Being Barbara
Being called “Barbara” is a strange thing, let me tell you. And I would know, wouldn’t I? I’ve been one all my life, so almost nobody else on Earth is in a better position to tell you about this than me.
And it’s hard sometimes, oh it is hard. There are two main things I despise about being called the B word, and they are as follows:
1) Without even asking first, some deranged people think it’s perfectly acceptable to call me “Babs”. Now, to anyone out there who is one of these people, or sympathises with these people, let me tell you now that there is nothing acceptable about being called this hideous “name”. For one thing it sounds a lot like baps, which is a product made out of bread, and for another thing…well, as I said before, it’s absolutely horrible. Leave it, leave it now.
2) Barbara Windsor shares my name. Ugh. So yeah, that was just about okay before, but now look at her! She’s on TV doing her ridiculous bingo adverts with all her nut butters friends. Which is terrible if you’re me, because every so often someone comes up to you and does the same laugh as Barbara Windsor does in that advert (you must know the one: it’s where she has her boobs all pushed up looking like a right old trollop).
3) It just isn’t the nicest name in the world, really. I’d much more have preferred Sarah or something, but there you go, I suppose it could be worse: I could have been named Tracy Meldreth Boon Stevens instead, right?
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