Hollywood's bag lady has more style than any Oscars diva

Most award ceremonies are ghastly — the simpering, the gushing, the over-the-top gowns, the carefully practised ‘What, me?’ looks of surprise.

But this year’s Oscars were the worst in living memory. First, there were the frankly obscene nominees’ goody bags, worth tens of thousands of pounds and stuffed with cosmetic surgery vouchers and sex toys.

Then, the all-too-predictable row about the ‘too-white’ shortlist, which resulted in the thoroughly unconvincing sight of Hollywood scrambling to pack the front seats with as many members of ethnic minorities as they could muster. Well, those who weren’t busy serving drinks, at any rate. 

Costume designer Jenny Beavan and actress Cate Blanchett at the Oscars. Seeing this ordinary woman walking proudly to the stage in her Marks & Spencer jacket and jeans against a backdrop of etiolated beauties squeezed into all manner of priceless embellishments made me want to punch the air with feminist ardour

Costume designer Jenny Beavan and actress Cate Blanchett at the Oscars. Seeing this ordinary woman walking proudly to the stage in her Marks & Spencer jacket and jeans against a backdrop of etiolated beauties squeezed into all manner of priceless embellishments made me want to punch the air with feminist ardour

Even more predictable was Leonardo DiCaprio winning Best Actor. We all knew he would, not least because it was his sixth nomination and anything else would have been embarrassing.

Most insincere of all was that picture of Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet sharing some hilarious intimacy with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

In fact, together with random red -carpet appearances of Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga (they’re pop stars, what were they doing there?) everything about the 88th Academy Awards made me think it’s time for Hollywood to invent another way to reward its stars.

Here is a woman who was not afraid to be herself, wrinkles and all. Who despite spending every hour in her job as a (now award-winning) costume designer sewing beautiful women into gowns, had not succumbed to the pressure to be perfect

Here is a woman who was not afraid to be herself, wrinkles and all. Who despite spending every hour in her job as a (now award-winning) costume designer sewing beautiful women into gowns, had not succumbed to the pressure to be perfect

Until, that is, Bag Lady stole the show. Bag Lady, you may remember, is British costume designer Jenny Beavan who won a similar award at the Baftas, recently.

At the time host Stephen Fry quipped (affectionately — only Twitter was, as ever, too thick to get the joke) that ‘only one of the great cinematic costume designers would come to an awards ceremony dressed as a bag lady.’

She was wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, accessorised with a putty-coloured scarf and stacks of jangly silver bangles. With an audience buffed and trussed to within an inch of sanity, she did indeed look a little dishevelled.

To do that in Britain is one thing. But to do it at the Oscars in Los Angeles, where even tramps have capped teeth, is positively heroic. And deeply, brilliantly, thrillingly subversive.

Seeing this ordinary 65-year-old woman walking proudly to the stage in her Marks & Spencer jacket and jeans against a backdrop of etiolated beauties squeezed into all manner of priceless embellishments made me want to punch the air with feminist ardour.

Here was a woman who was not afraid to be herself, wrinkles and all. Who despite spending every hour in her job as a (now award-winning) costume designer sewing beautiful women into gowns, had not succumbed to the pressure to be perfect.

Who had more courage, self-assurance and grace than anyone else in that room.

Most enjoyable of all were the horrified looks on the faces of the assembled great and good of Tinseltown, clearly aghast at this scruffy interloper.

Director Tom McCarthy’s hand flew girlishly to his mouth. 

Alejandro G. Inarritu (who won Best Director for The Revenant) sat with an eyebrow raised and arms folded tightly, as though to protect from this aberration. 

Some of the audience openly smirked.

Most enjoyable of all were the horrified looks on the faces of the assembled great and good of Tinseltown, clearly aghast at this scruffy interloper

Most enjoyable of all were the horrified looks on the faces of the assembled great and good of Tinseltown, clearly aghast at this scruffy interloper

Did Beavan care? Not a jot. She told the Mail: ‘I know how to make others look beautiful on screen, but I have never been interested in that kind of look for myself.’

And besides, she had made an effort this time — hadn’t she? She’d changed her scarf — to a striped Egyptian number. And the M&S leather jacket had been hand-embellished (by her, of course) with Swarovski crystals. Honestly, what more did they want?

So Jenny, may I extend my heartfelt congratulations? 

Not just on your win — but also for your courage, authenticity and sheer chutzpah. 

In the unlikely event that I’m ever asked to nominate my Feminist of the Year, it’s going to be you. 

Hang on to that awards ceremony jacket, lady. You never know when you might need it again.

 

Lock up your husbands!

I was intrigued to read in Sebastian Shakespeare’s Diary that BBC presenter Sophie Long, 38, is once again on manoeuvres — with the emphasis on ‘man’.

Having run off with married co-presenter Tim Willcox in 2012, she has now upgraded to the BBC’s rising star and new economics editor, Kamal Ahmed, 49, whose marriage broke down last year.

I was intrigued to read in Sebastian Shakespeare’s Diary that BBC presenter Sophie Long, 38, is once again on manoeuvres — with the emphasis on ‘man’

I was intrigued to read in Sebastian Shakespeare’s Diary that BBC presenter Sophie Long, 38, is once again on manoeuvres — with the emphasis on ‘man’. Having run off with married co-presenter Tim Willcox in 2012, she has now upgraded to the BBC’s rising star and new economics editor, Kamal Ahmed, 49

Long had only been wed a couple of years when she took up with 52-year-old Willcox, who left his wife and four children for her, having apparently been smitten by the comely blonde after he played the trumpet at her wedding. 

Quite aside from the emotional wreckage, what I want to know is where she gets the energy from. Is she superhuman? Has she discovered some new type of HRT (if so, can she please share)?

Or is she simply one of those Jezebels who sees other people’s husbands as the perfect way of advancing their career?

 

 Divorce at a click is so sad

In a world where countless relationships are kindled online, I suppose it makes sense that soon they will also be dissolved by mobile phone or laptop.

But the fact that, as from next year, the process of obtaining a divorce will become fully digitised makes me terribly sad.

I’m aware many people think marriage is outmoded, but I know from experience that it can bind two people together through difficult times, leaving their relationship closer and stronger in the long term.

My parents, for example, will celebrate their 50th anniversary later this year. Their marriage has not been perfect; but it has been permanent, something that has been a source of great strength for my family over the years.

Will today’s generation of newlyweds will reach similar milestones?

Not if getting a divorce is as easy as logging on and clicking ‘unsubscribe’.

 

Praise be for Tory faithful

Having been an MP’s wife for over a decade, I understand the frustration some Tory politicians feel towards those at grassroots level.

But for all the rubber chicken dinners, local constituency associations do perform a vital function.

They remind those who inhabit the rarified air of Westminster, with its forelock-tugging civil servants and career yes-men, of what ordinary people think — and their own political mortality. 

Yes, the associations do occasionally bang on a bit (don’t we all?).

But any politician, regardless of hue, who dismisses them as irrelevant is indulging in a dangerous game.

Grassroots Tories might not be the most PC people on the planet; but they are the beating heart of the party.

 And no one pricks the balloon of Whitehall pomposity better than a Tory association in full cry.

 

After years driving super-fast cars, Jeremy Clarkson’s body seems to be evolving.

If the latest pictures of him enjoying a Caribbean jaunt are anything to go by, he seems to have developed his own airbag.

After years driving super-fast cars, Jeremy Clarkson’s body seems to be evolving. If the latest pictures of him enjoying a Caribbean jaunt are anything to go by, he seems to have developed his own airbag
Jeremy in Barbados

After years driving super-fast cars, Jeremy Clarkson’s body seems to be evolving. If the latest pictures of him enjoying a Caribbean jaunt are anything to go by, he seems to have developed his own airbag

 

As the (somewhat frazzled) owner of a soon-to-be 13-year-old girl, it comes as no surprise to read that just two in 100 teenagers use a landline.

My daughter’s iPhone is like an extension of herself.

She potters quite happily around the house, chatting to friends, listening to music, watching her favourite shows on Netflix — all the while making herself smoothies and doing homework as though being grafted to a small computer were the most natural thing in the world.

When I take it off her in the evenings, it’s like disconnecting the power supply. I used to think cyborgs — part human, part robot — were the stuff of science fiction.

Now I have one living in my house.

 

No one should be shocked by the fact that Cheryl Fernandez-Versini’s new beau, Liam Payne, 22, is ten years her junior. Without the age gap, why would anyone care about an alleged love affair between the least memorable member of One Direction and a third-rate pop star? It couldn’t be more staged if it were showing in the West End.

Without the age gap, why would anyone care about an alleged love affair between the least memorable member of One Direction and a third-rate pop star? It couldn’t be more staged if it were showing in the West End

Without the age gap, why would anyone care about an alleged love affair between the least memorable member of One Direction and a third-rate pop star? It couldn’t be more staged if it were showing in the West End

 

Shouldn’t Simon Stevens, head of NHS England, focus on the day job a little bit more before embarking on grandiose construction plans to build ‘healthy towns’?

For as long as we live in a country where doctors fail to recognise potentially fatal conditions such as sepsis in children, it seems invidious to divert scant resources into social engineering projects that will only extend the reach of the nanny state.

People don’t need ‘anti-trip pavements’ or sanctimonious road signs urging them to exercise. They need clean hospitals, competent medical staff and an NHS they can trust.

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