Blogs are like Tequila. They should be taken with a pinch of salt.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Mediocre Modelling

There is a model who keeps popping up in my NewsFeed. An insanely beautiful, ridiculously hot model. You know how they say ‘she has legs for days’? Her legs reach until about August 2017. You know how they say ‘glowing skin’? Her skin is the surface of the sun. She’s so smoking hot she makes me leer, wishfully, wistfully, blissfully, kissfully… and I’m a heterosexual female. But the thing is, I will never, ever buy the clothes that she is modelling, because I’m fully aware that I will try that blue lace skirt with her six-foot brown pins in mind, and then be bitterly disappointed with the reality.
Before you bang on about me fishing for compliments, I’m not getting out the hook’n’reel. This skin suits me just fine, I’m quite happy in it. It’s just a little problem I have with models, especially the online-fashion variety. They are all so damn good-looking that I don’t trust that the clothes are actually flattering.  
The girl I've been weirdly perving on, and some outfits I will never buy lest she be wearing them at the same time.
Stop it.

The other Hello Molly model. Also ridiculously hot. Also putting me off the clothes.

Now, modelling is hard bloody work and requires a lot more skill than some would think. I know this because I had an 0.25 second appearance in a Target ad in a group of ‘models’ (I only use the quotation marks for myself, the others girls were actually experienced models) showing the ‘boyfriend’ look. I learned two things in the two wonderful days of shooting – firstly, I am what is considered to be ‘plus-size’. Good to know. I thought I was size 12, but I guess not. (Is there a minus-size? Or is it a score, like A+?? It’s stoopid.) Secondly, modelling is not a matter of being good-looking. At one point, it was my turn to just playfully model the clothes on film. I had two cameras, thirty crew members, a bunch of professional models and Gok Wan staring at me. I’d had hours of hair and make-up and spray tans and manicures, so I had reached my absolute peak and was looking as good as I ever will. I’d practiced my Miranda Kerr in my bedroom mirror. My inner model was ready. The director called ‘Action!”…. and I turned into Jan Brady, awkwardly swinging my hips and pouting, and occasionally stumbling and getting hair stuck in my lip gloss. The other models had their turns and absolutely nailed it, looking effortlessly sexy and interesting. Needless to say, my shots were not chosen for the final edit.
 (In case below YouTube link doesn't come up...

Anyway, my point is – modelling is definitely a skill (that I DO NOT have). Anyone who works as a model deserves respect, and their flawless skin must be thick as hell with all the criticism they’d have to put up with. The top models demonstrate what clothing brands look like at their absolute maximum, and that’s important for consumerism and marketing and all kinds of things.

But I’d like to request a new, sub-brand of modelling. Mediocre Modelling. Someone with no experience, with a less-than-perfect face and a body that’s seen better days, to chuck on the clothes that I’m thinking of ordering and take a shit mirror selfie. Then I’ll be provided with some information I can actually use – I can see how the clothes would look at their maximum potential on a super hot model, and I can see how they’d look on an Average Josephine. Because if the dress STILL looks alright, still covers her cellulite and doesn’t give her a muffin top or bring out the grey bags under her eyes, then I’ll buy it. I’ll buy it with confidence, knowing that I might even look better than the Mediocre Model. It’ll be like admiring the outfit on Marcia Brady, and then seeing how it looks on ol’ Jan. If Jan looks hot too, you’re safe.
Classic case of misleading modelling (and poor needlework...).
I could start an agency and get specific. Someone can email me saying “I want to see how this dress looks on someone with short legs, or wide hips, or with reallllly pale skin”, and BOOM*. I will call one of my many mediocre models and toss them into the questionable outfit, revealing to the client the real potential of the clothing, underwhelming as it may be. I myself would’ve been saved $60 on a green silk wrap dress that looked phenomenal on the slim, olive-brown Italian goddess ASOS model, but makes me look malnourished in complexion, yet overfed in silhouette.
I don’t want to put models out of business. And I appreciate that ‘plus-size’ (there’s that stupid word again) models are getting more utilized. I just think it’d be a smart move if they chucked in someone a bit average to make more women (and by ‘more women’… I mean ME) feel confident that they could also wear those clothes. How ’bout you, Victoria’s Secret? Love your parade, but usually I’m too busy admiring the models abs and tans to actually notice your fancy designs. Chuck in just one woman with cankles or man-ish shoulders or a wee bit of post-baby flab, and if SHE looks and feels good, then we know Victoria has a Secret that is actually worth paying for.
What's missing from this leggy line-up? A Mediocre Model.

Sometimes my Mum says “She’s so pretty, she’d look good in a brown paper bag”. (I’d actually quite enjoy testing that theory… ) My idea for Mediocre Modelling is sort of the opposite. “That brown paper bag is so pretty, it’d make anyone look good”. So, Hello Molly, Victoria's Secret and other brands, keep up the great work with the stunning models, they deserve their careers. But if you want me or anyone from my potential agency to come and do some mediocre, Jan Brady-inspired, tan-free and cellulite-full modelling, you might get more customers buying clothes, and less customers just stopping to stare at the models’ legs.

…And if you see that Hello Molly babe of a model, give her my number. No one will love her like I do.


*Please note that I am NOT saying that anyone with short legs, wide hips or realllly pale skin is, in any way, mediocre. My warm and friendly modelling company** is more about representing a cross-section of women (perhaps I should call it ‘Median Modelling’ instead?) than distinguishing between what is/isn’t attractive. Hugs for all.

**I do not have a modelling company, and probably never will. I’m far too lazy to actually implement this momentous idea. But if anyone is interested, feel free to use this idea and send me a Mars Bar and a size 12 blue lace skirt as payment.
By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably staring at some legs.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014


It’s officially been a year since I have been a-bloggin’. I never considered writing as a future profession, I don’t do much research or fancy myself as a hard-hitting journalist, I just try to have a laugh. If I can make one person giggle while reading an article of mine, then mission accomplished. And yet, over this past year, I’ve noticed that the more experience I gain trying to be funny on a little piece of internet, the more scared I am of writing. Why?
It’s almost impossible to be inoffensive.

I wrote a piece defending Adelaide, and suffered the scariest week of my life in which I got angry responses from some of the 100,000+ people that read it (my head is still spinning from that number). One guy even went as far as to abuse me on several forms of social media, purchase a ticket to my Adelaide Fringe show four months later, and leave a creepy t-shirt for me with a mildly threatening message on it*. BECAUSE I SAID I LIKE ADELAIDE. I got in trouble for being a ‘skinny-basher’ and a ‘chubby-chaser’ when I had a whinge about the small sizing scheme at Kookai – one chick threatened to punch me in my “fat face” (cheers, babe!). I wrote an article against shark-culling and got criticised for swearing too much (fair call… so fuckin’ sorry about that one, ma’am), and showed my support for gay marriage and was called a bigot (which didn’t offend me because I’m pretty sure that guy was missing the point like a blunt pencil). Someone complained about my Tinder article, because they think Tinder is gross (so don’t bloody read an article about Tinder, der-brain). And perhaps most rudely of all, someone once commented that my opinion doesn’t count, because I am ‘just an actor and therefore uninformed’.

This guy likes me SO much, he paid me $23 and gave me a free t-shirt.

No one tell this girl that I'm a fat-faced certified kickboxing instructor.

Although I was having 99% positive responses (and 100% from the VIP’s in my life), it was the 1% that was keeping me awake at night. I wanted a break from worrying about offending people, so I tried to think of a completely neutral, inoffensive topic. It took me a month to think of something, but finally I had a harmless topic in mind; I wrote a love letter to Prince Harry… and offended hundreds of women by pointing out that Princess Diana’s life didn’t end well. Tasteless joke? Maybe. Grounds for readers being outraged? Not really. But instead of cowering under my blankets like I normally do when I accidentally upset a bunch of strangers, the outrage kinda pissed me off. Sadly, Princess Di died. It’s a horrible fact. However, I didn’t realise that audiences are so sensitive these days, that mentioning a death that happened 17 years ago is ‘too soon’ (and may I point out that I also mentioned Grace Kelly in the same sentence, but I guess 32 years ago is not too soon).

I was raised to arm myself with humour. There is not a single aspect of myself that I won’t joke about, because it makes me feel fearless. Even the topics I feel passionate about – feminism, domestic violence, equal marriage, environmentalism – anyone can joke about them without me blinking an eye, because I know the difference between someone taking the piss, and someone pissing me off. Granted, “I was just joking” is a cowardly and bullshit defense when speaking to an offended party. It’s a defense evoked by bullies, and it doesn’t excuse the behaviour. But we need to separate the bullies and the bigots from the larrikins, because there is liberation in comedy. While I was in first year of university, we tragically lost a dear friend in our class. We were absolutely devastated. The first joke about her absence in class was made within 24 hours. Not because we weren’t racked with grief – because it was our human nature to use comedy to help us cope. Comedians make jokes about cancer, about racism, about wars, about crimes, about every sensitive issue under the sun. Why? Not because they aren’t sympathetic to the issue, not because they are the devil incarnate – because they are fighting fire with funny.

A wonderfully sarcastic ninety-nine percenter.

It has become apparent to me that some people like to sit at their computer, with their fingers quivering over their keyboards, just waiting for something to be outraged over.** In these days of social media, we’re less likely to feel feelings, and more likely to post them. The perpetually pissed-off post-ers are ready to jump down anyone’s throat. Kochie says something dumb on morning television, and thousands of people (half of whom probably didn’t even watch it) make a status, ‘feeling furious’. Surely it must be exhausting to be so easily infuriated? Some women who identify themselves by their ‘feminism’ are so constantly outraged, they must have the deepest forehead wrinkles on the planet (not that they’d care, as they will point out emphatically). I believe in equality for both genders so that makes me a feminist. But I have trouble identifying with the raging 'feminists' on social media when I hardly hear about the most vital gender-biased issues – unequal pay, glass ceilings, sexism, sexual harassment, violence, and so on – and only about body image, who said what on the internet, and whether wearing make-up makes me liberated or conformed.  

Corinne Grant wrote an abso-fucking-lutely brilliant article on Hoopla, begging Australians to go back to the good ol’ us and start taking the piss. Laughing it off. Poking fun. “Take the piss, Australia. Enough with the hand-wringing and sniping, it isn’t getting us anywhere.” We are so busy pointing our fingers and tattle-telling at the slightest annoyance that we have forgotten how to let things run off our back, like water to the proverbial duck. Thanks to social media, everyone has a platform to instantly express their irritations, rather than deal with it or let it go.  Let’s try using our status updates to celebrate the things we love, or make each other laugh – not whinge about every frigging teeny-tiny thing that pissed us off today (unless you make a joke out of it). Focus on the ointment, not the fly.

If anything is actually offensive, by all means, we should put a stop to it. Anything that is racist, sexist, anti-gay, ageist, or insulting/discriminatory in any way should not be tolerated. But rather than trawling light-hearted blogs or trying to read between the tweets of a public personality, we should be focussing our indignation on offensive people with destructive intentions, people of great power and influence, and not attacking well-meaning people trying to fight the same fight. Tasteless jokes are not going to run the world, nor are they going to ruin it. Choose happiness, choose indifference, save your fists for the real fights. Be like Elsa. Let it go.

I’ve been called a lot of names this year (‘Humourless, glass-eyed, slack-jawed, wine-pickled yokel’ is my favourite) because some people seem to think that just because I have posted something on the internet, I either don’t have feelings, or I have permissibly opened myself up to being attacked. In a way, I guess I have (the latter, not the former… I do have feelings). I am posting my opinions on the internet for anyone to read, share, or criticise. That gives me some power, and I honestly try my best to be as careful as possible with it, to the point of paranoia. The readers who disagree with me coherently, politely and with their full name are fine – everyone is entitled to an opinion, and they have done so in a humanised manner. The readers who call me names and threaten me with violence/defamation/pokemon (well, maybe not pokemon) are almost always anonymous, making it very hard for me to track them down and argue with them in person. I would never joke about a minority, or defend myself to someone I have offended by saying ‘it was just a joke’. I feel terrible when I upset someone. My first grade teacher frowned at me for speaking out of turn, and I cried for a week. When a reader finds my blog insulting, I feel awful, ashamed, apologetic, awkward – all the ‘a’ feelings. Sometimes I can even see their point, and I’ll make a change to the offending word or phrase to appease them. However, it’s hard for me to not be annoyed that they are annoyed. Mine is a small, insignificant blog, with no racist, sexist, bigoted undertones, with no insults to humankind or animals, with no agenda except to raise the corners of the mouth, and I still manage to outrage readers on a regular basis. I’m so grateful for the 99% of people who are willing to have a laugh with me. I’ve finally realised what I need to do about the 1%. I don’t need to tread more carefully, or stop telling knock-knock jokes for fear of upsetting a door-enthusiast.

I need to throw a lamp at them. So they can lighten. The fuck. Up.

Thank you 99% for a wonderful year.

Love Lucy / Uninformed actor / Fat-face / Humourless, glass-eyed, slack-jawed, wine-pickled yokel / Proverbial water-shedding duck.

Lucy Gransbury. Serial offender.
*FYI, Mum called the cops for advice on this guy who passionately dislikes me, but they couldn't do much. If anyone sees a dude giving out creepy t-shirts at my show... give him my number so we can talk this out.
**I'm aware of the irony; although my blog is comedy-based, it is still just me having a public whinge, and now I'm whinging about people whinging about my whinging. But thanks for reading anyway.
By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably blogging in her pyjamas, with a book of knock-knock jokes in one hand, and a baked potato in the other.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Dear Prince Harry.

Dear Prince Harry (or, as you shall soon be known, hubby),

In just a couple of months, you’re turning thirty. It’s time, babe. You’ve had your fun messing around with girls like Chelsy and Cressida, but it’s time for you to find some princess-wife material. And it just so happens, I am of such quality princess-wife material, that I’m practically vicuña wool*.

For starters, dear Hubbykins, I’m up to date on my research. You’re an Apache pilot (I’m pretty sure Apache is a type of helicopter, or a French baked good), and given that you need a wife with an understanding of your passionate career, I have watched and re-watched a documentary on Apache pilots. Okay, it is an interview with you talking about being an Apache pilot. Okay, I watched some of it and then found a bit where you accidentally lifted your shirt and showed a bit of midriff then ran off to be a hero, so then I just focused on watching that bit over and over again. But still, I’m up to date on my research. Of your abs.

Fast forward to about thirty seconds, and thank me later. 
(If the video skips, it may because I wore a hole in it... )

Obviously, you have been looking at the wrong girls. If you want a good wife, you have to look at the obvious traits. Kate Middleton. Mary Donaldson. Jasmine. Belle. What do they have in common? Brown hair. I’m not being a hairist, I’m just sayin’. Harry, you need a girl with luscious brunette locks. Me. (Obviously, some princesses have blonde hair, like Princess Di and Grace Kelly and Cinderella. But only one of those ended well….)

Brunettes are naturally classy. It was meant to be.

Speaking of Princess Mary, us Aussie lasses make good princesses. It’s because we are made of good stuff - strong moral fibre, salt water, gumnuts and wine. That may not sound like a winning combination, but trust me, it works. An Aussie chick will keep you grounded by calling you a whinging pom when you get a bit stuffy. You are probably surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear – but what you need is a woman who will call you a dickhead when you’re being… well, a dickhead. I will proudly call you a dickhead, darling.

What else does a prince need in a missus? Someone who is good with direction. Why? Buckingham Palace is frigging huge. I may be missing the needle on my internal compass, but I am ready to live in a castle. Siri will help me out. I bet she knows her way to the ballroom from the stables.

Siri is being a polite smart arse, but pretty sure she's Buckingham ready.
(And yes, she calls me Lover Chops... it just feels right)

It must be hard being a prince and trying to weed out the girls with the wrong intentions. Rest assured, dear Hubba Bubba, I am not after your fortune. Although, I did read today that you're getting $18million on your thirtieth birthday in two months. I am turning 27 in September (we can have joint birthday parties when we are married), and I will probably get $20 in a floral card from my grandma. So I fully understand wanting to protect your assets. But don’t worry, I will be very good when we combine our bank accounts. Yesterday I bought boots that were on sale from $250 to $120, so technically I made $130. 

Unlike the ridiculous contestants, I never for a second believed that you were the prince in that stupid TV show, I Want To Marry Harry**. I know you. I’ve always been on your side, Future Hubby Harry. I’ve always argued that you were the hotter brother. More hair, more tan, more muscles. And you’re just a little bit wicked. A bit cheeky, a bit of a larrikin. Like the time you dressed as a Nazi for Halloween. Not the sharpest pencil in the box that day, but I sympathised – one time, when I was ten, I dressed as Cruella DeVil, and everyone accused me of identifying with puppy-killers. Well… they didn’t… but I’m sure if I was famous someone would’ve made a fuss.

My future hubby, keeping the tabloids in business. (Times like this, I would call him a dickhead)

Those girls that you have dated with long double-barrelled names and posh upbringings look kind of boring. I can flip two beers coasters at once and catch them on the first flip. I can whistle with my fingers and I have a lethal right cross. I can swear in Romanian, Spanish, Italian, French, and very colourfully in English, and I love potatoes more than an Irishman. I'm learning to juggle, because it would make for much more interesting footage of royal occasions if one of the princesses were juggling. I’ve thought this through.

Harry. Haz. HRH. Hubby-to-be. You need me. You can stop looking, I'm right here. Who knows how to be your perfect wife? I do. Henry Albert Charles David Windsor… I do.

With love and limited patience,
Lucy G. (HRH2B)

*Vicuña wool comes from the vicuña, which is like a fancy-looking llama with wool so damn fine (literally), it’s the most expensive material in the world. I assume that I will have slippers and car seat covers made of it when I’m Harry’s princess.

**Seriously, did those chicks actually believe that a Prince of England would go on a reality show in a foreign country to find a wife to share the Windsor fortune with? Did someone spike their coconut waters with stupid pills?!

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably outside Buckingham Palace, with a pair of binoculars and a wedding dress.