In a world where many talk about what they might do someday, there are others who quietly get on with it—people who take action, push boundaries, and in doing so inspire those around them. Artist and photographer Annemarie Bickertonbelongs firmly in the latter category.
On Saturday, September 27, 2025, Bickerton swapped her camera for boxing gloves, stepping into the ring at The Troxy in London for an Ultra White Collar Boxing (UWCB) charity event. The evening brought together novice boxers from across the capital, each of them having undergone ten weeks of intensive training, with the dual aim of testing themselves and raising money for good causes.
For Bickerton, that cause was the Pink Ribbon Foundation, a UK charity that provides financial support to organisations helping those affected by breast cancer. It was a natural fit: she has previously worked with the foundation, staging her acclaimed “BustOut” exhibition at the Firepit Gallery at the O2. That exhibition combined bold visual art with advocacy, raising awareness and funds in equal measure.
This time, however, the setting was very different. The Troxy’s historic stage was transformed into a boxing arena, the atmosphere electric as friends, family, and supporters packed into the venue. Bickerton’s match ended officially as a draw, though audience members were quick to call it a clear win on her part.
The result, though, tells only part of the story. What makes Bickerton’s achievement stand out is the journey that led her there. For ten weeks, she trained with discipline and determination, rising early, attending gruelling sessions, and absorbing the technical and mental demands of boxing. “It was not natural for me at all,” she admitted beforehand. Yet she persevered, embodying the UWCB ethos of ordinary people doing extraordinary things for charity.
Bickerton’s decision to take up boxing was not made in isolation. She had first introduced the sport to her son, who lives with autism, as a way to build confidence and resilience. Facing bullying at school, he found empowerment in the discipline and structure of training. Inspired by his progress, Bickerton decided to follow suit. “Lead by example” became more than a phrase—it became a lived reality.
Those who know her were not surprised. Bickerton has long been recognised for her willingness to tackle challenges head-on, whether in her artistic practice or personal life. As a photographer and artist, she has built a reputation for bold, thought-provoking work that often blends beauty with social commentary. As a mother, she has consistently sought opportunities that empower her son and others facing adversity.
Her move into boxing might seem like a departure, but in many ways, it continues a consistent theme: using creativity, courage, and perseverance to make an impact.
Events like UWCB are not only about individual achievement but also about collective contribution. Since its founding, the organisation has raised millions of pounds for charities across the UK, with participants from all walks of life. Bickerton’s fight was one of dozens staged that evening, each carrying a personal story and a charitable purpose. Together, they highlighted the power of community fundraising through unconventional means.
For Bickerton, the fight capped months of hard work and represented more than just a physical test. It was a statement about resilience, visibility, and the importance of action. “Annemarie is a great example of what’s right in this world,” said one supporter. “She doesn’t just talk—she does.”
That ethos has earned her admiration not only from those close to her but from a wider circle who see in her story a reminder of what determination can achieve. In an age when so much energy is spent on words, Bickerton’s actions—whether through art, activism, or sport—speak louder.
As the cheers faded at the Troxy, the impact of her fight extended far beyond the ring. Funds had been raised for a vital cause, awareness had been heightened, and a powerful example had been set for her son and others: that courage comes in many forms, and that sometimes the greatest victories are not about titles or trophies but about showing up, standing tall, and refusing to back down.
With her gloves now set aside, Bickerton returns to her life as an artist, mother, and advocate. Yet the echoes of that night in the ring remain—a testament to the fighting spirit of a woman who refuses to be defined by limits.
Let’s be honest: a woman’s hair is her crown and glory. It’s part of her identity, her confidence, her style. And when it comes to royalty, that crown is both literal and symbolic. Princess Catherine—Kate, as we fondly call her—always manages to look spectacular. She carries herself with elegance and dignity, and despite facing health struggles, she continues to shine as my favourite member of the Royal Family.
So why, then, does the we feel the need to dissect every strand on her head? Recently, Kate decided to lighten her hair a touch. Not platinum, not peroxide blonde—just a soft, subtle lift. Hardly headline material, yet suddenly it’s splashed across the front pages. Is this really news?
I say this as someone who spent years as a celebrity hairdresser: hair is deeply personal. It’s not just style, it’s self-expression, sometimes even reinvention. I actually admire Kate for trying something new under the relentless glare of the cameras. Personally, I think she suits brunette best—but that’s beside the point. The point is, it’s her hair, her choice, and she looks radiant either way.
But what left me utterly flabbergasted was what happened next. A few days later, she attended a women’s rugby match with her hair pulled back in a ponytail—practical, appropriate, perfectly normal. And would you believe it? That too became a headline. A ponytail! Honestly, are we that short of news?
It makes me wonder about our priorities. Wars are raging, the cost of living is biting, families are struggling—and yet we’re fixated on whether a princess wears her hair up or down. Surely, we can do better.
Here’s what really matters: Kate represents grace, resilience, and positivity at a time when good news is hard to come by. She continues to serve, smile, and inspire, even while facing challenges of her own. She is a mother, a wife, a public figure, and a future queen—and she handles it all with poise. That deserves admiration, not nit-picking.
So, my view is simple. Leave Kate’s hair alone. Celebrate the woman, not the ponytail. Applaud her courage, her elegance, her humanity. Hair grows; styles change—but the strength of character she shows every day? That’s what truly deserves the front page.
Why Do So Many Smart Women Fall Under the Spell of Con Men?
It’s not about weakness—it’s about hope, empathy, and the universal desire to be loved.
Before we begin, let’s be clear: this isn’t unique to women. Men, too, can fall victim to manipulation, deceit, and what we might call a “love con.” Yet it remains striking how often we see bright, accomplished women—lawyers, doctors, business leaders, and artists—caught in the webs spun by controlling, Svengali-type men.
This was brought home to me recently while watching Love Con: Revenge on Netflix. The series exposes the astonishing ways charismatic fraudsters charm their way into people’s lives, leaving devastation behind. The victims are not naïve or unintelligent. Quite the opposite—they’re usually sharp, capable, and worldly. Yet even they are drawn into the con, sometimes for years.
The Psychology of the “Love Con”
Why does this happen? Why do intelligent women—women who can negotiate boardrooms, run companies, and juggle families—become vulnerable when love enters the picture? Is there, as cynics suggest, something in female nature that makes women more susceptible when romance is involved?
I don’t believe it’s about weakness. If anything, it’s about strength—and hope. Many women are deeply empathetic, nurturing, and generous. They are also willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. These qualities are admirable, yet they are the very traits manipulators exploit. Con men mirror back what their victims long to see: affection, stability, the promise of being cherished. By the time the illusion cracks, the emotional investment is so deep that leaving feels impossible.
Neuroscience sheds light here. Falling in love floods the brain with dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin—the same chemicals associated with addiction. Under their influence, judgment clouds and red flags fade. Intelligence doesn’t disappear; it’s simply overwhelmed by biology.
The Celebrity Trap
Even women with power, influence, and entire teams of advisors aren’t immune. How many times have we seen successful actresses or performers introduce a new partner, only to announce within months that he is now their manager? Management is a skilled profession requiring experience and industry knowledge. Yet suddenly, the boyfriend is running the show.
Rarely does it end well. Take Joan Collins, who married Peter Holm in 1985. Within weeks, he had become her manager and co-producer. By 1987, the marriage collapsed in a storm of bitterness.
I’ve seen the same pattern in everyday life. Brilliant women who once spoke their minds now begin every sentence with, “And Joe says…”—as if their identity has been swallowed whole. The pattern is chillingly predictable: isolate her from friends, cut ties with anyone who might see through the act, and gradually take total control. Netflix’s Dirty John dramatises this cycle with unnerving accuracy.
Ghislaine Maxwell:
Consider, too, the controversial case of Ghislaine Maxwell. An intelligent, educated woman from a powerful family, she nonetheless became the enabler of Jeffrey Epstein. Was he a replacement father figure for the domineering Robert Maxwell? Did her need for validation blind her to the enormity of his crimes?
Whatever the reason, it is telling that Epstein’s male associates have largely escaped accountability, while Maxwell sits behind bars. She has become, many argue, the fall guy in a sordid melodrama. Her case is a stark reminder of how even the brightest women can be drawn into the orbit of a manipulative man.
Beyond Blame
So why do smart women fall for con men? Because intelligence is not a shield against love, against hope, or against the human desire to be needed. These women are not foolish—they are human.
If anything, their empathy, generosity, and optimism make them prime targets. And until society learns to place blame squarely where it belongs—on the men who manipulate, control, and exploit—the cycle will continue.
The question, then, should not be “Why do women fall for con men?” but rather, “Why do we allow con men to keep exploiting love so freely?”
Because in the end, the real con is not about women being weak—it’s about predators preying on the very best of human qualities.
Will Harry Meet Charlie?
There is so much speculation surrounding Prince Harry’s upcoming visit. Will he meet with his father, or won’t he? That’s the question on everyone’s lips.
First of all, he is King Charles’s son—and whether he is seen as the prodigal son or not, I truly hope a meeting takes place. After all, no amount of titles or headlines can change the simple truth of family.
As a nation, we watched Harry and his brother William Walk behind their mother’s coffin. They were just boys, and the emotional and psychological impact of that moment must have been unimaginable. It shaped both of them forever, and perhaps explains much about the men they have become.
Of course, all families have rifts. Harsh words get said, mistakes are made, and Harry has certainly made some. His marriage added another layer of complexity, and Meghan herself is another story entirely. But to dismiss him outright would be unfair.
Harry was always one of my favourite royals. He brought a youthful sparkle and an authenticity to public life that made him stand out. Whatever the differences, I hope father and son can find their way back to each other.
“We are all born as blank canvases; hate, racism, and a lack of understanding are learned.” How you choose to see the world and create the tapestry of your life is up to you. Blanky is here to “Make Earth Safe Again.”
Blanky told Patrick not to worry. He assured him that everything would be fine now, and encouraged him to keep shining brightly, just as he always had. Patrick’s new friends, though they noticed he was a little different, were happy to welcome him into their games. It had only taken a little time to explain how truly amazing Patrick was, and once they understood, they accepted him with open arms. “But you’re going,” said Patrick, his voice trembling as he clutched Blanky tightly. “What will I do without you?” Blanky’s gentle voice carried calm reassurance. “No, Patrick. I won’t really be gone. I am energy, and energy can never disappear—it just changes form. I’ll always be here, watching over you. If you ever really need me, just shout, and I’ll come. But please, Patrick, promise me something. Be your own unique energy. Be proud of who you are. Only call for me if it’s a true emergency. The rest of the time, I want you to stand tall and make yourself proud.” With those words, Blanky shimmered, the soft glow around him brightening before he vanished into the air like starlight carried away by the wind. Far away, 7,000 miles from Waterloo in London, lay the warm and glittering shores of the Dominican Republic. Though oceans stretched between them, Blanky could still hear faint cries for help echoing across the world. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. He could feel it in the atmosphere. The balance was shifting, and a dark presence stirred. Blanky recognised it instantly: the Olethros. They were near, and they were meddling again, leaving the planet weak and gasping for breath. His worst fears were soon confirmed. On a sandy beach, lying helplessly on its side, was a dolphin. Its sleek silver body was scratched and bruised, its breath ragged as it struggled to survive. Being made of pure energy, Blanky could communicate with all living creatures. He knelt by the suffering animal, his voice soft and kind. “Help me… help me to the water,” the dolphin squeaked weakly. First, Blanky placed his glowing hands upon the dolphin’s wounds. A gentle light poured out of him, soothing the creature’s pain and knitting torn skin. Slowly, the dolphin’s panic subsided. Then Blanky transformed—his body reshaping into that of a tall, powerful man. With strength that came not from muscle but from energy itself, he lifted the dolphin carefully and carried it back into the turquoise sea. The moment they touched the water, the dolphin raised its head and spoke clearly. “I am Stinggal,” it said, its voice now stronger, though tinged with sorrow.
As the waves lapped around them, Blanky allowed his energy to flow once more, transforming himself into a dolphin so he could swim alongside Stinggal. Their fins cut through the water with ease as they dived into the deeper blue, exploring the world beneath the surface. But there was little joy to be found there. The sea was clouded, its once-crystal depths marred by floating waste. Fish darted nervously, entangled in nets that stretched endlessly across the ocean floor. The corals, once glowing with colour, were bleached and broken. “The sea is being poisoned,” Stinggal said, his tone heavy with grief. “It is the work of the one they call the Orange Man. He cares only for money and fame. He tears down forests and scars the earth. He pours filth into the oceans and poisons the air. He does not care for life, only for power and wealth. If this continues, my kind—and many others—will soon vanish forever.” Blanky swam alongside him, listening intently as Stinggal continued. “They no longer respect the natural order. Fishing is allowed everywhere, without limit. Great nets are dragged across the seas, destroying entire habitats. The young are caught with the old. The strong are trapped with the weak. Nothing is spared. If something is not done, the oceans will become empty deserts, and the balance of the whole world will collapse.” Blanky’s heart, though made of energy, ached with sorrow. He had seen the Olethros bring destruction before, but this was different. This was not just one species in danger—this was the very foundation of the planet being eroded. He looked at Stinggal, whose bright eyes flickered with both hope and fear. “Then we must fight,” Blanky said firmly. “Not with anger, but with courage and truth. The Orange One may have power, but the Earth has a voice of its own. We will remind the world to listen.” Stinggal gave a small, hopeful leap from the water, droplets sparkling around him like diamonds. “Then perhaps there is still a chance,” he said softly. “The Orange One lives in the country of stars and stripes. He silences anyone who is different, anyone who dares to protect the planet.” “Then let’s swim,” said Blanky. Side by side, the two dolphins swam into the vast horizon, ready to face whatever darkness lay ahead. After many days, they reached the shores of Florida, where it was time to part. Stinggal nuzzled Blanky gently. “Do not worry. I’ll be back when you need me.” The Orange One—whom the world called Orangey—was guarded in a huge white house. For most, it would be impossible to reach him. He was in human form, but his skin was unnaturally orange and crispy-looking. Sitting behind a great oak desk, he shuffled papers, smirking at his own power. The heavy doors swung open, and a pale, sharp-faced woman entered. “I have some prizes for you, for being so amazing,” she said with a smile. “Thank you. Put them on the desk,” Orangey replied, barely looking up. “You’ll be impressed,” the woman continued. “We’ve just brought plastic back everywhere—no restrictions. We’ve reopened drilling for oil. And best of all, we’ve banned the words global warming from every official report.” “Fake news!” Orangey barked, slamming his hand on the desk. The blonde woman jumped up and down with excitement. “Well done! Did you also ban those who don’t speak English fluently from entering the country?” “All done,” Orangey said proudly. “Soon, we will drain this world of every resource. When it is broken and empty, we’ll move on—just like we did with Alacritas.” The woman clapped her pale hands, though her skin did not yet have the telltale orange hue of the Olethros. But Blanky knew what they were. The Olethros always revealed themselves in the end, their bodies glowing with a sickly orange light as they fed on destruction. This time, he could not allow it. Earth would not be their next victim. Blanky hovered at the window of the great white house, his body shimmering with invisible energy. He could see Orangey and his pale companion celebrating their victories, blind to the damage they had sown across the planet. It was time. The battle to save Earth was about to begin.
On the back of Tommy Fury documentary The Good . The Bad .The Fury that I really enjoyed I am re running my article on Tyson from 2022
Hero or villain? Steven Smith looks at what it takes to be the man who has everyone talking, the heavyweight boxing champion of the world, Tyson Fury.
A hero to the poor with his charitable donations to the homeless, a champion for mental health and the self-proclaimed ‘King of the Gypsies’. Tyson standing at 6’9” embodies all that can be labelled as masculine, yet unlike many hard men, this giant breaks the mould. He has started to wear his heart on his sleeve and has opened up, talking frankly of his demons, depression, and personal battles with addiction.
Tyson also adds to the list that he is bipolar and suffers from anxiety. But is it possible that the man of the moment, who is so desperate for the world to perceive him as super masculine is still, as his father John Fury described him, a shy and sensitive overweight boy inside? Was it this shy boy that begged for the acceptance of his boxing coach father? Was it his unconventional gypsy upbringing that pushed him into a mould of boxing and masculinity, which subsequently became the root of Tyson’s demons and depression? Is it the often toxic masculinity that is piled on to so many young men during their upbringing, the cause of his trauma and mental health issues later in life?
Now, I like Tyson Fury. He is fascinating, and from the minute he burst on to our screens, I was aware of him. There was something that made me want to stop and listen; he appeared to be a model hero on paper. His smile lights up the screen, and his enthusiasm for life makes me want to know more. Then there is the unconditional love that he has for his family, which simply melts your heart.
“The best part of my life is taking my kids to school. I could live in a cardboard box and eat cheese sandwiches, as long as my family is with me“.
Tyson tells us though it is doubtful that his gorgeous wife Paris, who he has been with since they were teenagers, would ever let it come to that. She is one shrewd cookie and lives like a footballer’s wife rather than a gypsy though you can’t imagine Victoria Beckham arriving in Vegas and going straight in to do David’s dirty dishes.
But of course, once it was pointed out that this man, who I would want on my team in any battles, did not just have traditional values but what some might consider downright prehistoric values, I was speechless.
Unbelievably, in 2015, in an interview on TheJeremy Vine show, with gay rights campaigner Peter Tatchell, he compared gays to paedophiles, claiming that homosexuality is “One of the three things that will lead to the apocalypse; the other two being abortion and paedophilia”.
Even his younger brother Love Island star Tommy seems to have taken the anti-gay stance On a now disabled Twitter account, Tommy tweeted his older brother, Tyson, allegedly stating “Come on bro, let’s get dis win good luck brother and Chisora is a f***** and he’s gettin it proper @TysonFury”.
In 2018 he was nominated for Sports Personality of the Year, yet his homophobic comments and derogatory sex views came back to haunt him, with calls to remove him and comments made including:
“So, when Tyson Fury is called the people’s champion, it begs the question: which people?”
Challenged about his views by one reporter, he sat in his van replying “Jesus loves you”.
Tyson has since apologised for his outburst and controversial views.
Were these Tyson’s views or were they opinions that had been drummed into him from an early age by someone else? Or was it a culture of growing up in the gypsy community, not known to embrace and welcome gay people among their tribe?
Fellow gypsy fighter, Billy Joe Saunders says, “Where we come from, if you show weakness, you might as well give up on life as a fighter”. It’s a world where men fought, and women, as quoted by Tyson himself, were ‘best flat on their back or in the kitchen’.
Tyson comes from a world where LGBTQ is stamped on with ferocity. Anyone who has read ‘Gypsy Boy’ by Mikey Walsh will find it not only a harrowing experience but a moving and humorous one too. Brilliantly written, it tells the story of a gay boy brought as a Romanian and unable to conform to his expectations of masculinity. The description of the brutality he suffered, at the hand of his father, as the reader, stained the pages with my tears.
Yet, at the end of the book, his father unexpectedly turned up to see Walsh, now a teacher, despite the violence
Could growing up in a tightly knit community with some values and beliefs that are from a by-gone age, be like other, almost closed communities or cults and brainwash their young?
Tyson appears to be an intelligent man, embracing all that life has to offer, in a way an old soul that could see that the bright lights of Hollywood or Vegas could not compare to his roots in Morecambe, or make him any happier for that matter.
“From the age of six, all I ever dreamed of was being a boxer, now I have it all; I am the greatest boxer in the world yes, I have sinned, suffered from depression and anxiety, and I am bipolar”, he tells viewers.
Tyson does not have it all; regrettably, he does not have good mental health, something money or fame can’t replace.
His dad, John Fury, is not a likeable character; there is something a little sad about him, almost broken, floored and in denial. He tells us that Tyson’s mental health has been impacted due to being so successful and mixing with millionaires and celebrities.
There is something that screams ‘pushy show biz mum’ about him. That statement about his son confirmed my suspicions; that he would like very much to have been Tyson.
“I am sure that I have depression but, in my day, we had to worry about keeping a roof over my family’s head and food on the table, there was no time to think of any of that”.
I am sure at heart he loves his son, but he displays little understanding or empathy for mental health issues. To be fair to John, however, he did come from an age where issues such as mental health were rarely discussed.
In the first of the series John who is banned from America for a criminal conviction, after being released from prison in 2015 following a four-year completion of an 11-year sentence, for gouging another man’s eye out during a brawl at a car auction, tells us that Tyson was a shy, sensitive, fat kid. “I brought all my boys up the same; to fight; I trained them myself”. John, a bare-knuckle boxer must have had the same training from his father as a boy and probably would not think that any of his boys could be different. Young men or boys who have toxic masculinity forced upon them can have extreme consequences to their mental wellbeing, particularly on the sensitive child or those that do not fit the macho mould.
What does toxic masculinity mean?
Researchers have defined it as encompassing;
Suppressing emotions or masking distress
Maintaining an appearance of hardness
Violence as an indicator of power (think: “tough-guy” behaviour)
In other words, toxic masculinity is what can come of teaching boys that they can’t express their emotions openly; that they have to be “tough all the time”; that anything other than that makes them feminine or weak. (No, it doesn’t mean that all men are inherently toxic.) The harmful side effects can, however, develop into homophobia, or misogyny.
Toxic masculinity, according to Psycom and several surveys, can lead to suicide, depression, anxiety, addiction, and drug use.
A 2017 survey by the Equality and Human Rights Commission found that gypsies, travellers and Roma were found to suffer “poorer mental health than the rest of the population in Britain” and were “more likely to suffer from anxiety and depression”.
Only last year Billy and Joe Smith, stars of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding were found dead in a suicide pact. They had both been struggling with mental health issues.
Now, looking back, I was a sensitive kid too. My dad introduced me to football by heading the ball at my head in the front room. It made me cry, and I hated football from then on. As an adult, I am quite sporty, but Dad could never really teach me anything. The last thing I needed was tough love.
Is it not possible that locked in this huge massive man is the shy, sensitive kid at loggerheads with who he has become? Desperate to please his father, who needed his shy son to “Man up”. The poor man can find a cloud in every silver lining; it must have been hard for the young Fury.
To be honest, the penny drops on what it was that that I saw in Tyson. He had the traits of another beautiful man who had the same personal scenario. He too could be charming, but many said he was bad news; he lived with depression, anxiety and had addiction issues, yet there was something I adored about him.
He had a troubled childhood and was abandoned as a kid by his father. He told me about the days his dad left, with such vivid description, despite being only 8 years old at the time. It was at that moment I saw that very child looking at me through man’s eyes. Taking a shot, I told him “that frightened child is with you every day, you protect him with your front”. There was a silence and the relief that someone had seen the real him, and because he did not feel judged, he could be himself. That’s what I saw in Tyson.
My money is on the fact that Tyson is at loggerheads with himself.
Everyone around him seems to be at loggerheads with Tyson’s new direction. Whilst embracing wealth and lifestyle, some of them claim to want to stay with the traditions of the travelling community.
Tyson wants to set precedents and make changes within the gypsy community. He hates “dream crushers”, whatever his kids want to be, he will be fully supportive.
Yet in a U-turn, wife Paris, who earlier in the show, ‘Tyson Fury Gypsy King’, says she lived her earlier years as a traveller in a caravan now says that she could not bear to leave her beautiful home with hot water and mod cons and her beloved trips to Marbella.
GQ picture Tommy Fury BBC I player .
Paris wants the kids raised as travellers. The kids will leave school at 11, and when they marry, they can then leave home, (No room for any of the kids to be gay in that plan then). Daughter Venezuela, who wants to be a dancer or gymnast, calls her mum ‘dream crusher’. Paris comments that Venezuela is already too tall to become either; Venezuela does have a point.
You like Paris in the show, but it’s hard not to, but you want to give her a reality check. When she is not cooking for the massive family, Paris seems to spend the rest of her time in the hairdressers.
Tyson clashes with her; he is keen as ‘King’ to make changes; the kids should stay in school; they can embrace both lifestyles. Here is where I thought he could bring about change, as he moves among the likes of the ‘queens’ dream’ gay ally, Robbie Williams, along with other showbiz pals.
It is possible to educate a homophobe, misogynist, or even a bigot, especially if you take them out of an environment that is steeped in it.
My bet is if Tyson’s demons do not cause him to self-destruct, let’s hope he fights them as hard as any opponent. Tyson could be the king that brings a kinder, more tolerant era to the gypsy community.
After all, a man who pays €200 for two lobsters and sets them free can’t be all that bad!
Why Katie Price Needs to Back Off and Let Her Kids Shine Without Her Interference
Growing up is never easy — not for the average teenager, and certainly not for those with famous parents. For most young people, adolescence is about carving out your own identity, deciding who you want to be, and pursuing your chosen career or further education. It’s a period of self-discovery and independence. But when your every move has been played out in the glare of the press since childhood, the challenge is far greater.
Children of celebrities live with a unique pressure. They’re often unfairly labelled with the now-infamous tag “Nepo Baby” — short for “nepotism baby” — a term referring to someone whose career mirrors or is connected to that of their famous parent. The implication is clear: their achievements aren’t earned but handed to them through family connections. The phrase is often used as an insult, suggesting that their success is unearned, undeserved, or simply the result of privilege.
Of course, this isn’t always the case. Some celebrity children go out of their way to avoid using their family name, working hard to make it on their own merits. In many instances, the public only learns of their famous parentage long after they’ve established themselves. On the flip side, stepping into the same spotlight as a parent and not quite measuring up can be devastating for mental health. The pressure to “live up to” a legacy can crush even the most talented young person.
Take Princess Andre, for example. She’s a young woman with dreams, ambition, and — crucially — talent. Under the guidance of Clare Powell, a woman I’d call a genius in the world of entertainment management, Princess has been making strides toward building her own career. Powell is the same powerhouse who played a key role in shaping Katie Price’s early career. Importantly, Katie is not directly involved in Princess’s current projects.
Stunning Princess Andrea
Now, I’ve been a huge supporter of Katie Price over the years — I’ve defended her when many wouldn’t. But on this occasion, Katie, it’s time to take a step back. In fact, take one hundred steps back. Be a proud mum, but let Princess shine without you hovering in the background. It’s about dignity — a word that doesn’t often appear in the Pricey vocabulary — and allowing your daughter to succeed on her own terms.
I have a close friend whose sons are both stars now: one’s a famous rock musician, the other a West End performer. Before their success, my friend made a conscious decision to stay out of their spotlight. No hanging around at every audition, no being photographed at every event. She let them find their own way, even if it meant watching from the sidelines. That kind of quiet support is invaluable — and something Katie could learn from.
The truth is, Princess already has “star” written all over her. Yes, her famous parents have opened some doors — there’s no denying that. But she’s also beautiful, poised, polite, and grounded in a way that the teenage Jordan (Katie’s former alter ego) simply wasn’t. While Katie at that age was known for her brashness and colourful vocabulary, Princess seems to have a quiet charm and grace that’s refreshing to see.
Of course, fame dynamics can get tricky within families. I’ve seen it happen. Sometimes a parent who’s spent years in the spotlight finds it hard when their child begins to eclipse them. I remember a friend whose mother was always the centre of attention. We once attended a concert together, and during the show, the star actually stopped mid-performance to compliment my friend’s daughter — “Who is this beauty?” they asked. The girl was thrilled. But when she turned to share the moment with her mum, the mother had vanished, unable to handle not being the one in the spotlight.
Even Hollywood royalty have faced this. Liza Minnelli once admitted that her mother, Judy Garland, struggled to accept her daughter’s fame. It’s a reminder that parental pride can sometimes be mixed with a very human sense of insecurity.
In Princess’s case, the potential is huge. She has the looks, the talent, and the personality to carve out a significant career in modelling, media, or whatever creative path she chooses. The worst thing that could happen is for her efforts to be overshadowed by her mum’s drama, headlines, or interference.
Some might argue that Katie’s involvement is only natural — after all, she’s been in the industry for decades. But let’s be honest: sometimes experience comes with baggage. Katie’s falling-out with Clare Powell has been well documented, but that shouldn’t affect Princess’s choices. Powell helped make Katie a household name in the first place. This is show business — not “show friends” — and if I had a daughter with career ambitions, I’d want her with the best possible management team. Personal disagreements shouldn’t dictate professional decisions when a young career is on the line.
If Katie truly wants to support her daughter, she needs to be a cheerleader, not a co-star. Let Princess have her own brand, her own media moments, and her own relationship with the public. This doesn’t mean disappearing from her life — just from her professional life. Turn up to watch from the audience, not to stand centre stage. Offer advice privately, not through the pages of a tabloid.
In today’s media-saturated world, it’s hard enough for young people to find their place without the shadow of a famous parent looming over every opportunity. Princess deserves the space to make mistakes, learn lessons, and earn her own applause. And if she’s anything like she seems — poised, polite, and full of potential — she’ll do just fine.
The bottom line? Princess Andre has a bright future. But for her to truly shine, Katie Price needs to take not one or two, but one hundred steps back — and stay there until she’s invited forward. That’s what real support looks like
.
Good luck to Jack Kay .
If proof was ever needed that you can flog your soul to the devil for fame, look no further than the sudden, stratospheric rise of Ibiza’s self-styled “final boss.” One click of a camera, one cheeky social media post, and bang — he’s out-trending the Pricey and even the Trump. That’s no small feat, considering those two can normally generate headlines by simply breathing in public.
The man behind the moniker? Jack Kay. No chart-topping singles. No Oscar-bait performances. No tell-all autobiography written “in his own words” but suspiciously sounding like it was dictated to a ghostwriter over Zoom. Just… Jack. A man who, by all accounts, was minding his own business until fate, flash photography, and the internet combined to anoint him this week’s celebrity overlord.
And do you know what? Fair play to him. He’s a smashing lad by all appearances, and I can’t help but root for him. In fact, I’m practically booking my front-row seat for his inevitable debut on Celebrity Big Brother or I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! Picture it now: Jack in the jungle, wearing a head torch, looking mildly confused while chewing kangaroo testicles for the nation’s amusement. It’s practically destiny.
Of course, his overnight success has sent a few noses wildly out of joint in the fame industry. Imagine clawing your way up the greasy celebrity pole — posting your best pout, cultivating “scandals,” leaking your own “leaked” texts — only to have Jack Kay swoop in with one photo and walk off with the nation’s attention like it’s a free canapé at a launch party. Delicious.
It’s not just the wannabe-set bristling either; the whole saga has become a sort of cultural Rorschach test. Some see Jack as proof of the absurdity of fame in the age of the algorithm. Others see him as the internet’s latest crush. I see a man who’s managed to play the game without even reading the rulebook.
Because let’s be honest, the rules have changed. Once, you needed a record deal, a primetime slot, or a scandal big enough to get a mention in the News of the World (RIP). Now? You just need a single moment that makes the internet collectively say: Yes, this one. This is our new obsession. It could be a photograph. It could be a TikTok. It could be an ill-advised comment made in a kebab shop at 3am. And suddenly, you’re hot property.
Will Jack’s reign as Ibiza’s final boss last? Who knows. The internet’s love affairs are fickle. One minute you’re the meme of the moment, the next you’re that guy people vaguely remember seeing “on something once.” But for now, Jack’s milking his fifteen minutes with style, and I, for one, am here for it. If he has done a deal with the devil, I hope it came with a decent rider — champagne, sunglasses, and maybe a small island.
Hurray — Wednesday is back on Netflix! And if that wasn’t already a big enough treat for fans of the macabre, there’s an extra twist in the cobweb this season: the legendary Joanna Lumley has joined the cast as Wednesday’s formidable grandmother.
Yes, you read that right. From Absolutely Fabulous to The Wolf of Wall Street, Lumley has always brought her own brand of razor-sharp wit and undeniable glamour to every role. Now, she’s stepping into the delightfully creepy world of the Addams family, and honestly, it feels like a match made in gothic heaven.
Heidi Gammon is BACK — and school’s in session! Sharpen those pencils, unpack the lunchbox, and brace yourself — because whether you’re heading to high school, moving into halls, or just trying to survive term-time drama, I’ve got the answers you need. From messy roommates to holiday hook-ups, from bullies to big life changes — let’s crack open the advice book and dive right in.
Hello Heidi, Love you and the show! I’m going to uni next month and sharing accommodation with my best friend. Over the summer, I realised that I’m gay and attracted to other women. Apart from telling my mum, no one else knows. I don’t fancy my best friend, so that’s not a problem, but should I tell her before we move in together in case she freaks out? Amber, Southend
Heidi says: Amber, the only “freak out” here would be if your friend suddenly forgot you’re still the same person you were last term. Your sexuality isn’t a warning label you have to stick on before move-in day. If you want to tell her, do it because you trust her, not because you’re scared of her reaction. And if she’s a real friend, she’ll be more interested in who’s nicking her milk from the fridge than who you fancy.
Dear Heidi, This is awful. I’m not gay, but I’m friends with a guy who is what you might call “fluid.” We got very drunk on holiday, and I remember him performing an oral sex act on me. There’s no way it would have happened sober, and now it’s made it difficult to be friends. I tried to talk to him about it, but he just said, “What happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza.” I have a girlfriend, and I’m terrified she’ll find out. What do I do? Colin, Billericay
Heidi says
Colin, Ibiza clearly needs a new slogan: “What happens in Ibiza… tends to follow you home.” You’ve got a friendship issue and a relationship issue — and both need honesty. Tell your mate the boundaries from now on. As for your girlfriend, decide whether you’re confessing to ease your guilt or because it’s something she genuinely needs to know. Either way, learn your lesson: too much booze and fuzzy boundaries are a recipe for regret.
Hi Heidi, How are you? Last year I shared uni accommodation with a great guy — honestly, we were like brothers — but sadly he’s moved to the States. A new guy is moving in, but I bumped into his old roommate who warned me: he doesn’t mind him personally, but apparently he walks around naked, smokes weed, and puts porn on openly. Plus, he’s messy and leaves everything for others to clean up. That’s my idea of hell! It’s too late to back out — what can I do? Hunter, Basildon
Heidi says: Hunter, sounds like you’ve been dealt the ultimate “uni flatmate bingo” card. On day one, set the house rules in plain English: no nakedness in shared spaces, no weed inside, and mess gets cleaned. If he ignores that, fortress your room — lock, headphones, maybe even a mini-fridge. And remember: it’s one academic year, not a life sentence. What’s up Heidi, I’m still at high school and I hate it. There’s a girl who bullies me so badly that my life is a misery, and I don’t want to go back. What can I do? Stella, Brentwood
Heidi says: Stella, no one should dread school because of one cruel person. Tell a teacher, a school counsellor, or your parents — and keep a record of everything she says or does. If it’s online, screenshot it. Schools are legally obliged to act on bullying. I promise you this: she is not as powerful as she seems. One day you’ll be out in the world living your best life, and she’ll still be stuck in her small one.
Heidi, My girlfriend and I have been together for five years and we want to adopt a child — maybe two. How do we go about it? My mum says it’s a terrible idea and refuses to help. Mandy, Brighton
Heidi says: Mandy, if love, stability, and commitment are in place, you’re already halfway there. Start with your local council or an approved adoption agency — they’ll guide you through assessments, training, and matching with a child. It’s a long process, but worth it. most local authorities and agencies like pact do information evenings for people thinking about adoption these are great and informative and well worth going to
As for your mum, her approval would be lovely, but it’s not a requirement on the application form. Build your family your way.
Alastair BlasterArtzand me are really proud to announce BLANKY #ART will be available to buy along with his friend and enemies soon .
A percentage will go to AAnnakennedyonlineeach story will tell how BLANLY helps teach about diversity and saving the planet you can read chapter one here . Chapter two is below Any publishers interested in the series please inbox me
Patrick stood at the edge of the basketball court, the ball clutched tightly in his hands. He’d watched the other boys play from his window countless times, imagining himself out there, hearing the thump of the ball and the cheers after a good shot.
Today, he’d worked up the courage to try.
But as soon as he stepped forward, the tallest boy—blond hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed—blocked his way.
“What’s he doing here?” the boy called out.
The others turned.
“He’s… you know… strange,” another said, circling Patrick like a curious cat. “Doesn’t talk much. Always staring. Probably can’t even dribble.”
Laughter rippled around the court. One boy tilted his head in a mocking imitation of the way Patrick sometimes looked at things.
Patrick’s throat tightened. He wished they’d just let him play—but the words to explain himself never came easily.
In his pocket, Blanky stirred.
Patrick, came the gentle voice, let me help.
Before Patrick could answer, the little clay figure leapt from his pocket, soaring into the air. Mid-flight, Blanky’s form stretched, shifted, and solidified into a tall, muscular basketball player, wearing a gleaming red jersey and spotless sneakers.
The court went silent.
“Whoa… where did he come from?” one of the boys whispered.
Blanky caught Patrick’s ball, dribbling it with effortless speed before passing it back. Then he faced the group.
“You’ve got a problem,” he said calmly. “You think Patrick is strange because he’s different from you. But that’s not strange—it’s human.”
The boys shuffled uncomfortably.
“You don’t know this,” Blanky continued, “but Patrick lives with something called autism. That means his brain works in a unique way—he might see, hear, and understand things differently than you do. He might need a little more time to speak, or prefer to do things in his own way. But here’s the thing—different doesn’t mean less. And it definitely doesn’t mean weird.”
The blond boy frowned. “So… he’s just… him?”
“Exactly,” Blanky said. “And if you judge someone before you understand them, you’ll miss out on knowing amazing people. Like Patrick—who, by the way, is about to show you what he can really do.”
He passed the ball to Patrick, who took a steadying breath. Dribble. Step. Jump. The ball sailed through the air and dropped neatly through the hoop.
“Nice!” one of the boys said, surprised.
They played for the next half hour. At first, the passes to Patrick were cautious, but soon the others were calling his name, trusting his shots, laughing with him instead of at him.
When the game ended, Blanky smiled, stepped back, and shimmered down into his small clay form. No one noticed as he darted back into Patrick’s pocket.
See? Blanky whispered. Sometimes people just need to be taught how to see differently.
Patrick’s lips curled into a small, proud smile. Today, he wasn’t the “weird” kid. Today, he was just Patrick—the boy who could play.
2Shades writer Steven Smith grows. a beard picture by Graham Martin
As the singer Kelis would say, “Her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”. One thing that will always bring me howling to the yard is a man with facial hair or, at the very least, that five o’clock shadow.
In the late 70’s, the clones with their check shirts and ’taches emulated what many gay men saw as the ultimate heterosexual man with Tom Selleck and Burt Reynolds the undisputed poster boys. And let’s not forget the fantasy images of Tom of Finland.
Image: Tom of Finland foundation
In my experience, much as the clones looked “hot”, what was on the lid was often not what was in the can. Many were hiding their dislike of their own sexuality by playing it pseudo straight, something that was compounded when, in New York in the 80s, I was outside the Munster Bar and a friend advised me, “Babe: if you get into any trouble scream for the drag queens. They will come running. The clones will just go hollering back into the bar.”
Freddie Mercury brought the clone ’tache look back to life for Queen’s third studio album, “The Game” – a trend many said was inspired by the San Francisco gay clubs. The look was prevalent in London at Heaven, the Coleherne and the Earl’s Court Catacombs. Freddie is actually quoted as saying that when he looked back on all that black nail varnish, chiffon and satin, he thought, “God, what was I doing?”
The much-missed Freddie Mercury.
I recall having lunch with the late, amazing Kenny Everett and the Daily Mail journalist Lester Middlehurst in early 90s Los Angeles, when I couldn’t help but notice that both men had moustaches. Kenny was delightful and so very sweet. Still, he commented that I should really grow a ’tache. Men without them simply looked like women to him.
My partner of 18 years had a sexy ’tache, and his hair was standing up on the crown where someone had cut it too short, when I first spotted him. Devilishly handsome, I loved his ’tache. Although I’ve always remained smooth faced, I guess I always went with the theory that opposites attract. It just did not feel right to me if I missed even one day with the razor.
Movember, the well-known charity, was behind my only attempt to grow a ’tache. One week in and friends kept asking if I had not washed. Two weeks on and it was starting to show, and though not impressive, it was there. A beautician friend of mine offered to get rid of a few nose hairs.
During the action she waxed half my newly sprouted moustache off. I let out a little shriek of horror. “WHERE’S MY MOUSTACHE GONE?”
“Is that what that was?” came the reply.
It seems that 2020 saw an explosion of male facial hair adorning our screens. My favourite actor, Colin Farrell, makes me go weak at the knees with his Irish accent and ’tache. Eurovision, though cancelled, gave us the Russian band “Little Big”. Joining them from the gypsy Russian band “The Hatters” was Yuriy Muzychenko.
Yuriy – “Little Big”.
Yuriy, with his many stages of facial hair, is sex on legs, as well as being uber-talented. Since “Little Big” seem to embrace the ’tache so easily, it’s a pity their stance on LGBTQ issues seems a little questionable. Tom Hardy and Jake Gyllenhaal are wearing the beard this season and it looks (as Americans would say) totally awesome on them.
Colin Farrell. Phwoarrr.
Graham Martin, one of London’s premier LGBTQ photographers, has seen an explosion of his clients sporting facial hair. Graham, who himself wears a distinguished silver-fox goatee, tells me that half his male clientele have some sort of ’tache or beard, compared to around one in ten just five years ago. Designer stubble started sneaking in, and the odd ’tache. The demand for the more rough-and-rugged look started pushing ahead of the usually popular twink or surfer look.
Your correspondent with Graham Martin.
It could be that the gay scene is evolving. When I first came out in the late 70s, I was told at the tender age of 16 to have fun as “you’re washed up by 25”. Nasty lies fed to me by the chicken-hawks, as they were called back then.
At one point during the groundbreaking (and sure to win every award going) “It’s a Sin”, written by Russell T Davies, two of the characters are chatting. Curtis tells Richie he slept with a man who was 36; both express their disgust. Arguably the gay scene has always been youth obsessed, with a tendency towards the Dorian Gray complex.
Still, change certainly has come upon us. The Daddies, Silver Fox and The Bear, Wolf and Well-Over-40 seem to be the new in. One Silver-Haired Daddy who is in his sixties, wearing a ’tache and beard, says he is inundated with young men wanting to meet, as well as guys his own age. All seem to love the beard.
Michael Edde is a popular barber in London’s Earl’s Court with a large gay clientele. He has seen a huge increase in beards and ’taches.
Legendary barber Michael Deeds.
“The best way to get your beard looking good is to grow it for ten to fifteen days and have it professionally shaped”, says Michael. “Obviously during lockdown this is impossible. My recommendation is to use conditioner or beard oil, and you might try using Buddha clippers. Start with the highest gauge and work down till you get the shape you’re happy with. Many of my male clients love a beard.”
Picture Graham Martin
Being on my own during lockdown, I gave up shaving for a day or two and decided I quite liked the look. The second time around I had better luck, and my ’tache seemed to come through strongly this time. I had a little help from Watermans’ “GROWME” shampoo.
By week four, I had a beard and a ’tache for the first time in my 59 years.
Reactions were, erm, varied. Some people burst out laughing. Two girlfriends thought I looked like a Joe Swash tribute act. But for the most part, it went down very well. Graham Martin thought it was an attribute. My ex loved it, and even my sister thought it was cool. One thing that did stand out is the fact I am ginger, and much as I have hidden this since I was 18 by dyeing my hair blond, there was no way of hiding it with the beard. Maybe in my sixth decade, embracing my red-headed Scots heritage might not be a bad thing. It has certainly been fun trying it, and it may be here to stay.
Certainly now, I can say with conviction, “Who’s your Daddy?”
It was hard not to stifle a chuckle when I spotted the old familiar sign on the London Underground: “DO NOT STARE.”Really? How is it even possible to avoid making eye contact—no matter how hard you try—when there’s a man across from you mining his nose with such vigour that you worry his fingers might pop out through his eyeball? Or that couple in the corner, so utterly absorbed in each other that you’re not quite sure where to look—especially when she takes a break from kissing to slide her tongue into his ear. lets not start on ” If you see something that does not look right please report it ”
But that’s London for you. A glorious, bustling, cosmopolitan city teeming with people from every walk of life, each more stylish or eccentric than the last. The Tube isn’t just a means of transportation—it’s a rolling reality show. Every trip, every change of line, brings a new cast of characters and a fresh episode of human theatre.
Personally, I’ve always loved the art of people-watching. Airports were once my favourite stage. I’d arrive early just for the chance to observe humanity in transit. Back when loudspeakers used to blare out dramatic announcements—“Mrs Jones, please come to Desk Seven. You have an urgent message.” I never followed to see who Mrs Jones was, but oh, how my imagination ran wild. Maybe she was running away with a lover who’d had a sudden change of heart. Maybe she was being lured back to a secret double life. Most likely, it was something terribly dull—but still, it was enough to get the mental movie reels spinning.
Imagination has always been my saving grace. It’s carried me through life’s best and worst moments. The joy of observing life and its never-ending cast of characters continues to fuel me. As Shakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts.”
But let’s return to the Underground, which has been whisking Londoners beneath the city’s streets since 1863. That “DO NOT STARE” sign, upon closer inspection, had smaller print I hadn’t noticed before: “INTRUSIVE STARING OF A SEXUAL NATURE IS SEXUAL HARASSMENT AND IS NOT TOLERATED.” Fair point—and an important one.
Over a decade ago, I interviewed twelve Page 3 models about their experiences with dating and sex. Shockingly—but sadly not surprisingly—every single one of them had experienced some form of sexual harassment on the Tube. From groping in crowded carriages to lingering, uncomfortable touches during rush hour, it was a grim reminder of the darker side of commuting. Everyone deserves to travel safely, without fear of violation or discomfort.
Yes, let’s stamp out intrusive behaviour. But while we’re putting up signs, how about a few more reminders—common courtesies that could make life better for all of us packed into those rolling metal sausages?
Here’s my updated list of suggested announcements for the London Underground, to be posted right alongside “DO NOT STARE”:
Uncross your legs. No one wants your muddy footprint on their trousers when the train jerks to a stop.
Remove your backpack. Place it between your feet—don’t swing it around like a medieval weapon during rush hour.
Move your bags. That seat is not reserved for your handbag. Let others sit down.
Offer your seat. A little kindness never goes out of fashion. If you see someone elderly, pregnant, or visibly struggling, give up your seat. Don’t pretend to be engrossed in your phone or suddenly blind. But again… DO NOT STARE.
Leave the snacks at home. This isn’t the Orient Express. No one wants to arrive smelling like a bucket of fried chicken or a spicy chow mein from Mr Wok.
Escalator etiquette matters. DO NOT stop dead at the top to check your phone or sort your shopping. Move clear—or risk being shoved, bumped, or bruised.
If someone touches you inappropriately, report it immediately. We all have a right to feel safe.
London’s Underground is legendary around the world for good reason. It’s fast, far-reaching, and, if you ask me, oddly charming. Yes, the fares could be more reasonable—please, Sadiq Khan, no more price hikes—but it remains one of the most efficient and fascinating ways to travel.
So let’s respect it. Let’s love it. And let’s all do our bit to keep the journey pleasant for everyone.
And remember—DO NOT STARE. Even if that Colin Farrell lookalike in rugby shorts gets on at Clapham.
With his hotly anticipated new novel The Hacking on the horizon, author Steven Smith is showing no signs of slowing down. Always one to surprise, he’s taken an exciting detour into chilling new territory with his latest work — a darkly gripping short story titled Killer Queen. The tale features in the spine-tingling anthology Criminal Pursuits, edited by award-winning writer Samantha Lee Howe and created in support of the Pink Ribbon breast cancer charity.
Marking his first foray into the horror genre, Killer Queen promises suspense, social commentary, and a twist of the macabre. And if the glowing early reviews are anything to go by, this debut dip into horror certainly won’t be his last.
In this exclusive feature, 2Shades’ very own Queen of Conversations, Adishri Chengapa, sits down with Steven to talk twisted tales, creative risks, mental health, and what really scares him — beyond the page.
Adishri:Steven, what is Killer Queen about — without giving too much away?
Steven: In a nutshell, it’s a horror story, yes — but also a reflection on society and the illusionary nature of fame and show business. We live in a time where, if The Emperor’s New Clothes were written today, the boy shouting, “He’s naked!” would probably be sued or cancelled. The victims in Killer Queen see only what they want to see — and that’s ultimately their downfall.
Adishri:How did you get involved with Criminal Pursuits?
Steven: I was chatting with my great friend, Samantha Lee Howe — who is, quite frankly, the queen of horror stories — and she mentioned this anthology she was curating in support of the Pink Ribbon breast cancer charity. As soon as I heard about it, I jumped at the chance to be involved. I’d had the idea for Killer Queen bubbling in the back of my mind for a while, and Sam, as both an editor and an author, is incredibly encouraging. Once I got started, the hard part was actually keeping it short!
Adishri:Your first book, Powder Boy, was quite the shocker. Do people see you differently now?
Steven: People often ask me that. Powder Boy was about a womanising, coke-dealing charmer. Honestly, maybe because I’m a gay man, some people assumed I couldn’t have written it — particularly because it features a lot of heterosexual erotica. That’s almost insulting. One of my strengths as a writer is observing and listening. Many of my male friends are what they call straight, and I don’t find it difficult to see things from their perspective. Most of the “conquests” in Powder Boy are based on real stories I’ve been told! If people see me in a different light because of it, so be it. If they genuinely think I am that character — then they’re probably not the kind of people I need in my life anyway.
Steven: Always. I was writing little plays and short stories from a very young age. I’m slightly dyslexic, but no one really noticed. I have an O-level in English Literature and Oral English — but I failed English Language. I was labelled “careless” and “stupid,” and that kind of trauma kept me away from writing for years. In today’s world, the way I was treated to help with things like homework would probably be considered abusive.
I respond best to encouragement — being lifted up, not torn down. It was journalist Jane Moore who changed my life. She asked me to write a column, and I tried every excuse to get out of it, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Thanks to predictive text and writing tools, being dyslexic isn’t the barrier it once was. Jane gave me the push I needed, and it turns out I had a flair for writing and interviewing. Helen Galley, a brilliant teacher of journalism, taught me the technical side of freelance writing — and I’ve never looked back.
Adishri:You write often about mental health. Do you feel men are opening up more about how they feel?
Steven: Not enough. Society still expects men to be these stoic John Wayne types — never showing emotion, never being vulnerable. That attitude is changing slowly, but there’s still a long way to go. We need to teach kids from an early age that it’s okay not to be okay — and also equip them with the tools to cope with real life, including bullying and rejection. Especially if you’re creative or different in any way, you’re going to stand out — and be a target
“Big boys don’t cry” is one of the most harmful phrases ever invented. I know someone with severe anxiety who would rather say they had an incurable disease than admit what they were really struggling with. That’s tragic.
Steven: That makes it sound like I’m dying! [laughs] But yes, I’m 64. And sometimes when I look in the mirror, I still see that scared little boy looking back. Regret, to me, is a self-indulgent emotion. I’ve had some amazing experiences and opportunities, but I’ve also endured things that would make most people wonder how I’m still here. I treat them as life lessons. I move on.
Maybe I regret not pursuing certain relationships — a few people made offers I didn’t take up. But overall? I’m lucky to be me.
Steven: My sister Karen read Killer Queen and said it was “smart, dark, and totally captivating.” She’s not one for false praise — she’s very no-nonsense — and she thinks it would make a great full-length book. So that’s something I’m exploring.
I’m also putting the finishing touches on a very personal project — a book about my late partner, titled Annand and Me. And I’ll be launching a podcast later this year.
Quickfire Round
Sushi or steak? Sushi. I don’t eat red meat or pork.
Favourite films? Blade Runner, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and All About My Mother.
Biggest turn-off? People who think it’s okay to fart in public. Honestly.
If you were mayor for a day? I’d fine people who walk while texting or staring at their phones. And I’d get to work immediately on helping the thousands of homeless people in London and across the UK.
What do you find romantic? I haven’t been on a date in ten years. Even my First Dates date cancelled on me! But to me, romance can be something simple — like walking through a park or sharing lunch with someone you love.
Madonna or Lady Gaga? Madonna — all the way. I know as a gay man I’m supposed to go wild for Kylie’s Padam Padam or Lady Ga Ga’s Abracadabra — but I find them irritating. I like Charlie XCX, but I’m more of a Lou Reed and Bowie fan at heart.
2Shades Magazine 