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Thursday, 23 October 2014

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Euro risk ruling must appreciate a lady’s thighs

It hasn’t been the greatest week for women trying to do the right thing. It’s been one of those weeks when a girl’s been forced to wonder why the heck she bothers... know what I mean?

Take Debbie Wicks, for instance. She’s the lady whose insurance company wouldn’t.

Debbie, a womanly woman from Armathwaite, was stunned to be told she was too fat for life insurance.

At 45, youthfully radiant and fit as a flea, her height to weight ratio – when calculated by those caring, sharing, health conscious insurers – came by their estimation to an unhealthy extra £3,500. And that’s a lot of extra weight in anybody’s wallet language.

Debbie, reacting as most women do when hit by a stone wall of hurtfully targeted tosh, had a good old relieving cry then told them to stick their policy where the body mass index doesn’t register. That made her feel much better.

Fat? Just look at the woman (she’s on page 1). She’s never seen fat. Curvy, yes. Statuesque even. Definitely more Jane Russell than Hattie Jacques; more Marilyn Monroe than Dawn French – which is probably where she’s gone wrong.

A woman with a bust and a bum carries a health warning these days. If she has thighs too – well, sorry folks but thighs are likely to be terminal. Quite worryingly so for some insurance companies. Awfully high risk things, thighs. Life threatening. Best avoid them, if you can.

Betty Grable, the 1940s movie pin-up, actress and dancer had her shapely legs – reputedly the most beautiful in Hollywood – insured for $1m at the height of her silver screen fame. Imagine her getting away with that now?

“Apologies dear, we can’t insure your legs – you might dance on them and do some damage.”

“I do dance on them. That’s why I need to insure them.”

“Well, far be it for us to cast aspersions, but these are legs with thighs. And you must know by now, thighs have a tendency to be terminal– especially on a woman with a bust. It’s going to cost you.”

Voluptuousness used to be considered an asset for any woman. It denoted health and femininity. It sorted the girls from the boys. Voluptuousness was desirable. It was worth having.

Apparently it still is desirable to some insurers who’ve latched eagerly onto the trick of whacking up premiums on the strength of an hour-glass figure.

In general terms, if you want to get ahead these days and provide for your family in the event of anything happening to you, get a skeletal frame, flat chest, sunken cheeks and you’ll be laughing.

Just be sure not to eat. Eating ruins everything.

Womanly women weren’t the only ones to get a slap in the face this week. Young women, paying dutifully to insure themselves to drive their cars safely, have been told they’ll have to shell out shed-loads more to match what’s paid by boy-racers who prefer to drive with a death wish.

The one size fits all insurance ruling comes from Europe, of course. Anything other than setting premiums with equal pain is sexist, said the very clever judges, who added up the calculated risk aspects of road safety on the fingers of one hand and the thighs of two voluptuous court ushers.

Fair enough, you might think – if you’re an 18-year-old boy racer with a death wish (and no insurance). If women want equality, let them take the rough with the smooth.

We women wouldn’t necessarily argue with that. But we would ask the chaps to consider why their insurance costs haven’t been reduced to match those of young women drivers. That’s equality too, isn’t it?

Gloat if you must lads. Laugh on whichever side of the face you choose – you’ll still be paying through the nose to crash your car.

Women must by now be wondering how long it’s going to be before they’ll be penalised for being curvy, statuesque and busty with shapely thighs, who are also drivers with a nasty habit of observing the speed limit and a wicked desire to look out for themselves and the future wellbeing of the people they love.

Crikey – none of us could afford that.

Like Debbie, we’d have to burst into tears, have a nice relieving cry, then tell European judges with not a brain between them and insurers with an eye to the main chance of wool-over-eyes nonsense, to stick their rulings where the risk assessment rots.

And believe me, that’s good. Had we been of the opposite sex, we’d have gone out and crashed a car.

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