Katie Price (AKA, Jordan) recently gave an interview in which she slammed ex-husband, Peter Andre, saying: “I want to disown him... he’s not the man I fell in love with”.

I believe Katie is in need of a serious reality check.

Now, I do realise that this need isn’t new: this is after all the woman who at the age of 19 had her perfectly fine breasts enlarged to 32FF in the pursuit of fame as a glamour model, travelled to (one of) her wedding ceremonies in a “Cinderella” carriage, dressed in what can only be described as a frock stolen from one of those toilet dolls your Nan used to have.

Nevertheless, she is also a woman who chose to have children with Mr Mysterious Girl, and therefore she cannot – as much as she may wish to – disown him.

In the interview, Katie continued to give negative opinions on her ex and confided that the two do not speak.

Let’s not forget that these are two grown ups (sort of) who not only share a past, but also share a future, having jointly brought children into the world.

“I thought he thought with his heart but now it’s about money and fame – if you read the book it explains the reasons why I’m not just being harsh when I say that.”

No Katie, of course you’re not. You’re just trying to sell a book, a fact that has absolutely nothing to do with money or fame – just love.

Not that I don’t understand her sentiments – after all, most lf us have had that ex – you know, the one your friends politely gloss over in conversation, the one you cringe at pictures of, the one who once made your heart gasp but now makes your skin crawl every time their smug little face blasts its way onto your Facebook feed. And that’s ok. We all make mistakes.

But – and call me old-fashioned – when you have children with somebody, you accept the fact that divorced, estranged, or not, you are bringing that person into your life forever, or at least until the children are old enough (or can afford) to drive themselves around.

And you certainly don’t badmouth their father or mother within earshot, which in the crazy world of fame means anywhere near a journalist, a TV camera or your banal Twitter feed.

 

China has a vagina problem: their vaginas are speaking out. Or, at least, the owners of vaginas are speaking out and the rest of the country is none too pleased about it.

A group of students have recently published a photography assignment in which they hold up cards with messages from their lady-parts, expressing requests such as “Treat me with respect” (fair enough) and “I am not a sensitive word” (we hear ya). One even ambiguously declared, “Please don’t come in the name of love”’, which I will leave open for your interpretation.

The women have been labeled as shameless for pulling such a stunt.

But in a world where you can have your sensitive parts waxed, pierced, and surgically enhanced, is it any wonder that vaginas are beginning to fight back?

I remember last year seeing an advert online for vagina lightening, as in stuff that lightens the colour of your vaginal area. Obviously. Anyway, the ad showed a glum-looking woman perched on the sofa, ignored by her partner and contemplating what seemed to be deep, troubling existential questions. Then suddenly – WHOOSH – she begins using a product that washes her intimate parts while gently lightening them (think of gradual tanning moisturisers in reverse).

The next scene showed her frolicking about with afore-mentioned fella, nary a care in the world and apparently over the moon that her vagina was now several shades fairer.

At this point, I think it’s perfectly reasonable to lose all faith in our species. Do I think it’s making a very good point to hold placards up on behalf of your vagina? No, probably not.

Do I find it amusing? Yes. Am I writing about it? Of course.

Is this then how the vagina finds its voice: women in China waving scrappy bits of card in the air?

Well, I guess if even just one woman stops and thinks “Hey, I’m actually ok – my undercarriage doesn’t need to look like a porn star’s to be accepted” then maybe these placards have done something good.

It did start me thinking about my other body parts though. If they could talk, what would they say? My legs would probably have a good deal to say, considering they’ve spent a large proportion of my life hidden away because they’re simply too short. They’re like a donkey: laboured upon everyday to carry around some ungrateful woman who whips (wax) strips off and moans about their feebleness to everyone in the village. In fact, most parts of my body probably have pretty terrible complexes.

Maybe I should start going easy on them. They’re doing their best. In the meantime, I’ll keep them away from bits of cardboard and marker pens.