Have a thing about John Inverdale. I thought it would pass but now that
Wimbledon’s started he’s all over the telly again and it seems I’ve not shaken it.
I have this inexplicable urge to dress him in drag. Yes, of course I know he’s all man, and it would doubtless offend his rugby-trained 100% brawn to hear himself discussed in this way, but I can’t help it. Every time I catch sight of the Inverdale I instantly transport him in fishnets and fuschia boned satin to centre stage, Madame JoJo’s.
Am yet to put my finger on just why this should be, but I think it’s the mouth, particularly when he smiles. It’s a perfect Cupid’s bow set within a granite jaw, that curls upwards and stretches wide to reveal a pristine set of pearly whites. Plus his eyes are a flashing steely grey, heavily lashed, and naturally defined in a way that looks like Boots no 7.
Mouth, neck, shoulders, eyebrows… all are oversized in the kind of way that would immediately rumble a drag queen’s gender however lavishly feminine the dress and garb. And such a great hulk of a man is instantly emasculated when dressed in a suit and perched on a TV sofa.
No idea. Am prepared to accept that this could be a psychological issue that’s all my own but Inverdale just seems a bundle of soft, raw, feminine, masculine contradictions that’s resulting in a warping of my mind. Surely I can’t be the only one…?