Reggie Yates is a tour de force in investigative journalism

This bright spark has put the joy back into my BBC Three viewing

In recent years, BBC Three documentaries have been exceptionally awful. I can’t say I blame the corporation. It’s simply trying to cater to my generation: a group of men and women who feasted on Take Me Out at university – and sometimes need the big issues dumbed down.

As a result, we’ve been treated to the most appalling line up of documentaries, by so-called ‘documentary makers’. And I hate to insult my members of my own gender, but the worst offenders have been the ladies. From Dawn Porter to Cherry Healy to the abominable Stacey Dooley, I feel my brain has shrunk every time I have been subjected to their thoughts on issues such as drug culture, how to be lesbian and pampered dogs.

That’s why it came as a huge breath of fresh air when the BBC signed Reggie Yates to its documentary line up.

I’ve never really thought much about Yates, other than ‘he seems like a nice guy’. But three episodes into his new series, Extreme UK, and I’m hooked – and ever so impressed by the way in which he probes into sensitive subject matter.

During Extreme UK, Yates has examined a variety of issues, such as homosexuality in BME communities and the rise of British men against feminism. In last night’s episode Dying for A Six Pack, Yates explored the UK’s new fitness culture – which sees thousands of men doing their utmost to achieve the ‘perfect’ physique.

What separates Yates from the Dooley Drooleys of this world is his tact and ability to make a television show that isn’t all about him. Yates has learnt something very masterful – that his questions, alone, are enough to expose holes in his subjects’ arguments. A rather rare feat in this censorious age, where controversial figures are often shut down or banned from debates. Rarely are they listened to.

But listen, Yates does. He drinks cups of tea with sexists and other bigots, all the while remaining calm and detached. His Socratic style not only means that his interviewees open up to him rather readily, but also makes for a far more balanced and interesting debate. He is exceptionally brave; at one point he is barraged with racist abuse for trying to find interview subjects from the ‘manosphere’ – an internet group that promotes male rights – but remains focused on his mission.

What I like most about Yates is that he can articulate his findings in a simple way. He is clearly a very clever and unassuming chap – whom I might also fancy a bit – and through his television shows I hope he can teach young people not only about the subjects he covers, but the importance of listening to different perspectives, no matter how offensive one might seem.

It’s hard to take a Radio 1 DJ and former Top of the Pops DJ seriously as an investigative journalist. But that we should. For through his BBC Three range, Yates has shown himself to be a real tour de force in this field.

I’ve been born again. As a Belieber

They say love happens when you least expect it to

It all started on a Monday morning.

I was sitting at my desk with nothing but a bowl of Ready brek to lift my spirits, and I needed inspiration of the artistic kind.

So I went onto Spotify, and asked it to show me the way.

“Gods of Spotify,” I pleaded. “Show me an artist who can raise me up.”

And the Gods of Spotify answered… They told me to listen to this song by Justin Bieber.

It’s called “What Do You Mean?” and it’s all about Justin dating this girl who’s a mistress of mixed signals. He’s really confused – she keeps nodding her head, arguing with him, being overprotective and Justin just can’t work it out…

What does she mean?

And I can’t help him either because this girl sounds awfully discombobulating. But anyway, the point is that when I listened to this song – strange lyrics aside – something really weird happened. Which is that I found myself totally enthralled by the funky panpipes, background grandfather clock, and sultry vocals. It’s even got me having an existential crisis.

I say existential crisis, but really I’m trying to get round to the confession that I’ve become a Belieber.

Never say never
You think you know everything about yourself when you’re 26. Things like you’ll never like pigeons, people doing their make-up on public transport or Owen Jones.

Yet, to become a Belieber is spinning my world out of control. Who am I now?

Still, as I think about it, I don’t know why I was never one before. Because the more I find out about Justin Bieber, the more I’m convinced he’s a genius (the Mozart of Ontario, even) and that we should all be Beliebers.

I know the Bieb seems like this trivial, manufactured musician for silly teenage girls. But he’s so much more than that, and I think we’ve all been taking him for granted. As musicians go, he’s exceptional. Just the other day I watched this video of him singing the original version of his song ‘Where Are U Now’ – a CHOON – which he wrote aged 15, and wanted to explode with awe. I would say ‘pride’, but who am I to say that – Justin’s mom?!

This is a song I probably heard when I was about 20 and thought ‘meh’. That’s before I spent months struggling to teach myself Fight for this Love by Cheryl Cole on the piano. Such thankless days plonking away taught me that it’s bloody hard being good at the piano – let alone singing too – and I was seriously blown away by the Bieb as he mastered all these crafts (at an age when most boys are trying to master walking in a straight line).

Bieber has a slightly jaded look in his eyes these days and that’s because, over the years – a bit like Harry Styles – he’s been hung out as serious man-meat for the world to feast on. He’s so good looking and good at music that people simply don’t know how to process him, and eventually he became a bit uncool. In fact, really uncool. I should know – once I told my (then) teenage brother his hair was like Justin Bieber’s, which I thought was a lovely compliment, and he looked at me like I was a witch.

I am trying to make a serious point in this post, though. Which is that sometimes we are so satiated with talent that we, quite simply, forget to realise how special some people are. And I know Baby is hardly Handel’s Messiah. But like Handel, Bieber is a star. I even think that, like the Messiah, Justin is going to make a big come back.

And I hope we can welcome him with open arms. That we can step back and give our opinions of the Bieb some new-found consideration. We could all become Beliebers! And, as Justin says, you should ‘Never say never’ (to being a Belieber).

When I stop listening to ‘What Do You Mean?’ and ‘Where Are U Now’ 100 times a day, I will be excited to see what this strapping young man – I can say that now he’s 21 – does next. And thrilled to tell the world: I’m a Belieber.

Standing up for short men: is short-shaming the new fat-shaming?

What on earth gives women the right to dismiss men for being short? 

Maybe it’s because I’m five foot one; maybe it’s because I think Napoleon seemed kind of cool, or maybe it’s because I’m a bit soppy – but I can’t help feeling sorry for short men.

And I want to make a stand for them. Because something strange and unacceptable in our culture has happened where women feel it is ok to publicly slate their petite counterparts, and dismiss them romantically, purely on their (limited) height.

Case en pointe – today I read an article in The Debrief called ‘28 Tinder Dates in 28 Days’. In the piece, a (rather smug) journalist analyses 28 Tinder dates she has been on – her second one titled: ‘The Incredibly Short Guy’. Speaking of her encounter, she writes:

“Thank goodness I was sitting down at the bar when this little bundle walked up to the table I was waiting at. This guy was teeny… I told him from the off that I was doing research on Tinder because I didn’t want him to make a move on me as I would surely burst out laughing.”

I couldn’t believe what I was reading – such outrageous discrimination so needlessly displayed and openly tolerated.

Unfortunately, no one will bat an eyelid at this piece. That’s because the sisterhood has become incredibly shallow when it comes to men’s stature – convinced that we have some entitlement to Thor-like creatures. In fact, many of my friends will now dismiss guys on dates with no other reason than they were ‘too short’.

Like I say, I’m only five foot one myself, so part of my sympathy is personal. I’m sure had I been a bloke I would have spent most of my life looking upwards. The thought of operating in such a Spartan dating world sends shivers down my spine.

But what especially vexes me is this double standard of women criticising short men, then expecting the latter to tolerate physical imperfections such as a weight (which isn’t even a fixed state). For a man to openly reject a woman because he found her fat would be social suicide.

Yet for women to complain about a man’s height is fine, apparently. At least, that’s the message I’m receiving from magazines like The Debrief – whose journalists clearly find the notion that a short man might want some romantic action hilarious. 

It’s not really ok, though, is it? Any more than telling your friends you dismissed someone because they had black hair, or narrow shoulders, or anything else that is undeniably genetics. And actually, not that big a deal.

Some of the cleverest, most determined, interesting and handsome guys I know are short. I’d like to say I feel bad for them that they have to face this wave of judgement when they go dating, but my only reassurance is that at least they will weed out shallow women from their pool of potential partners. Girls who cannot see that there are far more important things to have in a boyfriend than long limbs.

And girls who cannot see that openly dismissing someone because of their height is, at best, plain rude. You cannot choose who you fancy or fall in love with, but you can choose decorum – and we ladies should reject with dignity and grace. If guys can learn not to fat-shame, surely we can avoid short-shaming.

Ginger Bond, black Bond, he’ll still be the same chauvinistic, dull Bond

King of the gingers Damian Lewis is all over the newspapers today. Word is out that he may be the next James Bond.

If you’ve missed this information, I don’t know how – because ever since Daniel Craig revealed plans to hang up his gun last year, the media can’t stop discussing who the next stars of the franchise will be – whether that’s Idris Elba, Tom Hardy or Henry Cavill.

But, you know what, I’m a bit bored of Bondaganda. In the same way as I don’t want to hear about football, or Game of Thrones or One Direction’s underpants. In fact, if you’re not interested in any of these cultural phenomenons you end up feeling as isolated as Rachel Dolezal at a gathering of white people. I say we all find a bunker and live together, in a world where the words ‘Jon Snow’ and ‘gooooal!’ are never uttered.

Ok, ok, you’re probably wondering ‘who doesn’t like James Bond?’ After all we have absorbed the franchise into our culture as if it were fish and chips – a normal part of British life. Dare we ever question whether we we actually get that much enjoyment out of it.

My big issue I have with it is that it’s very sexist. Obviously I’m not the first one to point this out – it’s been a criticism of Bond films as long as they have been made. I only got a bit rattled because I noticed that women in my circles – that’s a polite expression for friends – like it! Which I think is barmy – because I do not know how anyone could get excited over a film in which their own gender is solely portrayed as sperm buckets.

Sure, sometimes women do other things in James Bond films, like move their arms. But mostly it’s a sorry tale. I was especially depressed when I watched Quantum of Solace, in which Gemma Arterton has a very inadequate role indeed. There’s pouting and talking, and then she dies. This is a woman who has done Shakespeare! Yet all of that just gets wasted in a James Bond film.

Everyone’s been getting excited because femme fatale Monica Belluci is going to be in the next picture – Spectre. She will be the oldest Bond Girl in the franchise’s history, at 50 years of age. Speaking about the role, Belluci said ‘I’d prefer to be called a Bond woman or perhaps a Bond lady.’ Her entry into the film was seen as very revolutionary for Bond, as if its directors have broken down boundaries against Hollywood ageism. That’s in spite of the fact gorgeous Belluci could be twenty years younger. Frankly, I want to see a moustache and boobs that move like a swing in the wind before I can celebrate any James Bond ‘golden oldie’ movement.

You might say that Judi Dench is a good example of an older lady, in the role of M. She was brought in by movie directors because – and I quote – she is ‘the only woman Bond doesn’t see in a sexual content’. That’s nice, isn’t it?! Explains a lot though. Anyway, it’s good and everything that Dench got a bit of camera action – she was great at holding phones and chatting about stuff – but the character did die.

And when she died, did I shed a tear?

No. Which brings me on to my next point. Bond characters are as interesting as a trip to The Royal Geographical Society (soz, I went there when I was 12 and I’m still getting over it). This is where I think that Piers Brosnan, Timothy Dalton and Sean McConnery had a bit of an edge as predecessors to Danny boy, because they had a lot more charisma.

The Daily Mirror got it right when they described Craig as ‘The Name’s Bland – James Bland’ in 2006. Craig has made a very dull spy, indeed, with his permanent bitchy resting face – which of course will be interpreted as ‘clever and mysterious’. And I don’t even want to snog him thanks to his paper thin lips. Anyway, the point is that there’s so much action in these films that you barely get to know the people in them.

But who wants to know them anyway? The protagonist is a boring chauvinist and the female characters are like Bambi in the field, waiting for someone to load their gun and take them out.

So when my news feed is bombed up with stories about Damian Lewis et al being in the running for the role, do you know what I say? Apart from saying, don’t do it, Damian Lewis!!! I say, I don’t care.

I don’t want to feel like a strange minority for not liking Bond films. It’s a dull, regressive set of movies that we are somehow supposed to accept as part of our British identity, like tea.

But being British, to me, equals being interesting and egalitarian. Everything a Bond film is not.