At this time of year, ladies have to contend with all sorts of unpleasant bodily phenomena. Accordingly, this month’s Lady Parts sees Lucy Sweet explore festive fartery, bloated balloon bellies and the mysterious case of the Christmas bra buffet…
Illustration by Lucy Sweet
Winter body hair
Perhaps you might have decided to put on a nice dress at Christmas. Maybe you even got invited to a few parties and wore some sparkly sequins. But chances are you stopped Veeting in November, and underneath your Christmas finery you have a growler more voluminous than Santa’s beard. Thanks to the power of 80 denier opaque tights and Christmas jumpers, you will stay that way until spring, when you will be sheared as Chris Packham looks on through a hidden camera. Joy to the world!
Hark! What’s that sound? Is it Santa’s sleigh? Is it the distant thrum of church bells in the village? No, it’s the thunderous melee of your Christmas dinner farts. Women are supposed to never fart, apart from maybe a quiet little pop in the toilet when nobody is listening. But whether you’re a man or woman, the combination of stuffing, sprouts, gravy and brandy-laced pudding will lie heavy, and your discomfort can only be relieved by lying motionless on the sofa farting the theme tune to Only Fools and Horses.
If the house is on fire and you’re just sitting there with your trotters in a foot spa and a nice relaxed smile on your face, chances are you’re experiencing the phenomenon known as “Baileys Brain”. The Irish cream liqueur has the magical ability to render reality meaningless and instead create a warm, delicious enclave of boozy happiness. The moreish mixture of cream and ethanol will carry you off in a fluffy rickshaw of contentment, where nobody asks anything of you and you feel like you’re snuggling up to Daniel O’Donnell wearing a onesie made of kitten fur. Don’t overdo it, though, or you will experience the phenomenon known as “Baileys Diarrhoea”.
O’erhanging Christmas gut
If you read magazines, you may imagine that women have flat stomachs the colour of burnished gold. This is of course, a monstrous lie. Even if you are in possession of washboard abs, at Christmas your abdominal region will be transformed into a festive bucket of dimpled tripe. Holding it in is futile (and will probably require a winch) so just cradle it as you would a newborn child. For it is YOUR child, a child painstakingly made of Ferrero Rochers, cheese and purple Quality Street. Like Jesus himself, your Xmas gut is a breathtaking miracle, born on Christmas Day. And if you play your cards right, some men might come round and bring you myrrh and stuff.
Drunk Christmas make up
Do you look like Sylvester Stallone’s mum? Does it look like you’ve wiped your face on a clown? That’s because you’ve tried to put your make up on after 13 glasses of Co-op cava. It’s a myth that all women are good at applying make up – putting on liquid eyeliner is a hand/eye coordination challenge akin to building a matchstick model of the Burj Khalifa – and it certainly doesn’t help when you’re ten sheets to the wind and stunned on Lindor. Make a festive feature of it instead. If your mouth looks like Heath Ledger’s in The Dark Knight, simply smile and say “Mommy’s been kissin’ Santa Claus”, before sliding insensibly under the table.
One of the benefits to being a woman is that sometimes you drop things down your cleavage that you can eat later. And at Christmas, your bra will be full to bursting with bounteous leftover treats. My friend once lost an entire baked potato down her top, and chances are when you take your underwear off on Christmas night it will offer up your very own secret festive bra buffet of bits of turkey, Cadbury Heroes, mince pie crumbs and trifle. Well, it makes up for the fact that we have to bloody do everything.
Lucy Sweet is a writer and incorrigible lard arse. Her nursery school teacher said she would never be a proper lady, and she was right.