Rachael did not ‘lose her cancer battle’, says proud husband
THE husband of BBC presenter Rachael Bland has urged well-wishers to stop saying his wife “lost her battle” with cancer after she died on Wednesday.
Steve Bland went on Twitter to cite the many victories she accomplished, including changing peoples lives and being the perfect wife and mother.
He wrote: “Please, no one ever say my girl @Rachael_hodges ‘lost her battle’. Changing thousands of lives, being a perfect mummy and wife and leaving a legacy most of us could only dream doesn’t sound much like losing to me.”
Ms Bland, who worked on Radio 5 Live, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2016 and began a blog about her experiences, later drawing on it to produce the BBC series You, Me and the Big C.
Mr Bland is not the first to ask that cancer not be treated as winning or losing a battle. Macmillan Cancer Support has also said “combative language” can have a detrimental effect on those facing cancer and their families.
Adrienne Betteley, of Macmillan, said: “We know that ‘battling’ can help some people remain upbeat about the disease, but for others the effort of keeping up a brave face is exhausting and unhelpful in the long term.” A podcast of You, Me and the Big C made top spot on the itunes chart on Tuesday, an ambition of Mrs Bland’s that her husband said had made her “very happy”.
This was about as subtle as an issue of Nuts magazine
Prime-time BBC shows featuring female characters with their hands down their knickers are a bit like buses – you wait forever for one to show up, and then two come along at once.
Bodyguard came first (fnar): one moment the home secretary is arguing for increased surveillance powers; the next, she is seducing her protection officer by stuffing her hand into her pants. (We’ve all been there.) And then there’s Wanderlust, a programme I was going to describe as sexually charged, until I realised that the phrase “sexually charged” implies some sort of seductive undercurrent to proceedings, when, in actual fact, it was about as subtle as an old issue of Nuts magazine. Indeed, it would be quicker to list the scenes that didn’t involve the cast-iron promise of sex, because there were none.
Both programmes have been accused of being unrealistic. Commentators have noted that a mother – such as the one played by Toni Collette in Wanderlust – would never have time to masturbate on a weekday morning, and most women would be appalled if someone from their hydrotherapy class tried to have sex with them.
Meanwhile, Bodyguard has been criticised by the likes of former home secretary Jacqui Smith, who said that the fictional politician “should do less s------- and more case work”. Smith should know, given that her career ended when it came to light that her husband had put through a parliamentary expenses claim for pornographic films.
But I digress. For me, the most fanciful part of Bodyguard was not the sex, but the fact that the home secretary was both shot at by a sniper and blown up by terrorists, within two episodes.
I find it quite amusing that in the year 2018, us Britons are still outwardly such prudes. It seems laughable that we would be so outraged by the sight of a middle-aged woman pleasuring herself under a duvet, when in two clicks you can see on the internet things that make Toni Collette’s character look like a nun.
The reaction to Wanderlust suggests a nation squirming in unity on their sofas at the sight of sex on television. We are so puritanical, when we have absolutely no need to be – the reason any of us exist at all is sex.
In British culture, sex is seen as filthy and dirty and something to be ashamed of. I’m not so sure. I kind of like sex. I think it can be fun, and nice, and as good a way as any to pass a Sunday night when the credits roll on your favourite BBC One drama. And I’d like to have more of it – on television, that is.
In an online world where porn is so easily available that it is simply assumed a woman will remove any hair down there, I think that it doesn’t do us any harm to be confronted with the unashamed reality of sex – often frustrating, sometimes humdrum, occasionally in positions other than missionary, but mostly with yourself.
There is an ongoing hoo-ha about sex education in schools that has recently been reignited with the news that children as young as four will learn about consent. Personally, I’d be delighted if my daughter got to learn about boundaries, especially when the NSPCC estimates that almost half of 11- to 16-year-olds have watched porn, and that most young people are desperate for ways to find out about sex that are safe and credible. Sex education was virtually non-existent when I was young; perfectly normal things such as masturbation filled me with shame until I was about 35.
As Joy, the therapist, says in Wanderlust: “Most of us are ashamed of our needs… we feel tremendous shame.” Which is tremendously sad, really, the kind of thing that probably still eats away at many grown adults who have ever experienced anything as normal as a feeling for a member of someone of the same sex. Witness the character who came to Joy to tell her she felt confused because she fancied a woman. Imagine! In this day and age!
Sex is normal, except when it isn’t, and the only way we empower people to safely tell the difference is by talking about it. An inability to speak openly and honestly about it has caused many people great suffering, and getting our knickers in a twist about things that are consensual and legal helps nobody. Wanderlust is a joyous thing – exactly as sex should be.