Whilst perusing the family bookshelf the other day I discovered an absolute gem. A book that a lovely couple called Sandra and Barry had given to someone called Janet at Christmas. In 1960. Now I don’t know anyone called Janet or Sandra, or Barry for that matter so I’ve no idea how that book ended up sandwiched between Nigella and Delia but hey, I’m just glad it’s there. It’s my new bible. - it’s Glamour School written by a lovely lady called Helen Hughes. Whoever the shit she is.


This book tells it like it is. It implores you to ignore all your friends who tell you’re slim despite the fact you’ve got a muffin top to rival Michelle McManus’ and to disregard your mother who assures you you’re pretty despite your ski-slope nose. They’re just being kind. You’re actually fat. And hideously ugly.

But hey, don’t despair! The book also advises how to make the best of what you’ve got. Because after all, ‘every woman owes it to the man in her life; husband, boyfriend – or boss – to look as pretty as possible.’ But before they let you into those secrets, they make you face the facts…face the facts about…


I think the author hates her friends because yet again, she’s telling you not to trust them. ‘Don’t be led astray by friends who say, “You’ve got such a sweet little heart-shaped face” or “Of course it’s oval, dear.” It may just be an illusion.”’ Yeah bitches, an illusion. You can only wish your face was oval you fat, pig-faced whore.  Aside from face shape, skin is obviously an important factor. The book advises that ‘Even if you have a long-lived disfigurement, it may well be less permanent than you think.’ Except by disfigurement they mean spots, blackheads and freckles. Which means I’m pretty fucking disfigured.
Oh and by the way, wear make-up. Lots of it.


Apparently ‘“She is blonde…brunette…has lovely shining hair” is always a man’s description of a girl he admires.’  How times change. These days it’s more along the lines of, “She’s well fit” or “Her tits are huge.”  Anyway, it basically tells you if you’re not washing your hair everyday, you’re a dirty bitch and deserve to die.


Apparently it’s important to know what type of figure you’ve got. The best way to do this is to stand naked in front of the mirror and examine yourself. If that isn’t mortifying enough, you should get a ‘sympathetic girl-friend ready to give you the back view too.’ Don’t forget though – she might lie about your orange peel thighs, the devious bitch, so maybe just be the filling in a mirror sandwich and check yourself. FYI you’re either a pear, a parsnip, a pineapple, a figure-eight or a pencil. Pineapples may be good to eat but believe me, you don’t want to look like one.

To encourage all the dieting and bizarre exercises they suggest, the book reminds you that your friends (those sluts again) ‘may like you as a fat girl but they will respect you far more as a slim one.’ And probably slag you off behind your back about how you might be a size 10 now but that doesn’t change the fact your ears make you look like Dumbo.


The book basically tells you to spend your life primping and preening so you look super-hot for the men in your life but to act like you roll out of bed that way; ‘When the door-bell rings on your next big date, be ready to give undivided attention to your next beau and act as if you were born beautiful.’ Yeah, ‘cos he won’t notice when you exit his bed looking like Worzel Gummidge the morning after. (Whore.)

But ladies, ladies, ladies, don’t be put off by this book, it’s not entirely patronising and demoralising.  They do offer one piece of self-esteem boosting love - ‘No girl is completely ugly. Everyone has at least one good point – often more, when they are searched out.’ Daaaaaaaaaw, aren’t they sweet?