Last week I emailed Paul Henry. In the subject line I put “Airbrush industry” and then advised him that against all odds I had bought a copy of the latest Women’s Weekly and noted that it had two attractive young ladies on the cover alongside a man who looked like him, only much younger. “Was he perchance,” I wanted to know, “related?”
Paul responded quickly. The gentleman in question he said was in fact an older man who he often uses as a stunt double. And anyway, wasn’t I a regular reader of the New Zealand Women’s weekly?
This last comment had some validity.
Some years ago my daughter, who has a curious sense of humour that she must have got from her mother gave me a subscription to the New Zealand Women’s Weekly for my birthday. She was not urging to get me to in touch with my feminine side; to be perfectly honest I brought the gesture upon myself. For years I had been voicing my concerns that my wife had refused to subscribe to any of those weekly periodicals designed for the female of the species and as a result had left me totally bereft of important information about the rich and famous of the world that these essential magazines impart. When Tom Cruise broke up with Nicole Kidman I didn’t even know they were married and up until her tragic car accident, I had never seen a photo of Princess Di.
And so every week the plainly wrapped periodical used to arrive in my letterbox addressed to Mr. F. R. Long. I suspect it was the only Women’s Weekly in the country sent out to a male. I devoured its contents thoroughly and after twelve months I was pretty much an expert on the royal family, most film stars, various musical performers, a few sporting heroes and knew the intimate personal details about all our nations TV presenters.
A cursory glance at its quaint regular feature Over the Teacups clearly identified that radical feminists were not its target market. Eventually I tired of it and I cancelled the subscription when Wendy’s generous gift expired.
And so I reacquainted myself with the magazine after seeing the cover portrait at the checkout section of the supermarket. I have known the Henry daughters since they were toddlers when Paul used to live firstly in Carterton, then Homebush and then around the corner from where I live in Lansdowne. There is some saying about chrysalises eventually turning into beautiful butterflies and I guess this applies here, though I can’t recall Lucy, Sophie and Bella ever resembling caterpillars. Sophie opted out of being photographed for the publication saying she prefers to shun the spotlight.
So not all daughters take after their father.
The headline for the article read: “My girls saved me” and I scoured the text expecting to find that the three young women had collectively jumped into an IRB at Piha and rescued Paul from the raging surf or something similar, but there was no such episode. In fact the headline, which was italiscised, didn’t relate to anything in the article at all and I can only assume a half-awake sub-editor withdrew a section unaware of its relativity.
But The Women’s Weekly was like an old friend.
The information it imparts is priceless. Well not quite; I did pay $4.20 to access it.
I saw for instance that Gail from Coronation Street, five times married in that role, has got married for the second time after her first husband was caught cheating on her. She said she could barely function when she found out. Her Street roles obviously didn’t prepare her for real life. An old joke says: white is the symbol of happiness - that’s why the groom always wears black; Gail’s wedding dress was silver and I not sure what that implies.
Halle Berry meanwhile thought she was going through the menopause, but discovered that she was in fact pregnant. Now that was something I really needed to know and I’m so grateful that the magazine was able to disclose this.
Speed-dating expert Verity Molloy, in a list of dos and don’ts for young ladies seeking a lifelong partner, advised not to show too much cleavage on the first date. “Give them a hint,” she says, “but not the full rack.”
I found out that Kerre Woodham is apparently now Kerre McIvor; I’m not sure if the change came about by deed poll or by marriage - and a woman with the unlikely name of Wendyl Nissen is both an expert on old fashioned cooking and the Agony Aunt. With a name like that, in any other publication she would be editing the motoring page.
It would be great if in a future edition she is shown getting married to Jeremy Clarkson.
Over the Teacups still flourishes and even has an archival section so you can see what pointless anecdotes previous generations had submitted.
I’ve only skimmed the surface. Prince Harry, Margaret Thatcher and Drew Barrymore all featured and I was amazed at the intimate information about these people and many others that was divulged to take my general knowledge to previously unimagined heights. I’m now thinking of auditioning for Millionaire Hot Seat.
But try as I might, I couldn’t for the life of me find the name of Paul Henry’s stunt double.
