Epic Games remove and refund Fortnite’s Gunner Pet cosmetic - Dexerto - Hello friends Beauty tools and beauty tips, In the article that you are reading this time with the title Epic Games remove and refund Fortnite’s Gunner Pet cosmetic - Dexerto, we have prepared this article well for you to read and take the information in it. hopefully the contents of the post what we write you can understand. all right, have a nice reading.
Epic Games remove and refund Fortnite’s Gunner Pet cosmetic - Dexerto |
- Epic Games remove and refund Fortnite’s Gunner Pet cosmetic - Dexerto
- This Apex Legends axe costs £112 in loot boxes - Eurogamer.net
- Mysteries of Menopause - Features - TheStranger.com
- CHRISTOPHER STEVENS reviews last night's TV - Daily Mail
| Epic Games remove and refund Fortnite’s Gunner Pet cosmetic - Dexerto Posted: 14 Aug 2019 03:58 PM PDT After facing heavy criticism from players, Epic Games have decided to remove the contentious Gunner Pet cosmetic item from Fortnite Battle Royale. Advertisement On August 14, Epic announced that the Gunner Pet will removed from players' inventories moving forward, and anyone who purchased the cosmetic will receive a full refund. In fact, almost uncharacteristically, they also apologized for having put the item up for sale in the first place, and have promised players an additional 200 V-Bucks of compensation as a sign of goodwill. Advertisement "We should not have released the Gunner Pet and apologize for doing so," they tweeted. "Within the next couple of days, all purchases of Gunner will be refunded for the full amount of 1000 V-bucks as well as an additional 200 V-bucks and the Pet will be removed from the Locker" Furthermore, those who purchased the item but used a Refund Token to return it will also receive the compensation, as well as another Token for future use. "Anyone who purchased Gunner and refunds it prior to this make-good will instead receive 200 V-bucks and a replacement Refund Token that can be put towards any eligible items that were purchased within the past 30 days."
Advertisement Released in the August 13-14 Item Shop, the Gunner Pet instantly fell under extreme scrutiny and criticism from many in the community who felt that Epic were trying to rip off players. The item, which cost 1,000 V-Bucks, was very similar to the Bonesy Pet offered to those who reached at least Tier 12 of the Season 6 Battle Pass. In fact, the only noticeable difference between the two cosmetics was that Gunner had a light fur complexion than Bonesy. Otherwise, the two pets looked identical.  Reddit - JohnWickBot The Gunner and Bonesy pets look virtually identical. Advertisement This, predictably, led to a lot of outrage from players, which did not think it was right for Epic to charge such a hefty price for an item that was once available for free. "Wow they're actually selling a literal recolor of an old battle pass item for $10," wrote Reddit user 'King_D3D3D3.' "Not even a new model at all." "This is a massive red flag for me," added 'Tolbana,' "At what point does the difference become minuscule enough for people to understand? Back when Skull Trooper was controversial many argued 'It's not BP so it's fine!' Now look how the goal posts have moved." Advertisement Fortunately for players, Epic have decided to remove and refund the item, which otherwise would have meant setting a dangerous precedent that would open the door for them to recycle old Battle Pass items through the Item Shop for further profit.  |
| This Apex Legends axe costs £112 in loot boxes - Eurogamer.net Posted: 14 Aug 2019 06:51 AM PDT The games industry's insistence on profiting from gambling mechanics continues today, as Apex Legends' highly-anticipated Iron Crown Collection Event has arrived - absolutely riddled with loot boxes. In contrast to Apex Legends' previous event Legendary Hunt, in which all new cosmetics could be earned or purchased directly from the store, most of the Iron Crown Collection cosmetics are locked behind expensive loot boxes. Worst of all, Bloodhound's heirloom set - containing an axe, a kill quip and a banner pose - can only be unlocked after opening around £130's worth of the packs. And then paying another £28 on top of that. Yes, really. Time for a detailed maths breakdown - and I hope you're ready, as this is a little complicated. Skip to the bits in bold if you don't want your brain to melt.  First up, what do you get for free in the Iron Crown Collection Event? There are a number of challenges players can complete to earn "Crowns" - a special event currency that can be used to purchase items in the Iron Crown Collection Event store. So far you can earn 30 Crowns through the challenges (15 per challenge), which is enough to buy you either a mediocre Longbow skin or a mediocre banner.   You can also earn two Iron Crown Collection Event Packs (AKA loot boxes) through completing challenges. Each loot box contains either one rare or legendary item, along with 30 Crowns (bringing the free Crowns total to 90). As there are 24 rare and legendary items (with no duplicates), and you get two free loot boxes, that means you have to buy 22 loot boxes to collect all the event items in this section of the store. Each loot box costs 700 Apex Coins, which converts to roughly £5.59 each if you purchase the smallest coin pack, or £4.86 each using the largest pack exchange rate. In terms of actual coin packs, however, you need 15,400 Apex Coins, which you can't buy directly. At the most expensive (16 lots of 1000 at £7.99) that will cost £127.84, or at the cheapest (by buying the 115,000 pack and 4000 pack) it comes to £111.98 (with some coins spare). So to recap, that's between £111.98 to £127.84 for all event items in the loot boxes. (Assuming you unlock two loot boxes through gameplay, otherwise it's between £119.97 and £135.83.)  Still with me? It gets worse, as Apex Legends has locked some of its new items behind these loot boxes. Bloodhound's heirloom set - including that axe - becomes available to buy once all 24 items are unlocked, so you must pay another 3500 Apex Coins on top of all that (depending on which pack you buy them in, a few quid either side of £25). This brings the total cost to 18,900 Apex Coins, which is £151.81 at its most expensive (19 packs of 1000 for £7.99) or £135.97 at its cheapest (through the 11500, 6700 and 1000 packs). To repeat, if you want the Bloodhound heirloom set, it'll cost you between £135.97 and £151.81. (Again assuming you unlock two loot boxes through gameplay, to directly buy them all it's between £143.97 and £167.79.)  That's bad enough, but the decision to hide the best cosmetics in loot boxes feels particularly egregious in light of the criticism Apex Legends previously received for its Battle Pass, with the main concern being a lack of good cosmetic items for the price. The previous Legendary Hunt event provided Battle Pass holders with special event skins, but this time, owning the Battle Pass gets you nothing extra. Adding further insult to injury, these event items are limited to the next two weeks, thus applying pressure for players to purchase them now or face losing them forever. And, should you want a specific skin for your favourite character, there's no way to directly purchase it: thus leaving you to the ravages of RNG loot box hell. Unlike opening a loot box, the community reaction to this event has been predictable: the Apex Legends subreddit is outraged, and many players are calling for a boycott of spending on the event. While loot boxes have been present in Apex Legends since launch, the sheer cost of event items and the heirloom set seems to have tipped most players over the edge. Many consider this a deliberate attempt to attract "whales" - players who overspend in games - rather than realistic pricing for the average player. It's worth noting the existing Wraith heirloom set (similarly containing a knife, banner pose and quip) is only obtainable via opening loot boxes, with the EA website stating there's a less than one per cent probability of the set dropping. There's a 500 box pity timer, but that's potentially £319.96 to £399.50 spent trying to get it. Perhaps the enduring chance of it being a possible drop meant players were less opposed to it, compared to the attention-grabbing hard paywall for Bloodhound's heirloom in this limited-time event. In any case, the patch notes say Bloodhound's heirloom set will eventually end up in the regular loot pool after the event, likely with the same odds as Wraith's. Why is this happening now? Possibly to curb a drop-off in spending, as Apex Legends previously saw a slump in revenue - although it's seemingly still making huge amounts of cash. Perhaps it's more a case of game companies pushing the boundaries of what they can get away with: something Activision has previously been accused of with Call of Duty: Black Ops 4, although the infamous £20 hammer's got nothing on Apex Legends' £136 axe. EA, meanwhile, recently said it considers loot boxes to be "surprise mechanics" akin to Kinder Eggs in a disastrous Parliamentary session with the Digital, Culture, Media and Sport Committee. Personally, I can't imagine anyone spending over £100 on chocolate eggs - and one has to wonder how long companies can get away with aggressive loot box monetisation schemes like this. If you'd like to block yourself from loot box temptation, simply change your EA regional settings to Belgium, where loot boxes are illegal and cannot be accessed in-game. You're welcome.  |
| Mysteries of Menopause - Features - TheStranger.com Posted: 13 Aug 2019 10:25 PM PDT  Though it inspires an almost Kierkegaardian level of fear and trembling in many women, menopause is cool. And more than cool, it's freeing. Alexandra Citrin "Hot flash!" I announced as I reached for something to fan myself with. The conversation over the coffee-shop counter stopped dead. The other customers had that get-me-out-of-here look, and the barista turned bright red, like he was having an even hotter flash himself. I fanned away, shamelessly. And intrigued. Call it my moment of menopausal enlightenment. With just two words, I seemed to have stumbled on a whole new mode of transgression, voicing something most people would rather be left unvoiced. The menopausal woman as social transgressor? Count me in! That was more than 20 years ago. You'd think a whole generation of outspoken women would have moved things forward since then. But even though we no longer refer to menopause as "the change"—which, like most euphemisms, is absurd, like you're going to metamorphose into a giant insect—it's still merely whispered among women, as though there were something shameful about it. Indeed, for some, the prospect of menopause seems to induce an almost Kierkegaardian level of fear and trembling. In which case whatever I say here about my own experience may only add to that dread. Or it may create its own kind of metamorphosis, opening up a very different perspective. You might even end up agreeing with me that however hot those flashes, menopause is cool. And more than cool, it's freeing. Though it didn't seem that way to me when it first began. In what I suspect was a case of feminist snobbery, I'd managed to convince myself that only wimpy women got hot flashes. I'd read somewhere that a quarter of all women never do, and that they sail through menopause with blithe nonchalance. And although blithe nonchalance had never been my thing, I fully expected to be one of them. So I was caught off guard when the flashes began. In fact, I was insulted. "You mean I'm just an ordinary biological being? I don't get a free pass?" Hot flashes are the most obvious "symptom" of menopause. The quote marks are there because a symptom implies something medically wrong, instead of a natural process. And hot flashes are not symptoms of illness. They're withdrawal symptoms. Withdrawal, that is, from an immensely powerful drug: hormones. You can ignore the gradual disappearance of your period. For many, that may come as a relief. But hot flashes aren't ignorable, especially since "flash" is a misnomer. Here and gone in a second? No way. These most public signs of menopause last at least a couple of minutes, and sometimes far longer. When they come during the day, they're hard to disguise. ("Is it really hot in here or what?" you say as you resist the impulse to strip, and then realize from the way people are staring at you that the answer is "or what.") But when they come at night? That's something else. "Do you sleep warm?" a saleswoman once asked as I was shopping for a new mattress. The question came with an oddly meaningful look, but in my premenopausal innocence, I failed to interpret it. What she meant was: "Do you have night sweats?" In which case, as I'd discover a couple of years later, the foam mattress I'd decided on was not a great choice. Rubber and sweat don't mix. Night sweats are simply nighttime hot flashes. Not such a big deal, you might think, until you start coming wide awake two or three times a night, radiating heat. And I do mean heat. Throw-off-the-covers, take-a-cold-shower, stand-naked-at-the-open-window-during-a-snowstorm kind of heat. Which goes a long way to explaining why menopausal women have a rep for "emotional volatility." When you can't get a decent night's rest for months at a time, you end up seriously sleep-deprived. But this is far more than simply physical. It's existential. Hot flashes are the clearest possible message, not just inscribed on your body but radiating out from inside it, that you no longer have any biological reason to be alive. Your reproductive function—the continuation of the species—is over, done with. You're not producing eggs anymore. You're no longer fit for breeding. The prime Darwinian reason for your existence on this earth is hereby declared null and void. And this is a relatively new state of being. Not so long ago, that menopausal message would have ended with "over and out," since until the early 20th century, not that many women lived long enough to experience it. Before vaccines and antibiotics, the average life span—worldwide—was in the early 40s, and it had been that way for most of recorded history. Something as seemingly minor as an infected cut or drinking the wrong water (or childbirth, or the flu, let alone the plague) could kill you. That's not even counting war and famine. Which is another reason menopause caught me by surprise: I never expected to live long enough to go through it. As a student in England, I'd marched with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in the conviction that World War III—the big one, the nuclear one—was close (as it still is, and given the current occupant of the White House, more so than ever). We were all about to die, I thought, so who needed to even consider menopause? Yet here I was 30 years later in Seattle, hot-flashing and night-sweating like crazy. So now what? Sure, you can fight menopause, if denial is your thing. I know because I made it mine for a while. "Screw this," I thought. "No way am I putting up with it." And headed straight for HRT—hormone replacement therapy. Why care about the long-term cancer risk when I could call biology's bluff right now? Give me my estrogen fix, and I'd be fine. I could kid myself—and a few others—that I was still a sexually attractive being. Or at least a sexually available one. All of which came to a screeching halt when I developed uterine fibroids. These made menstruation a nonevent by comparison. Huge clots of blood kept slithering out of me, inducing a kind of fascinated horror. I was almost proud that I could produce that much blood and still stand upright. "Surgery," said the doctor. "A routine procedure, nothing to worry about." But since the prospect of a sharp instrument pointed anywhere in my direction tends to induce intense worry, this failed to reassure. Surely there was a less radical option. Even—gasp—the obvious one. I steeled myself, and bid a mournful farewell to HRT, all those lovely artificial hormones. Sure enough, the fibroids disappeared, starved of the estrogen that had been feeding them. And the hot flashes and night sweats started back up, stronger than ever for having been delayed. As though biology were saying, "Ha, knew I'd catch you sooner or later." *** Okay, you think, you can deal with this. Instead of trying to pretend that hot flashes don't exist, all you need to do is go down to Uwajimaya and get a couple of paper fans, preferably ones with tassels or fringes. Open a fan up with a flick of the wrist (this takes practice) and make like a courtesan or a Southern belle or Madame Butterfly (this might not take practice). And if someone is embarrassed by your having a hot flash, politely suggest that they grow the fuck up. But then you'll find out that once the flashes and sweats are done—a year or two on average, though I still get them occasionally—you don't end up back where you started. You look in the mirror one clear winter morning when the light is really bright and realize that your body seems to be, um, changing. Not into a giant insect, true. But what you see doesn't match your usual image of yourself. You knew you had a wrinkle or two—but in that morning light, it's no longer possible to deny that there are a lot more of them, and that they're more pronounced. You raise your arms and realize that your skin isn't as smooth and taut as it once was. It occurs to you with a shiver of dismay that the word might be "sagging." Your waist seems to have expanded somehow, which could be why you've been complaining that they're making jeans smaller than they used to. And you might find—could it really be?—that your pubic hair looks suspiciously thinner. Your pubic hair, for chrissakes! That's getting downright personal. And this is only what you can see in the mirror. Where the merest thought of sex was once enough to make you go all moist and lubricious, now you have to kind of concentrate to get where you want to be. Not that you're anywhere near that dread phrase "vaginal dryness," and yet the possibility of it hovers, challenging your sense of yourself as a sexual being. If you have a flair for hyperbole, you might even suspect that you're gradually being desexed. None of this is possible, you think. You're too young for this. You're not ready for it. But your body says you are. And at some point, your mind is likely to catch up. While some women stay lustily active long after menopause, defying sophomoric sniggers about cougars, many don't. Sexual desire often goes down along with the hormone levels, though since we're still at the whispering stage, nobody seems to know how often. In my case, however, it went way down. And while that sounds like it must have felt like the cruelest blow of all, it didn't. One friend thinks this might be easier for me to say since I had a ball as an active sexual being. Dancing in between the pill and AIDS, I had no sense that I'd missed out on anything, so it could be that I'd had my fill. Yet I think it more likely that my increasing indifference to what's conventionally thought of as the loss of sexual desire had nothing to do with how much sex I had or hadn't "had" (that weird phrase "having sex," as though it were something to be consumed). More likely, that is, that it simply came with the territory. A loss is only something you feel deprived of, and I didn't feel deprived. And still don't. Yet there's a whole pile of interested parties out there all too eager to convince me that my lack of a sense of lack is itself a lack. As they see it, this is not just a loss but a problem. And more than a problem, a "dysfunction," a "disorder." Which apparently means that I need to be made functional again. Or brought back to order. *** This is where the big money comes in, eager to capitalize on the desire to ward off a natural process. "Loss of libido," that is, has been transformed into a marketing opportunity. Though it began not with women but with men. Specifically, with the male equivalent of menopause: the gradual process known as andropause, which is the result of decreasing levels of testosterone. The range of "symptoms" includes declining sperm count, receding hairline, increasing body fat, and thinning pubic hair (yes, men too). But the one andropausal sign that constitutes the biggest challenge to standard ideas of male sexuality is what is now known as erectile dysfunction. This became a go-to diagnostic category when Pfizer researchers working on a new cardiovascular drug discovered that penile erection was one of the drug's side effects. The company's marketers got a hard-on at the news and set about what they call "drug repositioning." They'd restore penises to functionality and render them safe for prime-time television with sunnily crafted commercials using the abbreviation ED, which sounded kind of man-next-door friendly. And the woman next door? "Female Viagra," of course. It debuted in 2015, packaged with an unerring instinct for stereotype in the form of little pink pills. Branded as Addyi, it made its bid for FDA approval as a treatment for HSDD, or "hypoactive sexual desire disorder"—a DSM-III diagnostic category that evidently considers me a disorderly woman and has no idea that I might take that as a compliment. Where Viagra works on blood flow, Addyi works on neurotransmitters, an "all-in-the-brain" approach that may make sense to many women. But there's a lot about Addyi that doesn't make sense. It's expensive, to start with. It doesn't mix with alcohol. And even if you're a wealthy teetotaler, you still have to take it every day, sex or no sex. Plus, as reported in the Journal of the American Medical Association, the best you can expect from Addyi is that it "increases sexually satisfying events 0.5 times a month." An extra half orgasm a month. For $400. Not covered by insurance. You might not even be aware of that half orgasm, since the main effect of Addyi appears to be sedation—in fact, sedation to the point of "sudden prolonged unconsciousness," especially when combined with booze. Which makes it sound not unlike a date-rape drug. And if the prospect of really expensive, unconscious sex is not enough to turn you off, you might consider the fact that Addyi failed FDA approval twice. It only succeeded on the third try when its manufacturer, Sprout Pharmaceuticals, hired a public-relations firm to create a ginned-up consumer advocacy campaign. The FDA doubled down on the mysteries of its approval criteria last month when it gave the go-ahead to a new "low sexual desire" drug for women. This one's called Vyleesi, due on the market in September in the form of an auto-injector pen at a mere $899 for the pen itself, plus $99 for each subsequent dose. Just jab yourself in the thigh or the belly 45 minutes before sex—ouch!—and you'll be good to go. Except for the nausea, that is. Per the manufacturer's website, "nausea is reported in 40% of patients who receive up to 8 monthly doses"—though, with confusing vagueness, nausea "improves for most patients with the second dose." Plus, since the drug stimulates melanin receptors, it can darken the skin of your face and breasts, as well as your gums—particularly if you already have dark skin. So now you'll be able to inject, throw up, get blotchy, and feel sexy. Your nearest drugstore is a lot cheaper, and a lot more direct. Mine boasts two whole shelves of glycerin- and silicone-based lubricants in the "feminine hygiene" aisle, placed at eye level right above the condoms and the pregnancy test kits. Astroglide and K-Y Jelly paved the way here, repositioning anal-sex standbys into an expanded array of "couples lubricants" (his and hers, blue and red) as well as specifically "feminine" ones, so that while your vagina is saying "I'd rather not," you can trick it into saying "okay." Or you can trick your eyes instead. If your body is trying to tell you that you're really not up for sex, you can at least look like you're up for it and fake the bloom of pulchritude. Thus the $8 billion business of cosmetic surgery (sharp instruments!). And injections of a paralytic toxin (more sharp instruments!). And hundreds—maybe even thousands—of organic and not-so-organic creams, lotions, gels, infusions, balms, fillers, volumizers, plumpers, serums, super-serums, and mega-serums. Regarding which, the main organizing principle appears to be that the smaller the bottle, the higher the price. But why do we even want to play such tricks? Why do so many of us—both women and men—find it so hard to listen to our bodies when they don't respond like they used to? Or acknowledge what should surely be self-evident, which is that we're not hormone-driven teenagers anymore. What exactly is wrong with waning libido? Why does it seem so threatening? Or is what we're really afraid of something else? Not menopause itself, but what it signifies: age. *** Ever since I went off HRT, I've looked my age. Premenopausal friends rush to insist that this isn't so and seem disturbed—even dumbfounded—when I ask what's wrong with looking my age. I've apparently asked a very un-American question. Indeed, given the cosmetics and pharmaceutical industries, an anti-capitalist one. But I suspect what makes it so challenging for many women is the fear that without youthful sexuality, you somehow don't count. To be postmenopausal, that is, is to risk becoming the invisible middle-aged woman. She does exist. The day I first saw her, she was all too visible—the kind of totally unremarkable woman whose presence I'd never have registered if she hadn't been staring at me while I gazed in the windows of the downtown Nordstrom. "What does she think she's doing?" I thought, with what I now recognize as dismissive condescension. "What's her problem?" I tried to outstare her, but she held her ground insistently. Maybe she was someone I'd met and didn't remember? I'm not that good at recognizing faces, so that figured. Come to think of it, she did look kind of familiar... Which is when I finally realized that this middle-aged woman was me, reflected in the store window against the background of the latest fashions. A rude reality check? Yes, and a good one. One response would have been to head straight for the cosmetics counters, but instead I kept on walking and started thinking. Did I really place so much store in how I appeared in the eyes of others? Had I ever actually enjoyed being stared at in the street? Did I ever think a wolf whistle was a compliment? Had any of that been in any way cute, or had it felt more like harassment? I'd come literally face-to-face with the fact that I was no longer a sexual object. Still female, obviously, but no longer conforming to feminine stereotype. And to my surprise, this felt like a relief. More than a relief—an emancipation. Whatever need I'd felt to conform to that stereotype before menopause, I no longer did. I began to appreciate the anonymity of the middle-aged woman. I was free to look as feminine or as unfeminine as I liked. I could choose my degree of visibility and enjoy the ease of flowing smoothly, unremarked, through public space. Middle-aged women, I realized, would make excellent spies. Not that I totally gave up on feminine signifiers. I haven't done high heels since karate messed up my knees years ago, but I'm still a sucker for long suede boots and fingerless gloves reaching up to my elbows and any color nail polish but pink. Not because I want to look attractive—attractive to whom? or for what?—but because I like them. They make me smile. And they're effortless. I may admire the way some older women rock exquisitely groomed silver hair and defiantly red lipstick, but my hair has never been anything but unruly, and I defy better without any lipstick at all. And without sexual desire. Or any desire to reestablish it. I realize how terrifying this sounds to a lot of women, for the simple reason that I know how terrifying it would have once sounded to me. I can practically hear my past self screaming: "What do you mean, no desire?" She might even be cowering in dismay or weeping in pity for the future me. An end to sexuality? The horror, the horror! Yet I'm anything but horrified. And it feels like anything but an end. Because the obvious needs to be stated: The end of sex isn't the end of life. After menopause, most of us get two or three decades more, and these decades feel to me like an unexpected gift. So what kind of ungracious idiot would I be to reject a gift this big? I could spend these years shriveled into mourning my sexual self, or I could get down with hormone-free existence (almost hormone-free, that is, since postmenopausal bodies still retain about 20 percent of what they once had, in a kind of basic maintenance level). And here's where I discovered that there was a lot to get down with. My mind felt clearer, for a start. It was as though there'd been a very fine, gauzy film over it, a kind of barely detectable hormonal mist that had now lifted. It felt like I'd gotten back full use of my intellect, so much so that I suspect I've done my best work in the two decades since menopause. And where I'd imagined that waning libido would mean waning energy, it didn't. Like so many others, I'd managed to conflate libido with vitality—a conflation that only demonstrates that we're all still Freudians at heart. My sense of vitality was as strong as ever; it just no longer depended on sex. Which is why I still work out and stay in shape—not in order to attract anyone, but because it feels good to be in a smoothly working body, and I think better this way. Besides, if I do get the urge (that 20 percent maintenance level doing its thing), it's easy and surprisingly quick to satisfy it myself. Menopause, it turns out, freed me from want—from wanting not only sex but everything we tend to associate with it. Wanting to be attractive. Wanting to please. Wanting to prove something. This is very relaxing. I'm less concerned with how others see me, and thus more at ease with myself. And with others. There's no longer any sexual subtext to my interactions with men—or with women—and that seems to allow for more meaningful conversation, more forthrightness, more honesty. In other words, sex isn't getting in the way. Not that I'm ignoring it. If I no longer want sex myself, I find that I'm more generous about it for others. There's no sense of envy or resentment, but instead a kind of welcoming beneficence. In my more self-aggrandizing moments, it's as though I'm some kind of crone-goddess sitting cross-legged on the rim of a high mesa, watching those still in the throes of hormones pursue sex down below me as I smile and lift my hand in blessing, saying, "Go, my children, go. Enjoy!" So hold off on the pity, and spare me the dismay. I'm not waning, and I'm not in a state of loss. I'm post-sexual. I'm into it. And I'm thriving up here on my mesa.  |
| CHRISTOPHER STEVENS reviews last night's TV - Daily Mail Posted: 13 Aug 2019 06:01 PM PDT Kathy Burke's All Woman Rating: Revolutions: The Ideas That Changed The World Rating: That strange and unfamiliar sound — I haven't heard it for years. Surely it can't be . . . someone talking common sense on the telly? Actress Kathy Burke, forever adored as the foul-tempered Waynetta Slob ('I'm 'Aving A Fag!') from Harry Enfield's sketch show, was investigating the current obsession with surgically enhanced beauty on All Woman (C4). She couldn't see the point. 'Some of us are lookers and some of us . . . not so much!' she shrugged. 'But just because I'm happy wiv me big fat self, doesn't mean other women are.'  Kathy Burke (right) meets former Love Island contestant Megan Barton-Hanson Trying to understand what compelled countless women to undergo expensive cosmetic procedures, she interviewed shop girls, plastic surgeons and reality stars — and ended up more baffled than ever. Megan Barton-Hanson, an ex-stripper who found fame on Love Island, revealed she had her first nip-and-tuck as a bullied teenager, when she got her jug ears pinned back. To blame all your woes on bullying is the modern-day lady's equivalent of fainting from a fit of the vapours. It might all be an act but no one dares utter a word of criticism. Bullies didn't drive Megan to have a nose job, though — she did that because her mum was getting one done, too. Perhaps there was a two-for-one offer at the conk shop. She's had her breasts done twice as well, and yet she still hasn't been able to purchase complete happiness. Kathy tried to be politely sympathetic, but the look of aghast bafflement on her face told its own story. Listening to a Harley Street face-wrangler give her the spiel about 'percentages of perfection' and 'golden ratios', she was even less convinced. What was the point, she wondered, of spending tens of thousands to erase your own unique beauty and replace it with something mass-produced and anonymous?  Megan Barton-Hanson, an ex-stripper who found fame on Love Island, revealed she had her first nip-and-tuck as a bullied teenager, when she got her jug ears pinned back She might have added that because so many famous octogenarians have copious plastic surgery, any woman at any age who has 'work done' can end up looking like a pensioner. And a botched job could leave you with the face of a badly embalmed corpse. Her heart went out to Laura, a 20-year-old shop worker who wanted to boost her bust from a B-cup to an E-cup. Kathy thought it was a terrible idea, and as gently as possible she said so. At least Laura realised why she felt so inadequate without over-stuffed airbags under her T-shirt: social media was manipulating everyone she knew. 'We can film and photograph ourselves constantly,' she said. Identifying the addiction doesn't cure it, of course. The smartphone, with its all-in-one video camera and screen, is to blame, though physicist Jim Al-Khalili had nothing but praise for the device on Revolutions: The Ideas That Changed The World (BBC4).  Physicist Jim Al-Khalili had nothing but praise for the smartphone on Revolutions: The Ideas That Changed The World (BBC4) He's one of those scientists who could still be burbling about the wonders of harnessing physics even as an atom bomb goes off. As far as Professor Jim is concerned, science can do no wrong. Despite its lack of critical thinking, this has been a interesting series that selects disparate threads from history and weaves them together to show how an indispensable invention came to life. The episode on cars was especially good, suggesting that the initial breakthrough in modern transport came not with the wheel but with the dog-sled. This time he delved into Roman military codes as well as Alexander Graham Bell's experiments with the ears of cadavers, which influenced the design of the telephone speaker — not so much the dog-and-bone, more the dead-and-gone.  |
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