It’s a few years back, but at one point some people on the internet liked to toss about the question: “What’s classy if you’re rich, but trashy if you’re poor?” Horrid word, classy, but the answers were good. Knowing a judge by name. Minimalism. Police escorts. Family problems. Not having a telly. Having a big telly. Tax evasion. Drugs. Florida. Bringing your own wine to a restaurant.
It’s a question that always reminded me that, in Britain at least, tattoos were once the preserve of the wealthy, an inked brag of one’s travels: Edward VII and George V both had them, Churchill too. Everything changes, is the lesson.
One answer to the question I never anticipated, though, was “fake tan”. Fake tan, the preserve of Noughties-era WAGs, glamour models, Essex girls. Essex boys, come to that. Ross from Friends. It’s long been a thing — but a status symbol for the rich and powerful? Come off it. Real tans, I understand: the rich year-round brown that, like tattoos once did, suggests a lifetime of travel, of summers by the sea, winters on the slopes. But faking it? Once all it said was that you couldn’t get any further than the Fifty Shades of Spray salon on the high street. Fake tans, in other words, were for the have-nots.
This seemingly is no longer the case. Emily Maitlis, who famously gave Prince Andrew enough rope on Newsnight, apparently has one — a fact Nadine Dorries delighted in pointing out this week in her Mail column (raged the headline: “I won’t take lectures from a woman with an orange permatan”). Maitlis is one of this country’s most well-respected journalists — albeit evidently not by Dorries. Then there’s City of London and Cambridge-educated Claudia Winkleman, daughter of Lady Lloyd (or Eve Pollard, to you and me). Not your usual perma-tanned type.
Perhaps this is not such a surprise, after all: there was a time Botox was frowned upon. Not by those who used it, of course
The word is even the Queen has one. Her long-term make-up artist, Marina Sandoval, told the Telegraph last year that she advises “clients after a certain age to switch to a tinted moisturiser or one of the new liquid skin tints”. We have proof: the Haves are now Team Sunkissed. Sales of Hawaiian Tropic must be through the roof in Notting Hill. Change is afoot. But perhaps this is not such a surprise, after all: there was a time Botox was frowned upon. Not by those who used it, of course.
Still, I’m queasy when it comes to the men. I mean, come on. Donald Trump has long been famous for his, these days a light teak but in times gone by veering dangerously close to safety orange. Trump is so thoroughly dedicated to his creosote colour that, should this whole politics malarkey not go to plan — and once the bandages are off — he could yet forge a new career impersonating Evander Holyfield after the Mike Tyson bite.
Who else? Bradley Cooper and Matthew McConaughey’s sheens strike me not just as a little a bit suspect, but rather in the Joey Essex vein. Men faking it? They’re a medallion away from Sir Tom Jones in the Eighties.
Like I say, everything changes. And a bit of bronzer, why not? Who has the time to tan for real these days, and who would want to, given all the risks? Still, I can’t say I like it: I’ll stick to my beer garden builder’s tan. That said, I’m still a little bit excited for what’s next. Will and Kate with matching Turkey Teeth? It could yet happen. And maybe I’ll get a tattoo.
Harsh sentence for Japanese gymnast's victimless crime
Sometimes I marvel at how differently we all go through life. I had a case of the “mustn't grumbles” this week when reading about gymnast Shoko Miyata.
Aged 19 and already captain of the Japanese women’s gymnastics team, Miyata appears to have been strong-armed into resigning from the Olympics after the Japan Gymnastics Association (JGA) found her guilty of violating the squad’s code of conduct.
Miyata was to have a decent chance of success in Paris, and was hoping to lead her country to a first team medal at the Olympics in 60 years. Must have been some violation, then? Hardly. She was done for smoking a single cigarette and drinking a single alcoholic beverage.
It might be against the JGA’s code, but as far as I can tell, it’s a victimless crime that hardly lets the side down. Journalism, you will not be surprised to know, has rather looser rules. If we were all cut on the grounds of smoking and drinking, I’d wager every paper in the world would fold overnight.
Case in point? A fortnight ago, I went to a journalists’ meet up and met an industry colleague who wondered if I might “fancy a gin?” A kind and generous offer, had it not been 10am.
