy hat and loose dress and look like ET when Drew Barrymore dresses him up.
To anybody who says the sun makes everything better I say, you have obviously never experienced a hangover in August. When I was little my favourite days on holiday by the sea was when it rained, and we were allowed to stay in the caravan and read. Let’s reclaim our language - someone with a sunny personality should now mean - too much pressure. I am planning my own hot girl summer; I've found a really great book about Medieval Witch Trials.