A Comedian's Rant

There is nothing more infuriating than walking into a clothes shop and being faced with a skinny, undernourished man who decides he's going to help you choose your new dress.

This happened to me last week in London; I was attending the prestigious BAFTA awards and needed a 'frock', something that will encompass my Jodie Marsh like breasts and cover my Vanessa Feltz thighs. My problem is that I am small, curvy and the only tight firm thing on my body is the skin on my inner wrist. I show it to young men in dark corners of nightclubs. It scares them to see it in daylight.

My daughter is tall, beautiful and her skin still fits her; well she is nineteen years old. Her burgeoning blossoming is parallel to my slow droopy demise, and that's not fair, but thankfully she doesn't have my Hobbit like DNA.

I am constantly amazed at my bodily functions – as the hair on my head slowly grows grey, the hair under my arms stays pitch black. My teeth were going dull, yet bright white hairs grow in my eyebrows. It's like the 'colour toner' in my body is severely confused.

I had recently tried to stop eating fatty foods and get more exercise but it only made me turn into an angry, bat winged, evil, cloven hoofed demon that shouted at strangers. My daughter actually begged me to quit my new health regime or she was going to live in Kazakhstan to escape my severe mood swings and erratic shouting.

So anyway there I was in the clothes shop standing in front of the skinniest, hippest man who looked horrified as he stared at my lumpy body and mentally checked the dresses in his 'collection' and eventually admitted that there was nothing that would stretch over my bosom. He asked if I had I tried a kaftan or possibly a colourful duvet cover?

I marched off to a high street store to find something in black that would cover the bits of my body that would scare people if they saw them exposed in strong light.

With this in mind, I recently recalled Madonna's interview in a top glossy mag telling us all how she needs to stay incredibly thin, as the men she has dated and married prefer her to have that, "fit and lean enough to run for a bus look". Like she has ever run through puddles trying to catch the night bus home in her life.

So she starves herself to keep her man happy.

Well done Madonna. All that living on a macrobiotic diet (which does not include pot noodles and chip butties apparently), exercising three hours a day and running on a treadmill whilst taking phone calls was to keep men happy and not yourself? I am disgusted, I don't care how sexy she looks at 47 years old, she aint happy. She goes to sleep dreaming of cake and exhausts herself in case her 'Guy' doesn't fancy her anymore.

I finally bought a lovely dark brown plunged neckline dress, went off to the BAFTA's and had Jake Gyllenhall offer his toned chest to me for a feel (I have the pictures to prove it). I may never be able to run for a bus, but I don't dream of cake… I have and it eat it!