Jo Elvin’s Notebook
Why Frankie the fearless is my queen of the castle
IT MIGHT be silly but I’m swelling with pride watching Frankie Bridge, former pop star with The Saturdays, winning the hearts of the nation from the I’m A Celebrity castle with her personable, funny, ‘crack on with it’ energy – even while tearfully facing down her throwing-up phobia during a particularly hideous eating trial.
I don’t know Frankie very well but we do have a bond that was forged back in 2012, when I was editor of Glamour magazine and she trusted me to run a cover story
detailing her private and harrowing struggle with depression.
An already nightmarish situation was made worse for her by inaccurate gossip swirling around in some sections of the media; her glaring absence from the band’s promotional appearances was assumed to be everything from drug addiction to an eating disorder. She was just 23, but keen to use her experiences to open up a taboo conversation. She was also, understandably, terrified. She correctly predicted some of the derisory comments flung her way (‘What does a beautiful, rich, footballer’s wife have to be depressed about?’).
But, actually, the reaction was overwhelmingly positive and I’m proud to say that our work together on that story definitely inspired better conversations about young people’s often-dismissed mental health. She became an ambassador for MIND. Going so public, I believe, was a huge part of her healing process.
I remember when my overwhelming impression of Frankie was of someone rigid, timid, trying to take up the least space she possibly could in any room. She even said at the time that she genuinely felt that if she disappeared, it wouldn’t matter to anyone.
It is wonderful to see her take the space to which she’s entitled. She might say she’s grown stronger and that’s what we’re witnessing on I’m A Celeb. But I think she’s had more strength, all along, than she even realised. Queen of the castle? She has my vote.
It’s business as usual for Hollywood elite
ON THE one hand, it’s reassuring to know that just a few days ago, disgraced movie producer Harvey Weinstein lost his bid to have 11 sexual assault charges – including rape and sexual battery – thrown out by a judge in Los Angeles. On
the other, we have Naomie Harris in today’s issue of You (the magazine free with this paper and which I edit) explaining that a ‘huge, huge star’ once put his hand up her skirt during an audition.
There are plenty of ‘he said/she said’ stories where we must make up our own mind about who to believe, but in this case a director and casting director saw the whole thing. And no one said a word because, as Naomie says, ‘he was – he is – such a huge star’.
How depressing to have it confirmed that, even in the aftermath of Harvey, it’s business as usual for powerful Hollywood men who know that powerful Hollywood women are still risking too much by calling out their disgusting behaviour.
Sally’s just not as sexy in bovver boots
I COULDN’T believe my luck when I scored a preview ticket to the new West End production of Cabaret. It’s a show that has mesmerised me since Bob Fosse’s 1972 film adaptation entered my orbit. This new production is magical, from the second you cross the threshold at the Playhouse Theatre and you’re standing in the dark, smoky Kit Kat Club. The pricier seats are cosy tables complete with phones that light up if someone wants to flirt a little.
I don’t want to give too much away but Eddie Redmayne, as the Emcee, is extraordinary. And Jessie Buckley’s ebullient hurricane of a Sally Bowles made me forget about Liza Minnelli.
The only thing I found slightly curious was Sally’s stage look. I want her to be dressed sexy but here she’s in a rather voluminous kind of bed jacket, accessorised with chunky clunky hiking boots.
I suspect it would been a ‘nein’ from the original Kit Kat voyeurs. And I can’t help feeling that in the process we’ve lost a lot of the feminine sexiness, which is Sally’s inspiring super power.
Call me old-fashioned but if you’re belting out the Dear John letter of a song, Mein Herr, it’s more thrilling seeing it delivered by a sensual creature in a slip of a playsuit than in a pair of bovver boots.
And just like that, a new friend arrived
I MADE a new friend last week. How often does that happen when you reach middle age? To be honest, for me, quite a lot. I think I might be a bit unusual in that, at nearly 52, I still carry on like my six-year-old self, bellowing ‘Let’s be friends!’ at the first girl I see standing near the swings.
Deep, long-standing friendships are wonderful too – and they’ve been almost fetishised in discussions around And Just Like That…, the TV show that revisits the Sex And The City girls, 20 years on.
In the first ten minutes of the show, we learn that Samantha fell out with Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte, legged it to London and has blanked them ever since. (Very uncomfortable viewing, considering Kim Cattrall did not reprise her Samantha character because of her fractious real-life relationship with Sarah Jessica Parker.)
So not all friendships are for life, after all, and that doesn’t make them worthless.
If a new friend turns out to be one of those, that’s wonderful. But I highly recommend the odd meaningless friendship fling, too. Much like less platonic flings, they can put a spring in your step.
Scolded... by my Greta Funsponge
IN FACT, my grown-up playdate with my new friend went so well that, in a wild departure from my usual form, I didn’t fall asleep at 9.30pm. Suddenly, while clinking over another round, I noticed my 16-year-old daughter’s number come up on my phone. Before I could say ‘Hi’, I was being told off: ‘Where the hell are you?! Do you know what time it is?’ I will admit I was quite shocked to see that it was half past midnight. But this is an unsettling new frontier when the child scolds the parent. Maybe I should launch a new stage of middle-aged rebellion: get an inappropriate tattoo or perhaps a piercing and see how much my very own Greta Funsponge will tolerate.