At just 18 years old, having recently graduated from a Church of England girls’ school, I was eager to immerse myself in history at Oxford University.
I envisioned an existence filled with stimulating conversations, prolonged afternoons steeped in study at the Bodleian Library, and in-depth debates surrounding politics and current events.
However, as the first term progressed, I realized an undeniable truth: even in this esteemed institution, the burden of being a woman with a ‘great rack’ had taken its toll.
Just this month, Madeline Grant, an Oxford undergraduate, found herself encountering the same realization two decades later.
The spirited English student stirred up controversy when rumors circulated about her playful remark regarding her bust in a draft manifesto for a position in the Oxford Union.
She claims her intention was to poke fun at the stuffy debating society and its unending maneuvering (referred to as ‘hacking’ in Oxford lingo) with her clever quip: ‘I don’t hack, I just have a great rack.’
Her critics, all women, argue that her statements belittle women. However, I believe she brought to light a universal truth: for those with a prominent bust, most men will find it challenging to look beyond that.
Regardless of whether you are a brain surgeon or a High Court judge, if you are a C-cup or larger, you will inevitably face a lifelong challenge to be recognized for your intellect.
Madeline merely erred in voicing what many of her male peers were likely thinking: that if you have ample assets upfront, your other attributes might go unnoticed.
I recall the discomfort I felt during tutorials, as tutors elaborated on the repeal of the corn laws or discussed the ascent of the landed gentry — all while their gaze seemed fixated on my chest.
Eventually, I resorted to wearing oversized jumpers in hopes of deterring wandering eyes. Simultaneously, in student bars, cafes, and even libraries, I was perpetually propositioned by floppy-haired boys just out of boarding school.
Despite having a boyfriend back home, my sizable bust seemed to convey a message that I was available.
Ignoring my more attractive female friends, they would sneak notes into my bag or place them in my pigeonhole, asking me out.
When I ended up single at the close of my first year, I dove headfirst into a passionate relationship with a stunning public school boy.
However, he derailed the relationship when he confessed that I ‘reminded him of a secretary.’ I took this to mean that my attire was a bit too revealing. Nonetheless, similar to Madeline, I didn’t see why I ought to dress conservatively just because I was a DD cup.
I certainly didn’t dress like Jordan either — just fitted tops paired with Levi’s jeans. But there was no way I was going to don smock tops or burn my bra like some of my left-leaning friends.
Perhaps I was naïve to believe I deserved to be taken seriously, or foolish for not opting to cover up.
My newfound heroine is the curvaceous British presenter Susanna Reid, who has faced scrutiny for her choice of revealing attire.
Last year, the 41-year-old’s selection of dresses sparked an outpouring of commentary on Twitter. Moreover, when she interviewed Hugh Grant while wearing a top with a square neckline that showed a hint of cleavage, she was accused of ‘flirting like a schoolgirl on a first date.’
In response to the negativity, she pointedly remarked: ‘People seem to be shocked that women have breasts.’
I wholeheartedly concur. In my early 20s, I grew so frustrated by the obsession surrounding my bust that I decided to buy a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘hello boys’ across the
At that point, I had completely lost my patience with men who only made eye contact with my chest, leading me to decide to use their tactics against them. However, working as a rookie reporter for a local newspaper, I quickly learned that the only way to gain respect was to dress in the most conservative manner.
I made a considerable investment in various androgynous black suits, ensuring that my jackets were always buttoned up.
Even so, a group of firefighters still couldn’t help but check me out when I visited the local fire station to shadow a night shift.
During an experience where I was supposed to learn Morris dancing, I found myself smacking my dancing partner’s knuckles with my bells after noticing him staring down my top.
Honestly, I’ve lost track of how many times men have appeared to be entranced by my breasts.
At the time, I had a relatively young bank manager who frequently called me in for meetings regarding my student loans, fully aware that the only number he was truly interested in was mine.
I even once caught a glimpse of the local mayor stealing a look. Despite being there to cover a town council meeting, his attention was clearly diverted from my notebook.
It’s astounding how simply showing a bit of cleavage can lead to unwarranted stares, irrespective of where or who you happen to be.
Recently, the Crown Princess of Denmark was captured on video at a state dinner in Copenhagen, her figure accentuated by a sparkling dress—while the husband of the Finnish president was caught ogling her.
Once I landed a position as a feature writer at a national tabloid, I quickly gained notoriety, and not in a good way. There weren’t any page three girls, but sexist exploitation still thrived.
While my flat-chested peers were reporting from war zones and famine-stricken areas of Africa, I was assigned to go undercover as a bunny girl, donning a body-hugging satin leotard complete with a tail and ears right in the heart of Leicester Square. (Piers Morgan was the editor; I can only assume he appreciates a good bust.)
Another “serious” assignment led me to Wiltshire, where residents believed they had discovered a mud swamp capable of erasing wrinkles. My job was to strip down and take a dip.
I once accidentally witnessed sub-editors at the paper caught in the act of drooling over photographs taken during a Swedish assignment, where I was tasked with locating the national football team and found them indulging in a hotel sauna.
It’s no surprise then that when I departed from the newspaper, the first draft of a mocked-up front page headline that my co-workers created for me was shockingly dubbed ‘Jugs Bunny!’
Luckily, a friend stepped in and modified it to ‘Mugs Bunny’, which perhaps aligned more with reality.
Although I can’t deny enjoying those years, the intellectual side of me often cringed at the absurdity of it all.
Fast forward to now, and I find myself contemplating whether Oxford’s Madeline Grant might indeed have the right approach after all.
In this era of The Only Way Is Essex, if it’s acceptable for Essex girls to flaunt their assets, why should smart women feel ashamed of their curves?
As I edge closer to 40, I frequently reminisce about the days before motherhood, aging, and gravity affected my once fabulous bosom.
Nowadays, selecting an appropriate top is a balancing act to avoid looking like Hattie Jacques on one end and Bet Lynch on the other.
However, a few months ago at a 40th birthday party, I ended up conversing with the father of a dear friend I’ve known since I was 20.
Despite the years since we last connected, he recalled me—or more accurately, he remembered the pink top I wore during the summer of 1995.
When sharing this with my husband, he chuckled and remarked, ‘Ah yes, I remember that top.’
Here I was, believing he married me for my intellect.
by Susan Floyd
