It’s been 14 years since I last saw Charles in person.

We are having lunch in a busy cafe on a hot March day in Kigali, Rwanda. With a decade to catch up on, even though we aren’t related by blood, we still refer to each other as brothers, my family as his family.

Then Charles’ voice saddens – which it often does when he talks about my dad in the past tense. He asks me: “Daddy called me his ‘third child’ in our emails. Do you think that will help with the visa application process if I want to come work in England?” 

There’s a silence as I understand, for perhaps the first time, the reality of my dad’s complicated legacy. The reality of the impact caused by his sponsorship of Charles 15 years ago.

I knew as we sat there, that I hadn’t prepared myself well enough. I hadn’t let myself consider how far that impact could have gone, and that I didn’t have the right answer to give. 

When discussing my dad’s white saviour complex with people, many often get defensive for me, as if acknowledging his well-intentioned but problematic attitudes hurts me and I need their support and reassurance. 

Other times, it feels like a type of white guilt, keen to defend someone they can relate to with a ‘back then how could he have known?’

My dad – a secondary school teacher who grew up in Leeds and brought up a devout Christian – was a product of his society and his religion. He was also a kind man, who cared about fighting injustice. All those things led him to set up partnerships between his school and schools in Romania, India and Rwanda, running fundraising campaigns to support them for many years. 

The Rwanda partnership was closest to his heart, as he had initially tried to move to Cameroon in the 1960s for missionary work but was refused on health grounds. In Rwanda, he set up a sponsorship programme for people from our school in England to fund the tuition of students in Gisenyi, a city in the northwest of Rwanda.

These fundraising and child sponsorship schemes that support children in Africa are still common today, and though they are well-intentioned, many who take part in them are rarely aware of what damage they can potentially cause. How they reinforce ideas of racial roles – whiteness understood as wealth, knowledge and a reliable source of support, whereas blackness is seen as the opposite, of poverty and ignorance.

I, like many from our school who took part in this partnership, and like my dad, thought the partnership was doing some good. Today looking back, I know all we did was reinforce those roles.

My dad died from cancer in May 2010, a few months after his last trip to Rwanda. Before he passed away, he asked our family to continue funding the university fees for Charles, who he had been sponsoring and was in regular contact with for many years.

I was 18, and despite once meeting Charles during a school trip, our relationship mostly consisted of a few letter exchanges, encouraged by my dad.  

We paid the fees until Charles graduated, but then, as the years passed and we processed our grief, my dad’s work in Rwanda became a distant footnote in our memory of him, just another chapter. Our communication with Charles dwindled until our Facebook Messenger chat became a long list of unanswered questions, while his profile picture remained, for a decade after we had met, a photo of him and me. 

Last year, after receiving a wedding invite from another student from the Gisenyi sponsorship programme, I decided that I should visit. I had processed my dad’s death, but had begun to ask myself questions about the Rwanda chapter in his life and felt a responsibility to see what the impact of it was.

It had been well over a year since I’d last responded to Charles, so it was with some shame that I contacted him to see if we could meet up during my visit. I reached out to the former school in Gisenyi too, and, with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, booked a flight. 

I met Charles on my second day in Kigali. His parents had been killed during the Rwandan Genocide when he was six, and he’d spent most of his childhood being moved from foster home to foster home, to relatives who didn’t want to support him and his siblings. 

He said the first time he had a sense of family was when my dad began writing him emails and supporting his studies. Those emails, which he showed me after I asked to see, were often signed off ton Papa Anglais (your English daddy) and were filled with religious affection. 

In Charles’ house, there are no photos of his parents because he has none. Instead, he has photos of us, my dad, my mum, my sister and me. He said: “I felt lonely for so many years without a family. Then with Daddy I didn’t feel loneliness anymore.”

After my dad died, Charles shut himself out of school for a week. He had lost both parents he said, then gained one, then lost him again.

In Gisenyi, as I was proudly shown around the school by a former teacher and close friend of my dad’s, teachers and staff approached me and spoke of him in glowing terms. I was used to this after his death from people in the UK, but here was an added layer, something which reflected how his role in this place had been unusual and unexpected. 

There was gratitude as I was shown books sent by my school, from the coach who praised the courts that we had fundraised to build. They spoke of the sadness they felt after his death, how they had lost a dear friend. I felt his memory being carried along through the people, the buildings and books, and that he was more alive there than he had felt to me for 12 years.

I also felt uneasy, because it seemed that within the gratitude lay some resentment. Frustrations about how the programme my dad set up, with its funding which had been central to their development – suddenly stopped after his death. ‘One day people just stopped answering emails,’ I was told.

Projects were left unfinished, others over the years fell into unmaintained disrepair. Some students’ sponsorships continued while others faded away. Classrooms shared by those whose lives would be forever altered by English money, and others forced to process the loss of expectation. The details and dynamics of human lives that sponsors rarely consider. Africa as a project, not a people. 

The impact that the partnership had on the Gisenyi school was transformative, often good, but problematic because it was short-term, unsustainable and reinforced ideas that white Europeans could come in and solve many issues.

During the one time our school funded a group of the Gisenyi students to visit England, six ran away before boarding the flight home making national news.

15 years later, in a muted tone filled with disappointment for the community, a couple of Gisenyi’s staff recollected the incident to me. 

There is still a hurt and sadness in Gisenyi about a partnership that ended so abruptly. Whereas in the collective memory of our English school, it was all too easy to move on.

My dad had so much compassion. He cared and wanted to help, and through a very simplistic and convenient lens, he did. Students got access to university and many school buildings and facilities were repaired or rebuilt. He ensured that the visiting English students were educated about Rwandan culture (something which, to his credit, was uncommon in the voluntourism of the 2000s), and he was committed to supporting Charles indefinitely. People are grateful, they’ve told me just how grateful.

But he also forced change without a clear understanding of its long-term impact. My dad’s influence changed the trajectory of people’s lives, normalising a belief that we knew what was best for them. His ambitions were heavily influenced by his religion, and just as he ended his childhood wanting to be a missionary on the continent, it was well known that when he planned to retire he would move to Rwanda and live out his life there. 

He extended our family to Charles, which promised affection we would always struggle to maintain without him. He made money central to that relationship and passed that responsibility onto me. And I failed, perhaps right until we met in Kigali 15 years after my family came into his life, to see the relationship as anything more than a transaction.

As I sat down on the beach of Lake Kivu (which connects Gisenyi and the Democratic Republic of the Congo) exactly where I stood with my dad 14 years before, I opened the pot which contained his last remaining ashes that I had, and emptied it over the sand.

I thought about how much he had loved this country, about his wish to retire here, and as I watched the grey and yellow start to blend together in the wind, I thought, yes, this is what he would’ve wanted. To be at one with Rwanda.

I wish he had felt differently. I wish he had lived longer to have realised how problematic that love was, the hurt that was caused by his actions. I wish for him that he could’ve had the opportunity to be educated, to find a healthier way to help.

But in the end, some people will always have that automatic urge to justify his actions, to talk about that time and place, about good intentions. I feel it too, the need to justify my own actions of letting my relationship with Charles fade for a decade, the need to not pass too harsh a judgement on someone who isn’t here to defend themselves, who could’ve changed if he was still alive.

The present doesn’t pause to contextualise those who are stuck in the past forever, but the impact of their actions and ours today are real and they are happening now. Acknowledging that uncomfortable truth and learning from it is crucial if we are to help ourselves become better anti-racists.

I have decided to respect the relationship with Charles, not by continuing my dad’s legacy, but committing to communicate, to love and respect a connection with a brother 4,000 miles away. I am not sure if this is entirely unproblematic, but it feels necessary and I am glad to do it. We both lost someone we saw as a father after all, and, though neither of us had a choice in the matter, we share this.

My dad was a caring man who wanted to help people. I loved him. He was also influenced by religiously motivated white saviourism. His actions both positively and negatively impacted individuals. Two things can be true, and it’s possible that a simple and entirely right answer might not exist.

And while his ashes are scattered around the world now, most of him will always reside in Rwanda, where his presence will be felt for a long time to come for better or for worse, by those who knew him, and many who never will.

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As Brian Quavar was wheeled into the operating theatre at Guy’s and St Thomas’ hospital in London, he looked up at the surgeon and joked, ‘how much sleep have you had?’

Being the first patient of the day, he was about to have life-saving surgery after being diagnosed with prostate cancer. 

Although it was a shock diagnosis, it was one that Brian, now 60, had taken in his stride, despite the worrying lack of information surrounding the illness in Black men. 

‘One in four Black men, as opposed to one in eight in the general population, are more at risk,’ the 60-year-old tube driver explains. ‘Unfortunately, there hasn’t been enough research on Black bodies and prostate cancer even though it affects us more as a community,  so there is no understanding as to why.’ 

Like many men, Brian didn’t have any clear symptoms of the disease. He wasn’t in pain, or  felt any strange lumps – the only thing that gave any sort of indication was his need to pee more than usual. 

‘I had no real symptoms before my diagnosis,’ Brian, from East London, tells Metro. ‘I would say the only symptom would be getting up in the middle of the night to urinate regularly. I didn’t even think of it as a issue because I drink lots of liquid normally.’

However,  after frequently getting up for the toilet during the night, he was urged by his partner to visit his GP.

A PSA test (a blood test to help detect prostate cancer) revealed higher levels than normal and Brian was called in for further tests. Following a biopsy, MRI and PET scan, he was diagnosed with localised prostate cancer – which meant it hadn’t spread.

Brian, who grew up in Trinidad, recalls: ‘I had my partner with me when we got the news, so I had that support, and I had done some research. I knew it wasn’t likely to  have been fatal, or detrimental to my wellbeing – so I didn’t panic.’

‘I didn’t think: “Oh my god, this is the end of the world!”. I listened to diagnosis and I was told about the treatment options.’

Brian opted to have his prostate removed, rather than undergo radiation. However the operation, known as a radical robotic prostatectomy, came with risks, such as incontinence and erectile dysfunction. Both of these were dependent on the success of the surgery and how much ‘nerve spare’ (where doctors avoid cutting nerves near your prostate) surgeons could save.

Thankfully, the operation was a success, leaving Brian with 75% nerve spare. He was then sent home with a care plan, medical erection pump, and a catheter – which was removed after two weeks. 

On the whole, he says, his recovery went well. However, one thing that Brian feels has helped him enormously over the past two years has been a prostate cancer support group specifically for Black men, called Brother to Brother, Man to Man.

The group was set up by nurses at Guy’s and St Thomas’ hospital with the aim of being a safe space for Black men to talk about prostate cancer and, ultimately, help squash stigmas in the community.

‘Staff found that not many Black men attended the regular prostate cancer group and felt that Black men would be more responsive to being in a group of people similar to themselves. And I agree.

‘It’s important for us as Black men to feel comfortable in a space where we can talk freely amongst ourselves, and not to be seen as in the minority.

‘We meet once a month and we’re able to share personal experiences and hear from experts in the field. It’s very supportive.’

Brian adds that groups like this are especially crucial, as prostate cancer is still stigmatised within the Black community.

‘It’s taboo for a lot of reasons. There is still a struggle in terms of getting Black men to ask for PSA tests,’ he says. ‘A lot of them still think the only test is the rectal examination – which isn’t the case – and for some men this is taboo. They don’t want anybody putting a finger up their bum.

‘The other issue is the fact that prostate cancer has to do with your sexual function – however, until it’s in the advanced stages, it doesn’t really affect you in that way. So some people think “what they don’t know can’t hurt them”, and they prefer to not know about any kind of treatment that would affect their sexual function.

‘However, as a Black man, it’s also important to me that more Black people speak out to remove the stigma around being tested or being treated for prostate cancer, as it still remains a taboo for many, across Black communities.’

What’s more, with the statistics highlighting Black men are more at risk of prostate cancer, Brian feels passionately about firstly encouraging Black men to get a PSA test and secondly, urging GPs not to turn them away when they request one.

He also stresses this is particularly important as often prostate cancer can be practically symptom-less – like it was for him.

Meanwhile, there are other hurdles in the way, which could be more easily remedied, such changing how coverage of prostate cancer tends to focus on white men.

‘When people share their stories, it’s usually white men,’ Brian points out. ‘However, even if they’re speaking about white men, it should be reiterated, somewhere in the narrative, that Black men are more at risk of prostate cancer.

‘This narrative is still if you’re a man over the age of 50, get a PSA test. But it should be stressed this is for the general population. However, if you’re a Black man, and you’re over the age of 45, you should be getting a test – that’s the guidelines from Prostate Cancer UK.

‘That distinction should always be reiterated wherever possible when cancer is spoken about.’

Since Brian’s surgery in 2021, his PSA levels are undetectable and he attends regular check ups. But following his experience, he’s more passionate than ever about getting people talking and squashing stigmas.

I would like to reiterate the message to Black men, that there is no shame in having any kind of illness.

‘It’s a taboo for a lot of people in the Black community where you don’t talk about your illness whether it’s prostate cancer, or mental illness or any other kind of cancer, or any other sort of this medical diagnosis – it’s not openly spoken about. So there needs to be more openness within the community.’

Brian is also involved in Macmillan’s recent Find The Words campaign, which encourages men to open up about their experience of cancer and reach out for support.

If you’ve received a diagnosis or are going through treatment, you can get support via Macmillan on 0808 808 00 00.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

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At five feet and four inches, William Brown was perhaps on the slightly small side for a sailor.

He worked aboard the HMS Queen Charlotte, a towering warship used by the Royal British Navy across Europe.

William was said to possess a ‘smart well formed-figure’ and boasted ‘considerable strength and great activity.’

He was also known for deftly scaling the ship’s rigging and steering the vessel through shallow waters, newspaper reports had claimed.

But the 26-year-old’s life at sea was brought to an abrupt end when the young man’s true identity was revealed in 1815.

William Brown, it emerged, was a woman.

She had made use of an elaborate disguise to hide her sex from her superiors and fellow sailors.

It is thought a quarrel with her husband had led the young woman to the decision to enlist in the Navy.

‘William Brown was a woman seeking a different sort of life. The only way to do that was to pretend to be a man,’ Dr Jo Stanley, an expert in maritime history, tells Metro.

The academic specialises in uncovering unknown tales of female, LGBT and ethnic minority sailors of the past, and says she was inspired tby her great-aunt who worked on boats and explored West Africa as a stewardess.

While Dr Stanley is fascinated by the stories the waves hold, she ironically doesn’t have the strongest of sea legs – and has to wear a motion sickness band to keep her stomach steady.

‘The history of women at sea is fascinating and I thought someone should write about them. Then I realised it was going to be me,’ she laughs.

‘It was hugely exciting to start, I felt like I was hacking through a new jungle with a machete.

‘It would have been around 20 years ago that I found out about William Brown. I’d done a lot of research into piracy by this point and had come across several women who had cross-dressed.

‘It was a logical thing to do at the time, for women who were bold enough. We are so used to gap years and travelling now, but it wasn’t an option for women in the past.

‘They’d cut their hair, chew tobacco, spit, drink, do a rolling walk – do anything they could to be a convincing man.’

William Brown is the first Black woman on record to join the ranks of the Royal British Navy, yet much of her story is still shrouded in mystery.

The woman’s real name is unknown and there are debates over where she came from.

The September 2, 1815 edition of the Times states: ‘Amongst the crew of the Queen Charlotte, 110 guns, recently paid off, is now discovered, was a female African.

‘[She] served as a seaman in the Royal Navy for upwards of eleven years, several of which she has been rated able on the books of the above ship by the name of William Brown, and has served for some time as the captain of the fore-top, highly to the satisfaction of the officers.’

Brown’s fellow sailors were said to be none the wiser about her true gender, as she would routinely guzzle grog with the ‘greatest gaiety’ alongside the men.

Indeed, her years incognito while rising the ranks of the Royal Navy seems a tale fit for a movie, lead some historians to question if it is actually too good to be true.

The HMS Charlotte’s official muster list states that a William Brown joined the crew on May 23, 1815 and was discharged weeks – not years – later on June 19.

In this document, she is said to be from Grenada, and her age is given as 26. 

Her rank is labelled ‘landsman’ – a low level within the Royal Navy that would have unlikely included the exciting duties the Times claims she carried out.

The following year there is a second mention of a William Brown on the HMS Charlotte’s records.

This time, the sailor has an age of 32 and an origin of Edinburgh.

Historians, such as the late Suzanne Stark, say this shows that William Brown had enlisted a second time in the Navy.

But many others think this is simply a Scotsman with the same name as the secret female crew member.

Dr Jo muses: ‘There’s a mix-up with two William Browns. I don’t think the second one on the muster list is her at all.

‘I also don’t think she was the first Black woman aboard a ship. This period was the time of the Napoleonic Wars and an awful lot of seafarers were needed. Ships were in fact very multicultural, polyglot places.

‘There were a lot of Black men on the boats, in particular as cooks. I think there may have been a couple of their wives, potentially before William Brown, who came with them.

‘William Brown’s identity was discovered in England so her dismissal had to go through all the official channels.

‘However, there surely are other women who cross-dressed but were captured in other countries, such as out in the Caribbean, where less fuss was made.

‘That’s what is exciting about William Brown and the detail we do have on her. If she exists, so do 50, 60, 70 other Black women who may have made the same attempts.’

With the paper trail of William Brown running cold in 1816, historians have been left to wonder what became of the trailblazing sailor.

Perhaps she returned to life on land. Or, maybe, her voyage at sea continued across the world’s wild waters.

While some questions on her life may never be answered, William Brown earned her place in history as the first known Black woman to serve in the Royal Navy.

To read more about the trailblazing Black women at sea since, click here

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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‘I felt isolated – like I wasn’t in control of my life. I was on edge, walking on eggshells. I felt like it was never ever going to end. It wasn’t going to stop. I just thought: “This is it, this is my life”.

‘It was though I’d lost myself and was stuck in a hole. I felt lost – like I didn’t want to be here. 

‘I was like a zombie – things were going on around me, but I wasn’t really there.’

These are the words of Louise, a domestic abuse survivor. But they’re not about her seven-year relationship with a man she says beat, strangled, sexually assaulted and controlled her. They’re about the months after it ended. 

According to figures from several academic studies, including one called Long Journeys Toward Freedom, 90% of people who escape abusive relationships report that they continue to be victimised afterwards.

Louise is speaking to Metro.co.uk under a pseudonym because, even now, more than 10 years after she and her ex broke up, she still doesn’t feel safe. 

She tells how she had been split up from her ex Victor* for a few months when he ‘did the ultimate thing’ to her. As her toddler slept in the same room, he allegedly drugged and sexually assaulted Louise. 

‘I woke up and there was blood covering the sheets,’ she recalls. ‘I called my mum for the first time in a long time and she said “he’s assaulted you”, but I didn’t believe it because I just didn’t think he would be capable of something like that.’

Worried about what had happened to her, Louise went to see a doctor and he reportedly told her it was the ‘worst case of anal and vaginal damage he had ever seen’. 

‘I still have no memory,’ the mum from the east of England says. ‘I get flashbacks sometimes, with his hands around my throat, but he would always do that. 

‘When we had sex it was never making love, he was always on top of me, choking me.

‘And he wouldn’t stop – even when I was crying and there were tears. It’s like he got off on seeing me so vulnerable and so weak.’ 

It took Louise around three months to eventually go to the police. ‘I didn’t want to believe that he would assault me at the time,’ she says. ‘That’s why it took so long for me to speak out.’

She believes Victor attacked her so brutally that night as a form of revenge because she had been ‘getting herself back’ following their break up. 

Louise explains: ‘When we first split up it was really hard because I always felt like I loved him and I thought he loved me. It’s only after you leave something like that and you realise that it’s not love.

‘But then I started making friends and I was going to the shops without curfews and I was walking, doing things with my children and going to the gym. I lost weight and I was getting me back. It felt nice and he didn’t like that.’ 

Despite no longer being with Victor, Louise says she was still plagued by an average of 50 texts and 25 calls a day from him asking where she was, what she was doing, wearing and who she was with. 

‘It was very controlled – it was like we were still in the relationship,’ she says. ‘He didn’t want me but he didn’t want anyone else to have me.’

Desperate to be free from Victor, Louise was advised by a relative to tell him she had been on a date ‘to get him out of her life’. 

So, she told him one day as the pair sat in his van. Her ex didn’t say anything, Louise recalls, but ‘gave her a horrible look and told her to get out of the van.’ 

Victor ‘went quiet’ for about two weeks then called and said he would babysit on a night she was due to go out for a work colleague’s birthday a few days later. 

Although Louise thought the offer was ‘weird at the time’, he insisted he would sleep on sofa, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

However, once in her home, Victor’s behaviour turned dark from the off.

Louise says: ‘I’d lost about five stone in weight since I hadn’t been with him and I wore a dress for the first time. It went to my knee and it had sleeves on it – it was a nice outfit. 

‘But when I came downstairs, he said “you look like a cheap slut”, and I instantly started crying and didn’t want to go. He just put me back in that place again and made me feel completely crap. 

‘It was that night when I came home, he drugged and assaulted me.

‘He never wanted me to move on, he just wanted to keep me there in a place where I was still being controlled and he could do whatever he wanted.’

Although Victor was arrested, the Crown Prosecution Service felt there was not enough evidence to prosecute him.  And while Louise’s story is shocking, it is sadly not surprising for Ellie Butt, the head of policy at domestic abuse charity Refuge. 

‘Domestic abuse is all about power and control and leaving somebody that’s abusing you is a real challenge to their power,’ she tells Metro. ‘Lots of perpetrators continue to abuse and continue to try and control women after they’ve split up.’ 

Since her ordeal, Louise has had to rely on the family court system to obtain several non-molestation orders and make sure Victor is banned from seeing his son. 

However, she says her ex continues to stalk and harass her to this day, posting her new address online, sharing photos of their son in his school uniform and getting family members to make contact. 

‘There’s an inaccurate assumption that once the survivor has left, and perhaps got through the first kind of month or so, then the risk isn’t the same – when that is absolutely not true,’ she says.

Research shows that the point at which a victim leaves an abusive relationship, and the months which follow, are the most dangerous in terms of homicide. 

The Femicide Census, which records information about the women killed by men in the UK ‘has consistently shown that separation is a risk factor for intimate partner femicides, or more accurately, a trigger for violent, abusive and/or controlling men’.

Its most recent report showed that 37% of the 57 women killed by their partners in 2020 had separated from them. 

This number is substantially lower than the 43% recorded in 2019 and researchers believe this is because pandemic restrictions made it more difficult for women to leave abusive men. 

Louise is terrified that Victor ‘is not yet finished with her’ as losing her and their son has left him desperate and ‘desperate people do desperate things’. 

She tells how she knew she needed help when a friend noticed she had checked her front and back door was locked 15 times.

 ‘I literally came in to flick the kettle on to make tea, went back out to check front door, checked the back door, then made the tea and then I did it again,’ she remembers.

Since then, Louise has begun to receive counselling, which she has been told she will need for the rest of her life, to help with post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder. 

Louise says this has helped her, along with bravely speaking out about her experience so people know how much needs to change. 

Metro.co.uk has extensively covered how multiple domestic abuse survivors feel unprotected by the police and the criminal justice system, with many experts and survivors blaming a lack of understanding about domestic abuse for frequently poor responses. 

However, Ellie says ‘it is not good enough that only some people understand it – this is not something that police officers come across every now and again.’

Indeed, police in England and Wales recorded 1,500,369 domestic abuse-related incidents in the year ending in March 2022. 

Ellie says this prevalence should mean that ‘it should be an absolute basic condition for being able to do a police job – because it’s so much of that job’. 

She goes on: ‘We wouldn’t tolerate police officers not really understanding what a burglary is, yet we seem to tolerate them not really understanding what domestic abuse is.’

‘It takes a lot for anyone to speak out about domestic abuse,’ says Louise, adding that it’s imperative for survivors to know ‘they are not alone and it’s not their fault’.

Get in touch with our news team by emailing us at webnews@metro.co.uk.

For more stories like this, check our news page.

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Celebrity Masterchef winner Angellica Bell says her grandmother was always the life and soul of the party, until Alzheimer’s slowly took hold.

Here, the former CBBC presenter shares the devastating impact dementia had on their family.

I WOULD call my gran ‘Mama’. My mum and I went to live with her when I was about four, when my parents split, so she helped raise me.

She was my mum’s mum and larger than life. She was born in St Lucia and came over during the Windrush era and settled in west London. She was a character, a bundle of energy and joy, and wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. Mama’s presence was always felt; she was the keystone of our family and her house was the hub.

Even when we did get our own place, Mama lived opposite my primary school so I’d still go to her house nearly every day after school. All my friends knew her because she’d run down the road calling me, bringing me bread and cheese. She always wanted to look after me.

We did so much together. We’d go on bus trips to Shepherd’s Bush Market to get her Caribbean food and we’d chat and sing on the way.

We’d dance together in the kitchen, and cooking was her thing, so she taught me how to cook from a very early age. She was a chef in the Caribbean and I was gutting fish, preparing chicken and frying food from the age of six.

Mama had a black-berry bush in her garden and she’d make me go and pick the berries to make apple and blackberry crumble. That’s why, when I was a contestant on MasterChef in 2017 and we were given the mystery box, I thought, ‘What would Mama have done?’

That’s how she cooked – she’d use what she had. She didn’t follow cookbooks and never wrote anything down, which is a shame because I can’t replicate some of her recipes. I put one of them in my cookbook, though – rock buns, which we used to make together.

Mama’s mind was always alert. She always remembered things, she spoke in Patois and English and she was active and resourceful, which is why it was so hard when her memory started to go. I went off to university and started my TV career but would always go and see her – but it’s much more stark the difference when you haven’t seen someone for a while.

I knew she was getting old but gradually she started to forget things, which was really distressing. When you’re not with them, you think of them as the perfect person you know and love, but she became different when I actually saw her. Her forgetfulness was intermittent from the age of 75, but really accelerated once she turned 85.

Then one time she forgot my name. It was like someone pierced my heart. Then it started happening often. She’d ask, ‘Who are you?’ and I’d say, ‘Mama, it’s me, Angellica!’ Sometimes I’d have to go out the room and cry; she was my life, I was so close to her. When she remembered who I was, she’d ask, ‘Are you still working in television’?’ She was very proud of my job. And then I’d ask her about something else and she wouldn’t remember.

Then she started having visions and was certain she could see fish floating in the room. I’d say, ‘Mama, where are the fish?’

It got to the point where I’d walk in the house and I could have been anyone. It just seems like a blur now because I’ve tried to block it out. I’d have to build myself up to go and see her because I just didn’t know how I could cope with it.

Sometimes I feel guilty and think I should have gone to see her more. But then she didn’t know who I was and I couldn’t handle it – I’d just cry all the time.

After a couple of years Mama stopped talking; the brain stops telling you the everyday things you need to do. And then she stopped eating. And it was like watching a shell of someone and you’re just kind of sitting and waiting for them to pass.

I’d say, ‘Please, Mama, just get up and eat, please!’ It’s really difficult to comprehend when you knew someone as being the life and soul of the party.

She was bedridden for the last years of her life, and carers would come in and look after her. Occasionally you’d have glimpses of her personality or she’d start talking in Patois – it was like she was fighting the disease, which almost gave you hope and then it would take hold of her again.

I felt like I’d lost her before she died in hospital at the age of 98 in July, 2018. I don’t talk about myself and personal things often, but it’s important when people share stories and experiences like these.

There are a lot of people caring for loved ones or who’ve experienced loss – dementia doesn’t discriminate. I think it helps people to feel support, hope and reassurance.

Maybe that’s why I’m talking about her – to celebrate an amazing person and all that she did.

Dementia is the UK’s biggest killer. One in three people born in the UK today will develop it in their lifetime. Alzheimer’s Society vows to help end the devastation caused by dementia, providing help and hope for everyone affected. For more information or to donate visit alzheimers.org.uk

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While Amazon makes drone deliveries in the States and many of us in the UK receive items bought online the same day, it’s hard to imagine a postal service that relied on a pair of oars and a river.

However, at at the start of the 19th century, many Londoners did just that. 

In 1800, a waterman named William Simpson was employed to deliver mail to the many barges and ships that moored on the River Thames. It was a dangerous job and Simpson’s tiny skiff offered little protection from collision with boats and barges – or the enormous propellers of huge ships travelling from international waters.

The Thames in those days was lively and overcrowded with houseboats, barges, sailing vessels and other river-dwellers. Simpson’s role became a vital one in the life of the river, and it was passed down from father to son across seven generations and two families.

The work of these brave men – as well as the scandals – have now been brought to life at London’s Postal Museum after the grandson of the last River Postman donated his family letters and photos. 

‘It was my intention to create a display in the museum on this fascinating subject, and it was clear that Clifford – the youngest Grandson of Herbert Lionel Evans, the last Thames River Postman – had a lot of great content,’ explains Stuart Aiken, Curator at The Postal Museum.

‘Clifford donated a wealth of family history material to the museum, which has helped us to understand and tell this story in our exhibitions in a personal way.’

For more information about The Postal Museum, click here.

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‘I thought the day we lost Hayden was the worst day of my life – but it’s the days you live for the rest of your life that are the worst.’

In January last year, Hayden McCarthy called his mum Kim and told her he was going to make a doctor’s appointment. When she asked what for, he told her: ‘I think I’m going to pretend I’ve got depression.’ He then changed the subject and they chatted about other things. He never went to see his GP.

Hayden was a popular soul who lived his life at a ‘million miles an hour’, Kim says. Funny and caring, he loved his job as a manager in a pub.

He was loud and loved to be busy, playing practical jokes on his team and buying them sweets, cakes and coffees. He enjoyed his evenings out, but his work ethic was strong and following a late night, he al-ways made his shift on time the next day.

Hayden had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 12, and with medication he managed the condition well, despite feeling embarrassed by the condition. But in February last year, Hayden went missing.

Kim tells Metro.co.uk: ‘I had spoken to Hayden at seven o’clock the night before. He told me he was out watching the rugby and I said, “Okay, I’ll call you later on”. He said: “If my phone dies, don’t worry.”’

Hayden’s friend who’d been out with him that night reported that he’d been his normal happy, loud self; singing, laughing and dancing.

When Kim, a 54-year-old passenger assistant, called him the next morning and found his phone off, alarm bells rang.

‘I knew something was wrong because Hayden lived for his phone and never let it go out of charge. That was at quarter to 12 and by 1 o’clock I said to my husband, “Hayden’s dead”. I just knew. Because he always called me and his phone was never off.’

Kim’s daughter Rachael contacted the police, but Kim says: ‘My gut instinct was telling me he was gone.’ Her worst fears were realised when it emerged that Hayden had taken his own life. He was just 21.

Hayden’s funeral was standing-room only, Kim says.

‘We just didn’t realise how many people knew and loved him – and the sad thing is, neither did Hayden. I thought the day we lost Hayden was the worst day of my life but it’s the days you live for the rest of your life that are the worst.’

Suicide had already overshadowed Kim’s family. When Hayden was five his father died by suicide, and Hayden had made an attempt on his own life at the age of 12.

Kim says: ‘Losing a child to suicide is something I can’t actually find the words for. I felt that a big part of me had died with him. I will never be the same person that I was before. The heaviness of it will never leave me.’

Stigma still surrounds death by suicide, and it is this shame that prevents people from seeking the help they so desperately need, Kim believes.

Which is why she decided to take part on the biggest journey of her life, along with two other mums who have been bereaved by suicide.

Over the last two weeks, Kim, Michelle Dore and Liz Hurlstone walked more than 200 miles in honour of the 200 school-age children who are heartbreakingly lost to suicide each year in the UK. The trio invited survivors, supporters and others to join them on their 17-day trek.

They follow in the footsteps of Mike, Andy and Tim, known as 3 Dads Walking, who carried out a similar journey in memory of their three daughters lost to suicide and who are hoping to join a stretch of the trek.

Known as Just 3 Mums Walking, the three began their journey in Liz’s hometown of Madeley, Cheshire, before walking to London to remember Hayden, and finishing at Sir Roger Manwood’s School, in Sandwich, Kent, where Michelle’s son Maxi studied.

Even before the walk, the mums had formed a strong bond already, laughing, crying and talking about a pain that most will never understand. Walking in memory of their sons, their aim was to raise awareness around suicide prevention and the viral work carried out by PAPYRUS, a charity which believes that most suicides can be prevented.

Kim believes breaking down the stigma can save lives: ‘This is about talking and asking someone a direct question if you are concerned about them. You know: “Are you having suicidal thoughts?” Because, that just opens up a whole new conversation and that one sentence can potentially save someone’s life.’

As they walked 17 miles a day, Liz took every step with her son Seb in her mind, after he took his life in November 2021.

17-year-old Seb was a member of the generation deeply affected by Covid restrictions. The sudden end to his secondary school career combined with a difficult beginning to his college education were hard to cope with and despite having meaningful friendships, he struggled socially.

By the time he’d found his feet in sixth form, Covid restrictions struck again. Then, in July 2021, four days after his 17th birthday, his nan passed away. He’d struggled to talk about her diagnosis and death and found the grief impossible to process.

At the time of his death, Seb was being assessed for autism, which made him feel isolated.

Liz explains: ‘What those who weren’t very close to him didn’t see, was Seb’s struggle to fit in…What others regarded as normal social interaction, Seb could find extremely difficult and draining.

‘Had Seb been able to open up and talk about the pain that he was obviously experiencing, had he known about and felt able to access Papyrus’ HOPELINE247, things may have been very different not only for him, but also for the very many people who still love, miss and remember him daily.

‘Seb could not possibly have had any “real” concept of the hugely devastating effect his loss would have on so many people, otherwise, he’d still be here.’

Suicides very rarely come about due to one single cause, and Seb struggled with the ‘layering affect’ of multiple issues, Liz says.

She adds: ‘HOPELINE247 enables young people to get in touch with trained professional advisors on a medium that suits them. It doesn’t have to be a call, it could be a text or direct messaging. It’s far more age-appropriate for young people who are struggling.

‘So we want to get the message out to young people, to parents, grandparents or carers who might be concerned, to say this is where they can talk and they can be completely open.

‘There will be a person on the other end of the call, who doesn’t know them, doesn’t know anything about the circumstances, and who is trained to signpost them to an appropriate intervention.’

Although the walk has provided some comfort to Liz, she admits you never move on. ‘What you do do, is you adapt. Despite the devastation, I’m extremely fortunate. I have had people that have carried me for the last 22 months. If I’ve needed to cry, I’ve cried. If I needed to talk, I can talk. There is support out there.

It’s not a linear kind of grief, which most people will have experienced. People say time is a great healer, but this is very different because the what-ifs, the should-I-haves and the could-I-haves which affect everybody involved with a person who has taken their own life,’ she says.

There is a prevailing assumption that suicide is always related to a mental health struggle but this was not the case for 17-year-old Maxi Dore, according to his mum.

Michelle would never have imagined she would be campaigning for suicide prevention under such heartbreaking circumstances. Her popular and loveable son Maxi was happy and had a future full of hope. When he took his life in January 2022, he had just passed his driving test and was the proud owner of an unconditional place at university to study politics.

He was taking good care of himself; ‘in the bathroom, showering more than I was’, Michelle remembers, and in his final days he had been to the hairdressers and had his teeth whitened.

When Michelle spoke to him just an hour before his death, he was laughing, happy, ‘euphoric’ even, and he told her he’d made a reservation for their dinner date the following week. But later that night, he received a text from his girlfriend saying she was leaving for Mexico and wouldn’t be able to see him again.

Michelle blames an episode of ‘sudden onset despair’ caused by the heartbreak that led him to ‘make a choice that I never ever thought someone like Maxi would make’.

When she received the call an hour later, she thought it was a sick joke. She remembers: ‘I thought “No. Not Max.” And then it became a little bit frightening. Then I thought – I know he’s dead.’

She describes the devastation as a knife in her heart, and warns that ‘If Maxi did what he did, then this can happen to anyone. But Michelle rallied, drew on her resilience and her love and respect for her son, which she says: ‘almost outweighs the grief’ and joined forces with Liz and Kim to prevent others from befalling the same heartbreak.

She adds: ‘From my tragedy, I want to spread the word far and wide. I will not let Maxi down. I will not let myself down. I’ve got to do something and I have to stay positive. I can’t lament someone who was so incredibly happy. We want to raise awareness and highlight that suicide shouldn’t be taboo. Just because you have talked about suicide to somebody doesn’t mean it’s going to put the idea in their head.

‘Suicide is out there as I very sadly and shockingly learned. But talk to your children. Communicate. There is hope, there is positivity out of what’s happened to Maxi. I am not ashamed in any way to talk about suicide because Maxi took his life. I can’t change that.

‘But what I can do is change it for other people.’

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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The multi-billion dollar troubled teen industry sees tens of thousand American youngsters put through harsh and gruelling ‘treatment’ every year.

Known as ‘brat camps’, these initiatives promise to iron out kids who are violent, lawbreaking or or abusing drugs and alcohol – among other behavioural problems.

However, understandably, they are also huge controversial. Paris Hilton says she was traumatised after she was woken by strangers in her bedroom in the middle of the night as a teenager and taken to a facility.

Meanwhile 51-year-old Cyndy Etler, who lives in North Carolina, was also sent to one when she was a teen in the 80s.

The author says she is still traumatised from her year-long stay at one horrific facility, which has since been shut down.

Here, Cyndy shares her story. 

‘I had a really difficult childhood. My father died when I was a year old and my mum became very depressed. There was no affection, no love and I didn’t have many friends growing up in Stamford, Connecticut.

I wasn’t running track or winning beauty contests and I had zero self-esteem. But when I was 13, I made my first real friend. She hung out with these scumbag men in their late 20s who lived in basements, and I was desperate to fit in – so when one of them offered me a puff of a joint, I said “yes”. I tried to inhale but I ended up hacking up my lungs. I tried two or three other times but never really learned how to do it. 

My mom and I didn’t get on and when the rows got too much, I ran away from home and ended up in a homeless shelter in Bridgeport, Connecticut.

I had only tried beer and peach schnapps once, but it was decided that I was an addict. So my mom signed me into Straight Incorporated – an adolescent drug rehabilitation programme.

It was the ‘Just Say No’ era – cracking down on drugs was the fashionable thing and Straight was all the rage. Nancy Reagan and Princess Diana had visited the Springfield facility a week before I arrived at the age of 14. 

At first I was excited to go. I naively thought it would be a boarding school where I would meet new friends and get away from home. But when I arrived I was shocked to find it was literally a depressing warehouse, with no windows. Inside were rows of hard plastic chairs with an aisle down the middle. There is nothing to compare this place to because nothing like it exists. 

Following an interview with a woman who diagnosed me as an addict, I was put in an intake room with around four teens – some of whom were male. Within 10 minutes of arriving in this room, I was subjected to a cavity search. There were digits inside my body, with other kids watching.

I don’t think the English language has words to describe how that feels – especially when you are a child. It was horrific, violating and terrifying. And it was dehumanising, physical and sexual torture. The psychological torture came later. 

For seven days a week we were trapped in that warehouse; for 12-16 hours a day or sometimes more. There was no learning, no education, no school and no sunshine. We would sit in group sessions where we had to share lurid stories about druggie or sexual incidents from our past.

If you didn’t, there would be attacks; kids screaming and spitting in your face with vitriolic accusation and denigration – quite often of a sexual nature – accusing you of having had sex with animals or siblings or courting sexual assault from fathers.

These were “upper phasers” – kids who had been there for years who were like Hitler’s henchmen. They stood around the edges of the group and if anyone tried to run, they would tackle you to the ground and restrain you. Or they would push a fist into the base of your neck, and fly them down wicked fast – digging their bony knuckles into the spinal column to force you to sit up – a thousand times a day.

It was just one small physical reminder of the fact that you were under control.

There was feelings of threat at all times. There was an adult overseeing things, but the rest of the brainwashing was done by the kids who had been through Straight – who were aged 16 to 19. Peer approval and inclusion is everything to teens, so the fact that everything was run by other kids made it even harder; it was like the Hunger Games. 

Imagine being in that warehouse all day, every day, with no stimulus. Just your peers screaming at you and spitting on you, hitting you and berating you. There were no doors on the toilet stalls and you would be given three squares of toilet paper when you needed to go. You were watched at all times.

We would sing adapted preschool songs which was all part of the brainwashing: “Here at Straight, feel great. Nine to nine, feel fine.” You had to sit there – ramrod straight with both feet flat on the ground. 

There were also humiliation tactics – like “motivating”. If we wanted to talk, we had to raise our hands over our heads. We thrashed around with our arms up, bashing in our chairs. But we had to keep our bodies in the chair or else we’d be attacked. You had to simultaneously “bust ass” motivating, to prove you were so on fire about Straight and had no fear of speaking up in group while also staying in the chair. It was an impossible feat. 

The food was disgusting; undercooked chicken with really stringy stuff connecting the bone and the gristle and really disgusting-smelling stewed vegetables. And only water to drink.

I remember one girl was put on a diet where all she could eat was peanut butter sandwiches for 30 days. It was one of a number of punishments; all of which were humiliating and unfair. 

We were locked in that building with no escape, physically or mentally. We lived with a constant threat of violence or punishment. We saw other kids bloodied or dragged into the small rooms around the edge of the warehouse; we heard their screams. It was utter desperation. 

At the end of the day, I was sent to stay with the families of Straight kids who lived within 90 minutes of the facility. The room I would stay in would have nothing in it. Devoid. Just a bed, blanket and sheet. No lights in case you wanted to kill yourself with a smashed bulb. The windows to the bedroom were locked and alarmed. I stayed at more homes like this than I can remember.

Usually, we would arrive back past midnight only to leave for Straight again at six the next morning. We really didn’t get much sleep. One of the rules was that if we got fewer than three hours, were were allowed to sleep in the warehouse. But that never happened. 

Then after 16 months, out of nowhere, they let me out. It was a Friday night and my mom came to collect me. But by this point, I was completely brainwashed and I didn’t want to leave. It was like Stockholm syndrome; I believed everything that I’d been told; that I was a druggie and that I couldn’t cope in the real world. I was terrified.

I went back to my mother’s house and back to high school and I was a zombie – a fucking weirdo. At the end of the day, I got back home as soon as I could to hide in a bed and sob. I was self-harming and very unhappy; suicidal.

I was overeating. And then I was anorexic. I don’t know how I survived. As soon as I could I left home, I went to live in rich people’s basements and cleaned their toilets and looked after their kids. An indentured servant keeping a roof over my head. 

It wasn’t until I was 29 years old that I went to college and got a degree. Only they did I discover my confidence and purpose. I now work as a coach. If it wasn’t for all I’ve been through, all the suffering and torture, I wouldn’t have the skills and knowledge. 

Straight has since ceased to exist, but I later found that there were 50,000 kids locked up in institutions like mine. Most of us had abusive, neglectful parents. Most of us had barely, if ever, done drugs.

Even though many years have passed, what I experienced at Straight stays with me. I’ve thought a lot about how veterans of the Vietnam War won’t talk about what they saw there. I understand that.

Humans are capable of raw depravity; of inflicting torment on others. When you’ve experienced this human capacity, you can’t unsee it. You go through life haunted by that knowledge. Straight left me with a lifelong, pervasive, learned fear of others.

I function; I operate at high levels, I have friends, I have a partner, I have a business. But always, I know the truth about what people can do to each other. There’s no coming back from that.’

Cyndy Etler is an author and teen life coach. She has written two memoirs about her experiences: Dead Inside and We Can’t Be Friends. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Claie.Wilson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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‘So what are you doing now, you ok?’

‘Yeah, my dad’s home now, he’s in the living room.’

‘He’s what?’

‘He’s in the living room.’

‘I thought you said he was dead…’ 

‘I did. He’s in the coffin, in the living room.’

This is an extract from a WhatsApp conversation I had with my then-relatively new English boyfriend, a little over 48 hours after my dad died in a Dublin hospital on a late summer evening last September.

Ok, it’s not verbatim. But such was his shock at the thought of my father’s corpse laid out in the middle of my family home, it might as well have been.

After much assurance that ‘taking the body home’ is, in fact, a normal practice in many parts of the Republic, his stunned reaction left me pondering profound questions about how Irish and British societies approach the great equaliser that is death.

I wondered if Brits like my boyfriend, and indeed people from myriad other cultures, are missing out on something by keeping mortality more at arms length.

Do they crave a final goodbye? Do they wish for more support? Does one tradition, for want of a better phrase, do death better?

Like many of its ancient customs, Ireland has a long and ritualistic history with death. Central to this culture is the tradition of the wake, a social gathering held the night before a funeral where loved ones come to pay their respects and watch over the body of the deceased, usually in their own home. Friends and family take turns with the dead, sitting beside the open coffin to bear witness to the final transition between life and death. Does it sound strange enough yet?

Wakes happen quickly, just two or three days after death. Conventional wisdom is that the Catholic church historically held funerals as soon as possible so that those in mourning could begin healing. In reality, it was most likely to avoid the spread of disease in a country so poor, it wasn’t uncommon for 19 families to share a single house just over 100 years ago.

Wakes are a time to celebrate the life of those who have gone. To sing songs, to tell stories, and to make sure, or so old tales go, that the person is actually dead and not simply stocious (an Irish expression meaning totally, absolutely, almost irrevocably, drunk).

Back in the old days, wakes went on for what seemed like forever. When my widely adored aunt died suddenly in the late 1990s at the age of 42, it felt as if half the nation had descended on the quiet country lane that led to her house.

I can’t remember much, but I’ve been told it went on for more than two days and nights, hundreds of people filing in and out, kissing the forehead of the woman they had loved, sharing snippets of her life over cups of tea and sandwiches plucked from stacks that would give the pyramids at Giza a run for their money.

Years ago, Ireland’s dead would be washed, groomed and clothed in a white shroud in the privacy of the home. Windows would be thrown open to let the soul leave the room, mirrors covered to prevent their spirit being trapped and candles lit in a nod to our pagan Celtic heritage.

These days, the undertakers take care of the body, superstitions are fewer, and all that really matters is that you put on a spread big enough to feed everyone from the neighbourhood (at least twice).

Steady streams of relatives arrive at the door with serving plates piled high with scones and soda bread; somebody’s niece drops off catering containers for tea and coffee borrowed from her part-time job at the local pub. There’s a saying in my friend’s family that after an Irish funeral, ‘you feel like drinking bleach’ to clear the unholy volume of cake consumed.

Beyond the ceremonial feeding, wakes are a time of great sadness and reconnection. When my dad died, my friends flew home from London to be with me and play their part in the great Irish ode to life. Old pals of my dad’s came out of the woodwork, distant relatives too, and one of my oldest friends, having lived years in New York, turned up on our doorstep for the first time in four years.

But while I cherish the memories of my family’s final goodbyes, there is no disputing the thought of a congregation in deep conversation round an open coffin paints a peculiar picture to many uninitiated neighbours across the water.

Psychology consultant Bayu Prihandito assures me there is no ‘ideal’ way to deal with death.

All that matters, he says, is creating an environment where the bereaved feel supported, understood and allowed to express emotion without judgment.

‘The emotional and mental well-being of the grieving is the priority, rather than strictly adhering to certain societal norms or traditions,’ the founder of Life Architekture explains.

But without rituals like the wake, I worry that a piece of the healing puzzle is lost.

Bayu tells me there are merits in both approaches. He believes the Irish wake offers an immediate confrontation with death and a tangible goodbye, while the English tradition of holding funerals weeks after the event offers more time for reflection and acceptance of a new reality.

‘This way can be helpful for people who need more time to process their emotions,’ he explains.

My culture makes me biased, but I truly believe the expression of communal grief sharing outweighs any benefit that time could provide. It’s comforting, and somehow makes the agony of loss easier to accept.

While she agrees that there is no ‘perfect’ process, Sharon Jenkins, bereavement counsellor at end of life charity Marie Curie, finds the majority of her clients are in most distress during the period between death and the funeral.

‘I see a lot of families who feel they can’t grieve properly until they’ve had the funeral, the symbolic goodbye,’ she tells me.

Sharon adds that having a close-knit support group like those realised at wakes is one of the healthiest ways to heal. ‘Evidence shows that community support is the most effective in managing grief, and those who have people around them are less likely to access counselling,’ she explains.

But for all its benefits, it seems Ireland’s head-on approach to bereavement could be setting us up for a long, lonelier road. It’s important to remember that once the ritual of the wake and ensuing funeral day is done, friends and relatives – all except the deceased’s closest family – go back to their normal lives. For those experiencing the deepest loss, grief truly begins when the door closes on the final guest.

‘It hits when you are no longer being called on to make decisions, or contacting people to inform them of the death,’ Sharon observes. ‘It’s the time you really feel most alone’.

In the Irish language, you can’t say ‘I am sad’. You say ‘tá brón orm’, which literally translates to ‘I feel sadness on me’ – a transient emotion that comes and goes like the undulating of the ocean. You acknowledge it, you welcome it, knowing it will fade to make way for happiness at some point once more.

Perhaps that’s the most important lesson Ireland can teach the rest of the world when we are gripped by grief: that this, too, will pass.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Claie.Wilson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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Kate can still recall how long and hard she thought about how to tackle a day she knew would be difficult.

But she could never have envisaged how it would turn out to be one of the worst of her life.

She was meeting with her ex to try and amicably discuss ways he could safely see their child. So Kate made the decision to see him in a pub with an outside area so they would be in a public space.

Picking one near her home – so it was familiar to her – she asked a friend to wait at the house in case she needed support.

But none of this mattered when her ex-partner attacked her in the street, chasing her into her home and then spent hours harassing and terrifying her, banging on the doors and windows, threatening to kill her and her pregnant friend.

Fearing for her life, Kate, who has given just her first name for security reasons, imagined she would be able rely on a set of measures she’d previously put in place to protect herself and her then six-months-old daughter, to get her out of such a terrifying situation.

A Location of Interest marker had been put on her house, meaning the police had registered her address as a place where there is someone vulnerable at risk.

The mum had also previously gone through a 14-month process with the family court to get a non-molestation order (NMO) granted against her ex, banning him from using physical violence and intimidating, harassing or pestering behaviour.

Although this order was a civil one, breaching it is a criminal offence holding a maximum penalty of up to five years in prison. So when Kate called 999 on that petrifying day in spring 2017, she believed help would come.

However, she says that the operator told her they had no one on patrol in the area because they were dealing with several incidents at pubs.

‘I had my baby, I had my friend who was five months pregnant who was terrified. I told them this on the phone – I said there’s absolutely no way I could defend myself, my daughter and my friend if he does get into the house,’ the 36-year-old tells Metro.co.uk.

Kate knows the operator could hear how much danger she was in because the 999 call was so harrowing, a recording of it ended up being used to train the Merseyside Police force’s victims’ unit.

It was also used as evidence at Liverpool Magistrates Court= although it was played to the judges in private, as the police told Kate’s parents they would not want to listen to the call.

‘You can hear the banging and it sounds like he’s coming through the door,’ Kate says.

Her ex, who Metro.co.uk is referring to by the pseudonym Joe, was eventaully convicted for harassment (put in fear of violence) more than two years later, at the start of 2019.

Kate said she was subjected to years of physical and psychological violence when she and Joe were together.

The abuse seemed to die down once Kate became pregnant, leaving her with a ‘false sense of security that everything was behind them’.

But she still warned Joe: ‘If you raise a hand to me when my daughter is in the house then that is it, there will be no going back.’

So when he attacked Kate just eight weeks after their baby was born, she called the police and Joe fled.

Kate had done everything ‘right’.

She ‘just left’ her abuser, she called the police when she was attacked, she preventatively applied for a marker to be put on her house and she had tried to sort things out amicably.

Recalling that day in spring 2017, when she met Joe to discuss him spending time their daughter, Kate says, ‘I never, ever wanted to stop him from seeing her but I was adamant that I never wanted him to have unsupervised access to her.’

And yet, despite all this, she still found herself trapped inside her own home with a man threatening her life and no one coming to help her.

Kate eventually escaped after her and her friend’s parents arrived at the house with a ‘convoy of cars’.

While Merseyside Police could not comment on this specific case because Metro could not safely reveal all the details of Kate’s identity, detective superintendent Cheryl Rhodes said: ‘We take all reports of domestic abuse extremely seriously and we work together with communities and partner agencies to tackle all violence against women and girls.

‘A key part of this ongoing work is ensuring victims of domestic abuse feel they will be believed and supported when they report offending to us, and we have developed a programme of work to ensure that we do everything in our power to support victims, target perpetrators and reduce violence.

‘We want to continue the strides we have made to make sure Merseyside is an environment where women and girls are safe and feel they can pursue their daily lives free from fear and harassment.’

According toHarriet Wistrich, the director of the Centre for Women’s Justice (CWF), Merseyside Police is just one of 43 police forces in the UK which are all part of a ‘creaking’ criminal justice system enforcing laws to protect women that are ‘worth little more than the paper they are written on’.

The CWF an organisation which works to address violence against women and submitted a super-complaint ‘highlighting serious failures by the police to use powers designed to protect victims of domestic violence’ in March 2019.

Researchers looked at the four legal powers available to officers – imposing bail conditions, making arrests for breaches of NMOs, imposing domestic violence protection notices (DVPN) or applying for restraining orders.

They interviewed 11 frontline women’s organisations, including the National Domestic Violence Helpline and Rape Crisis South London, to assess the specific reasons these tools are supposedly not working.

Although NMOs are one of the most commonly used protective orders granted to help victims of domestic abuse, the CWF report found that officers often ‘trivialise’ breaches of NMOs and ‘do not understand them within the wider patterns of domestic abuse’.

Kate describes how, on one occasion, after calling the police about Joe’s abusive behaviour, she was told by an officer:‘You’ve had a lover’s tiff, you both just need to calm down.’

She tells Metro: ‘I’m not a silly kid. Don’t downplay the hole that he’s punched through my dining room wall while I’ve got a baby in the house. Don’t you dare downplay what this is.’

Another woman, who cannot be named for her own safety, has an indefinite non-molestation order in place against her abusive ex.

She spoke to Metro about how protective measures like hers are policed too generally, which means she has never really felt truly safe. general, saying hers has never made her feel safe.

‘By the police not acting, it actually sends the message to perpetrators that they’re above the law and they can do whatever they wish,’ she explains.

The mum believes this culture gave her abuser ‘more control and power because he knew he was taunting me and frightening me and it was his way of saying “I’m not going to go away”.’

She adds that the charities Refuge and Women’s Aid, are ‘the only places where women feel they can go to where they’re actually believed – they’re heard and they don’t need to sit there and tell their whole story thinking “oh my god, is someone gonna help and listen”.

‘Unfortunately, with some police forces, that is not the case. And if a woman is making that first call and they get a bad call handler, they could send them back in a dangerous situation.

‘I’ve had so many people who have spoken to me over the years who have said “oh no I don’t want to call the police because I’ve had a bad experience and I don’t want to call them again” and that’s not okay.

‘We don’t feel safe or safeguarded. My ex has got away with so much and he’s just been shown that he’s above the law, that he can continue to breach.

‘This is why the domestic abuse number keeps rising. It’s alright people putting new laws and legislations in place but if the authorities are not going to act and back this up the numbers are going to keep rising. They’re putting women at risk.’

Another unnamed survivor told Metro that her perpetrator ‘routinely breached’ an NMO ‘with no action taken’.

‘I still live in constant fear that he will find us,’ she admits. ‘He left voice recordings threatening to burn the family member’s home where we fled to.

‘Police told me to leave it as “you don’t want to upset him anymore”. He sends threats via people who knew me that he “has something for me”.

‘I’m constantly looking over my shoulder to keep us safe and lying about where we are from.’

Kate feels similarly, describing ‘the aftermath of leaving’ as ‘worse than any part of the relationship’ she was in.

She says her faith in the police service was ‘completely destroyed’ until an officer in the victim’s unit helped her take her case to criminal court and get her ex prosecuted for harassment.

‘It was years and years of hell. I still can’t sleep in the dark. I still sleep with the light on – there’s certain elements that will never go,’ she says.

As devastating as these stories are, they are seemingly not stand-out cases. The CWF’s super-complaint summarised its findings with: ‘The CWJ has become concerned that the various legal measures intended to provide protection to women are not being applied properly on the ground.’

The CWJ report is the most comprehensive set of data available on the issue, as all the relevant information is collected and stored by different parts of the criminal justice system, which do not seem to communicate effectively with each other, say domestic violence policy experts.

Lucy Hadley, the head of policy for Women’s Aid, tells Metro that many of the difficulties in protecting domestic violence victims are because of the ‘the real lack of join-up between our civil and criminal court system’.

Many protective orders are made in civil courts and ‘it’s kind of unbelievable but there’s no automatic join-up mechanism between our civil court system and the police’, she says.

Ellie, Lucy, Kate and the unnamed survivors speak at length about a lack of understanding of ‘the complexities of domestic abuse’ in general and what seemingly small breaches actually mean.

Something like ‘laying flowers on a victim’s doorstep’ may not seem serious to an officer but actually be ‘the most incredibly dangerous and frightening act’ for a victim.

Lucy says: ‘If you look at a breach in isolation it might not mean much, but when you see it as part of a pattern, it becomes clear just how serious that is.’

Meanwhile, Ellie Butt, Refuge’s head of policy, tells Metro that it is important to remember that ‘a woman knows her perpetrator and how they work better than anyone’.

She says: ‘The overwhelming message we hear from survivors around protective orders is that the system doesn’t work and they don’t have much confidence in it.’

In the year ending in March 2022, the police in England and Wales recorded 1,500,369 domestic abuse-related incidents, according to the Office for National Statistics.

This number has continued to increase year-on-year with last year’s figures 7.7% higher than 2021 and 14.1% higher than 2020.

It is estimated that only one in five victims actually report domestic abuse to the police, so the real numbers are likely much higher.

Lucy says: ‘For many, they are simply too scared of perpetrators to report. Some of them know that reporting to the police will increase their risk of harm. So, when a woman reports, it absolutely needs to be seen as the most dangerous time for a woman to put herself in.

‘It’s the highest-risk time and breaches to protective orders need to be seen as the very dangerous crimes that they are. The perpetrator’s behaviour is escalating not diminishing.’

This rings true for Kate, who says the day when Joe attacked her house and no officer came to help was ‘one of her lowest points’ while ‘already suffering really extreme stress and anxiety’.

For every 100 domestic-abuse-related crimes in the year ending March 2022, only 31.3 arrests were made, ONS figures from last year show.

Out of the 1,500,369 incidents reported, just 67,063 alleged abusers were referred for prosecution – this is less than 5%.

It is important to note that there is no single criminal offence for domestic abuse so convictions for it include harassment, assault, criminal damage, attempted murder, rape, stalking and coercive control.

This means some convictions may have taken place for domestic abuse-related crimes without being recorded as such.

Kate is one of the few who saw criminal justice take place when Joe pleaded guilty to harassment.

She had ‘assumed her case wasn’t going anywhere because it had been that long’ since she reported it to the police.

A Victims Unit officer who ‘restored her faith’ in the police called her and reportedly said: ‘The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) are going to take your case, please tell me that you’re going to do it.’

‘I had made a promise to myself and my daughter and every other woman out there that if I had an opportunity to get some sort of justice then I would,’ she says.

She recalls how, at one point, she was sitting with her domestic violence worker and asked: ‘What happened next?’ The officer reportedly responded: ‘Kate, you’re the first lady I’ve worked with that’s got this far.’

Kate bravely attended court but, on the second day of her giving evidence, Joe changed his plea to guilty. She says: ‘I know he did that for himself but it’s the best thing he ever did for me. I was really struggling to give evidence and to keep myself together – because of that fear of not being believed all over again.’

Joe was sentenced to a community order which imposed a curfew and required him to attend rehabilitation appointments. Kate was also granted a 10-year restraining order.

The Home Office highlighted the measures it announced in February this year, which ‘go further than ever before in protecting women and girls from domestic abuse’.

A spokesperson tells Metro.co.uk: ‘We have been clear that we expect the police to treat these reports with the utmost gravity, without exception.

‘We have classified Violence Against Women and Girls as a national threat for the first time, setting clear expectations that police must treat these crimes on a par as tackling threats like terrorism, serious and organised crime and child sexual abuse.’

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When he was 16, Danny Edmead had an eight week trial with a team he had always dreamed of playing with, Tottenham Hotspurs.

However, after the stint, the teenager wasn’t kept on with the club.

‘I remember finishing my training session with them. I played very well, so I asked the Tottenham coach if the decision about signing me had been made,’ Danny tells Metro.

‘Two coaches then took me into an office where they reassured me that I was a good and hard working player who would go far in football – however, they were unfortunately unable to sign me but hopefully would see me in the future.

‘I was so disheartened because I really felt like I had put in the effort to get signed and built a good bond with the coaches.’

Undeterred, Danny went for more trials, this time with Charlton, Watford and Fulham. Each time, he felt like he was in grasping reach of playing for a club that would see him go pro – but each time, there was no call back after the trial.

It would be a devastating experience for anyone, not to mention someone so young. Each moment turning a promising future into uncertainty and doubt.

‘I was in year 11 when I went to trial for Tottenham,’ he explains. 

‘When I didn’t get signed it really added to the pressures I already felt as a student and I began to worry about the next steps for my life.’

However, Danny’s greatest disappointment occurred after he was signed by the German Bundesliga 2 team (U19) SG Unnterrath, however, was unable to stay due to the club’s financial issues, which were partly caused by the Covid lockdown.

‘I was there for a year and a half but then things got difficult because the club at the time didn’t have the finances to house me so I had to be accommodated by my agent,’ he explains.

‘After a while, my agent was finding it financially difficult to house me as it was very expensive in Germany as a result I had to go back to London. 

‘I believe if I had the chance to stay I would be playing in the Bundesliga (first team) by now. 

The pandemic had a disastrous impact on many young players, leaving them without a team or even the opportunity to find one due to the lockdown restrictions on football finances and player movement around Europe. 

‘It felt like I had to restart my journey,’ Danny adds. ‘I wasn’t involved in any training, so I really struggled when I got back since I had a lot of time to think. 

‘Eventually, I realised that this was feeding into my mental health negatively and so I decided to speak to family and friends about the struggle, as well as the negative thoughts I was combating.’ 

Danny, now 19, and still trying to make it in football, is sharing his story as part of a new initiative offering young players like him a chance at a different career.

Created by Impact Films Academy, it hopes to give them a better future by providing opportunities in filmmaking and has collaborated with the Mind mental health charity for its first project – a short film called Kicks.  

Thankfully, the narrative around men’s football is slowly shifting from an era where players were urged to bottle up their emotion.

However, for many, not fast enough. Teen prodigy Joel Darlington – who had trials with Manchester United FC and represented Wales at youth level – took his own life in 2019 after injury halted his dreams.

Meanwhile, former players such as Marvin Sordell – who attempted suicide aged 23 due to the pressure he felt in his career – have since encouraged men to seek help.

In Kicks, Danny has utilised his experience and skills as a football choreographer for the short drama, which also features former footballer Barry Silkman. 

Barry played for several professional football clubs in the UK during 1970s and 80s, including Manchester City, Crystal Palace and Leyton Orient, and went on to represent some of the most successful football players in the world, including David Villa an Demba Ba, as an agent.  

‘The biggest pressure for me was probably more towards the end of my career as you realise in your mid-30s you’ve actually got to do something other than football,’ he tells Metro. 

‘I felt no pressure at the start of my career. I was released from QPR, Fulham and then Hereford as a young player. My only support system was my mum and dad but for me, that was enough. 

‘I was always very strong both physically and mentally from a young boy. It was probably being raised in the East End of London and having an incredibly strong mother that helped.

‘Also a big part of that was that neither of my parents put me under any kind of pressure to be a footballer, unlike a lot today who push their kids from a very young age sometimes as young as seven. That’s all wrong. I didn’t have any of that.’

Premier League football academies allow up to 250 boys to participate, making it possible for as many as 5,000 to be involved in the system at any given time.

However, according to Premier League statistics, less than 0.5% of those who enter the football academies at the age of nine will ever play for the first team.

Barry, 71, adds: ‘The biggest challenge is to get your first professional contract, no question. Clubs now take players from eight-years-old and that in my opinion is outrageous and should be stopped. 

‘13 or 14 should be the earliest any club can take a player and all clubs’ academies for under 13s should be closed down. Let kids be kids. It will help like you can’t believe. It’s football’s biggest problem.’

A damning statistic in author Michael Calvin’s 2017 book No Hunger in Paradise: The Players. The Journey. The Dream, shows of the 1.5 million players in organised youth football in England, around 180 – or 0.012% – will make it as a professional player at a Premier League club. 

That means most will have to find an alternative career despite many having dedicated their lives to the game.

Able Kpogho, 21, stars in Kicks as Patrick – a young footballer who is struggling after being dropped by his football team. 

The young player had a few unsuccessful trials at football academies, including Barnet, but despite this setback, remained determined to pursue his passion for the game. 

After receiving an offer to play football overseas on a scholarship in America, he declined it due to insufficient funding for tuition. He is now an actor, model and social media content creator, with more than 140,000 followers on TikTok.

‘Young footballers are under the pressure that you have to be in an academy by the age of 16 or else you’re not going to make it,’ Able tells Metro. 

‘Since many successful footballers are from the club’s academy and already in the system from a young age, it hints that you have to go down that route as well, but in reality, there are other options such as non-league when you’re older. 

‘One way is knowing that everyone makes mistakes and you too will make them. Your favourite footballers make errors daily but it’s about how you react and pick yourself up from the situation. 

‘No one is expecting you to have 100% pass completion or success rate in front of goal because that’s near impossible. We all fell in love with the sport because it’s fun so – as well as winning in some situations – that has to be your primary objective.’

Danny says that maintaining a healthy mindset helped him deal with the setbacks he had in football. 

‘Things I do to relieve stress when a game is approaching include making sure I prepare myself well so that I feel confident,’ he explains. ‘I also say good words of affirmation to contribute to me having a positive mindset when going into the game as this can help with the pressure and stress and in turn this helps my performance. 

‘I would say to view every setback as a lesson rather than failure and to keep a good routine in place to ensure structure which helps with feeling uneasy. 

‘My main support system was from my family rather than the clubs as it is my family who gets me through tough times.’

The Professional Footballers’ Association (PFA) provides comprehensive support through various services, including advice and guidance, emphasising continued personal development beyond the pitch. 

It also offers financial support and guidance to help players plan for their future careers, whether through accredited academic or vocational courses.

Paul Raven, the Head of Personal Development at the PFA, tells Metro: ‘We understand the profound impact that being released from a football club can have on young individuals. 

‘It’s a time filled with emotional challenges. Beyond dealing a blow to a long-held dream of becoming a professional footballer, being released often has a far-reaching effect on a player’s personal identity. 

‘It coincides with the loss of structured routines and the close-knit social circles nurtured within the club environment. It’s also not uncommon for players to grapple with a feeling that they’ve let down the family and friends who’ve invested in their journey.

He adds: ‘The football community must take an active role in managing the expectations of young players and their families, especially within the club environment. It’s vital to instil a broader perspective, emphasising the significance of education, personal growth, and alternative career paths alongside their football aspirations.’

Able, who makes his debut as an actor in Kicks, says: “A lot of boys can relate to the story of my character Patrick, especially when only 1% actually make it to be footballers. I saw the essence in him somewhat in me.’

While Danny adds: ‘Working on this film has allowed me to reflect on my football journey, which is still ongoing.’ 

When talking about the impact of the film, Barry says it’s vital that the people get to see what life as a young footballer is really like. 

‘The public never sees that side of it,’ he explains. ‘Someone with all those dreams and hopes, walks in believing they’re about to get a new contract and the manager tells them ‘very sorry, but you’re being released’. It’s a major letdown.

‘If a player gets released and he hasn’t got another club to go to, they should stay in contact and make sure they’re okay.’

Alex Bushill, is Head of Media and PR at Mind and says the charity is proud to have advised on the film.

‘Kicks brings to life some of the key issues affecting the mental health of young footballers. We know the power football can have as a platform to raise awareness about mental health and to break down taboos that prevent people from talking about it. 

He adds: ‘From our own research, we also know that when mental health issues are depicted on screen it can help people, particularly young people, feel less alone and be more likely to talk to someone about how they are feeling.’

Kicks also stars Rebecca Middlemist as India and Femi Ogunjobi as Dad and was filmed with the support of Old Finchleians Club and Dexters Adventure Playground. You can watch a behind the scenes video here.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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‘Calling all women, volunteers are urgently needed for services with the Women’s Land Army (WLA). Will you help?’

As the Second World War gripped the world, posters across Britain urged women to mobilise as the country’s food supply dwindled dramatically.

Thousands signed up for what was termed the ‘victory harvest’.

Some tended fields, others were trained to catch rats, while others wielded chainsaws and specialised in timber production. Even Queen Elizabeth did her bit, volunteering as a mechanic with the Auxiliary Territorial Service during the war.

Women who signed up for the WLA swapped busy cities for the countryside and lived together in hostel-style farmhouses.

Adverts had urged anyone to apply and play their crucial part in supporting the war effort.

However, when Amelia King offered her services, she was turned away.

The 26-year-old was a third generation Afro-Caribbean woman born in Limehouse, in London’s East End, in 1917.

Amelia had been working as a box maker in London prior to the war.

Being from a military family, she had a strong sense of patriotism. Her father, Henry, was a firefighter in the British Merchant Navy and her brother, Fitzherbert, served in the Royal Navy.

When the call to Britain’s women was made by the WLA, Amelia diligently applied to join its Essex County branch.

But she was rejected in 1943 – twice – on the grounds of her ethnicity. It was suggested she would be better suited for work in a munitions factory.

Amelia was told farmers could ‘object’ to her presence on their land due to her race.

In an interview with The Chicago Defender, she fumed: ‘I said to them, if I’m not good enough to work on the land, then I am not good enough to make munitions. No one has ever suggested that my father and brother were not good enough to fight for the freedom of England.’

Furious about the situation, Amelia contacted her MP Walter Edwards. 

Her experience soon garnered national attention in the press and in Parliament.

‘She not only fought back against the WLA’s ruling, but she went public with the injustice’, researcher Tamisan Latherow told Metro.

Amelia’s story has always been a fascinating one for Tamisan, who is an expert in the history of agriculture and the impact of women on the industry.

‘You have to put yourself in her shoes,’ she says. ‘A 22-year-old Black woman in England, whose father and brother were serving, just wanting to do her part, and being dismissed out of pocket.

‘Now, she could have kept her mouth shut, hung her head and walked away like the general public thought many women should. Maybe she would have found work in a munitions factory and never been heard from again. But she didn’t. 

‘She did what few women, let alone a minority in the 1940s, would have done, and took her issue to the press. Racial discrimination meetings were held on her behalf. Newspapers as far away as Chicago in the US, and South Africa as part of the anti-Apartheid movement even years later picked up the story. 

‘That is a vibrant legacy for a woman who just wanted to help put food on England’s tables and one that reminds me that it is sometimes the little acts of bravery that have the biggest changes to society.’

After a wave of outrage following press coverage, WLA superiors finally caved and allowed Amelia to join their ranks.

Next came the matter of finding a farm for Britain’s most talked about Land Girl.

Alfred Roberts of Frith Farm, of Wickham in Hampshire, had read about Amelia’s ordeal in the press.

He was a man of kind character, who hired anyone as long as they were ‘straightforward and hardworking.’

The WLA’s refusal to let a Black woman join their ranks came shortly after cricketer Learie Constantine was denied accommodation at a London hotel.

Both incidents brought the Colour Bar – which saw ethnic minorities separated from their white counterparts in restaurants and pubs – into public debate.

Society’s views towards Black people were transforming in the wake of Amelia and Learie’s mistreatment.

After the Second World War came to an end, racism was soon a frequently discussed topic in public and in Parliament.

For Amelia, much of her story is unknown after 1945. 

It’s understood she enjoyed her time on Albert’s farm and became ingrained in the local community, drinking at pubs with other Land Girls.

Tamisan says she transferred to the London and Middlesex WLA branches, before eventually being dismissed due to medical grounds.

Amelia had been employed as a fancy box maker pre-war and may have returned to a similar profession. Or, perhaps, she was inspired by her time in the Land Army to try something different. But we may never know.

What we do know is that Amelia King died at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel in 1995, aged 78 – with no known children or partner.

Her story has since reached further prominence as the fight for equal rights continues, especially in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement.

Tamisan continued: ‘For myself, Amelia’s story is more about not letting society tell you what you can and cannot do. It’s about standing up for your rights and making sure that you are heard. 

‘She did not go to the press to seek fame, she was seeking justice so that she could take her rightful place along other women in support of her country.

‘In essence, she was attempting to bring an unspoken prejudice into the public discourse and make people realize that such preconceived notions were faulty. 

‘This was the period of unspoken racial bias in the UK and very public racial segregation in the US. Her story highlighted one of the glaring discrepancies between how Black Service personnel were treated, both at home and abroad, and reminded the British public that service shouldn’t have a colour, something we are still trying to come to grips with 80 years later.’

Recognising the stories of the past are integral to forging the progress of the future. 

Black History Month seeks to recognise and celebrate the trailblazers and campaigners who made a difference to lives today.

‘Writer and philosopher George Santayana tells us, “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” and he’s right,’ Tamisan adds.

‘It lets us look at our past with 20/20 hindsight and acts as a litmus test, so we do not make the same mistakes, or waste time trying to reinvent the wheel. At the same time, looking backwards allows us to see how far we’ve come. It reminds us that in the past hundred years we have gone from inventing refrigerators, cars, and television, to sending people into space and drones to other planets. 

‘That is an impressive amount of ingenuity for the human race to show. Now we have to bring society up to the same standards. 

‘It’s my hope that in another 100 years society will look back at both Amelia’s story and history in general and think how strange it was that a person’s ethnicity, orientation, nationality, or religion was believed to affect their capabilities.

‘I sincerely hope they dismiss such bigotry as some form of fake news.’

Tamisan Latherow writes for Reading University’s History and Gender History Blogs, the MERL, and Reading Museum.

To find out more about the Women’s Land Army, click here

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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When Dr Nighat Arif appeared on live television to demonstrate how to check for breast cancer symptoms, some viewers were left shocked.

She had joined the This Morning sofa with Dawn Butler MP to discuss her #FindTheMissingMillion campaign, which encourages women to attend potentially life saving mammogram appointments. 

Near the end of the segment, Dr Arif raised her arm and touched her breast through the fabric of her flower patterned dress. 

A Muslim woman touching such an intimate part of her own body – and encouraging others to do the same – had rarely been seen on television before.

It’s a moment Dr Arif recalls on the latest episode of Dawn Butler Mammograms and Me, a new podcast made in collaboration with Metro.

The medical expert – who shares healthcare tips and busts cancer myths on TikTok and Instagram – says awareness within ethnic minorities has a long way to go.

‘I’ve never seen a woman with a hijab in a major breast cancer campaign,’ she tells Dawn on the podcast. ‘And it’s 2023. I’m now starting to see more black people involved, but that’s still rare. 

‘So when I was on ITV and touched my breast, I was saying look – women need to understand how this can happen to anyone.

‘I raised my arm and used my palms to feel around.

‘I also wanted to change how we view our breasts to begin with. Boobs are hyper sexualised and it can almost feel like they’re reserved for others- for a partner or for a baby during breastfeeding. There can be this psychology where your breasts don’t really feel part of you.’

Breast cancer symptoms can range from woman to woman as a result of their ethnicity.

For example, some with darker skin may experience ‘dimpling’ – where the skin slightly indents in a situation that looks similar to stretch marks – differently.

It was only a routine mammogram that alerted Dawn to the cancer spreading through her body.

The MP – whose mum and sister both had breast cancer – had no lump or noticeable changes on her breasts.

In the podcast episode, she and Dr Arif also explore the larger than life myths they’ve heard during the course of their careers.

Can cancer travel through air particles? Nope. 

Can having a biopsy accidentally transfer breast cancer between different people? Certainly not.

Dr Arif discusses the experience of her own mum, a Punjabi-speaking Pakistani woman, who didn’t attend her first breast cancer screening.

She tells Dawn in the podcast: ‘I saw the letter on my mum’s mantlepiece and asked my mum why she hadn’t gone. 

‘She said a neighbour down the road had gone to hers and that her boobs had been “pulled”. She claimed to have been left with saggy boobs as a result.

‘My mum told me “I don’t want saggy boobs.” And I told her “that’s absolutely ridiculous, that won’t happen.”

‘But that’s how it can work. When women have a bad experience, they talk. And that talk can be exaggerated.

‘When you have a good experience, please come back and tell your friends and community to reassure them.’

Dawn and Dr Arif also discuss the risk factors facing women – ranging from stress, smoking, genetics and weight – and what we can do to reduce them.

It’s often a busy lifestyle which means women are unaware of the true scale of breast cancer symptoms.

Dr Arif adds: ‘I think the medium of podcast is fantastic [for conveying information] as it means people can iron clothes or do chores and listen in the background. As a woman we are multitaskers. 

‘Every woman is on a journey. It begins with a young girl who starts her period, and she might go on to start taking contraceptives when she’s older. As a woman, she could start a family and begin to breastfeed. After that comes postpartum care and then she becomes older in the menopause years and – throughout this whole story – her breasts are changing. 

‘Woman are busy. They’re mothers, they’re daughters, they’ve got elderly relatives that they might be looking after. They are career women now. But even at home, there’s always something they’re looking after.

‘I often find that women never put themselves first. I’m the same.

‘I’m a mother to three boys and my youngest is five-years-old. Everything revolves around the household, then my work and then at the end of that i say “okay, now I need to focus on myself.” We, as women, need to put ourselves first more.’

The podcast – episode two in the Mammograms and Me series – is available on Apple and Spotify now.

Episode one featured Liz O’Riordan and future guests include Coronation Street actress Victoria Ekanoye and experts from within the cancer charity community. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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Ever since Dame Edna Everage and Lily Savage tottered onto eighties TV in their high heels and fancy wigs, drag has become a mainstream entertainment favourite.

Fast forward three decades and the genre well and truly exploded on our screens when Ru Paul took the globe by storm in 2009 with the first series of the Drag Race, which has since seen spin offs and live shows around the world.

There’s no doubt about it, drag today is big business in TV terms.

However, as we know, away from the screen it’s far more than the wigs, the glitz and the glamour. While drag is big, bold and brash, it is also about community.

Ever since the 1970s, when the drag balls of New York became second families to gay youngsters who weren’t accepted at home, the scene has an important role to play in LGBTQI+ inclusivity.  Something Indy Niles, one of the contestants in the new weekly elimination drag competition The Gold Rush, will attest.

The hybrid docuseries and reality TV show follows the journey of 12 performers as they race to win the drag crown, while being judged by industry professionals including RuPaul’s Drag Race alumni Veronica Green and Jonbers Blonde, and Glow Up makeup artist MAC.

Indy, a self-confessed ‘male comedienne’, played by 24-year old Gabriel Harris, explains how the welcoming environment of the drag scene encouraged him to come out as a trans man on the show. 

Gabriel had already told his friends and family that he wanted to live as a man in 2019, (‘the soft launch’, he calls it) and a few weeks later, he came out.

‘There’s the idea that drag is purely cross dressing,’ he tells metro.co.uk. ‘I didn’t want people to think that I was a woman dressing up as a man – because that would have been very dysphoria inducing. So in week three, I quite publicly came out during the performance.’ 

It marked a happy ending for Gabriel, who had experienced gender dysphoria for much of his teens. 

While at drama school in London, he went through a gender identity crisis, so used the time to explore his masculine side, dressing up as Indy Niles, a working mens club comedian who ‘takes away all the queerphobia and racism and turns it into queer joy’.  

Gabriel says: ‘That’s what’s so beautiful about drag. At the heart of it, it’s just taking away any layers of shame that, especially as queer people, we’re told to carry. It was a sort of letting go and discovering who I really was and not hiding. Because you wouldn’t believe it, but before transitioning, I was incredibly feminine.

‘I’d wear cocktail dresses to the pub and had long wavy hair. It wasn’t me at all. Honestly – I felt like I was a drag queen then. I became the inverse of that. [Indy Niles] is basically my way of shedding all the shame I had over my masculine side.’

So dressed in a blue romper, as if it was a baby gender reveal party, he happily announced that he was a boy. ‘I definitely threw myself in at the deep end,’ Gabirel admits.

‘I wouldn’t advise trans people to come out so quickly, but I have no regrets – although looking back you could definitely see the fear in my eyes.

‘But, that was easier than [coming out to] friends and family, because I knew it would be celebrated. When I knew the environment that Taylor [Trash – the show’s creator] had created with The Gold Rush, I knew I’d be very held and supported by the audience,’ he says.  

It was this welcoming and inclusive space that the show’s founder, Taylor Trash, a self-confessed ‘bearded barbie come to life’, wanted to create. 

Taylor, real name John Brock, set up the show out of frustration that the drag scene wasn’t challenging performers creatively enough. The 39-year-old from London says: ‘All we’re doing is churning out acts that are going to be very similar and not really challenging audiences in any way and everything was becoming quite stale. So I decided to set up my own.’ 

Building the series was a real labour of love; completely self-funded, the show took John and his boyfriend Sammy Harkin years of their own time; with Sammy staying up until three in the morning every night working on the edits. 

‘We wanted to create a platform where the wider queer community can see representations of themselves that are accurate to who they are, and not necessarily catering to a majority straight audience,’ John explains.

‘There’s a lot of space for different bodies and different identities in drag. We’re able to celebrate the work of performers that have different gender identities; we’ve got two trans performers competing in this season – one is trans femme, the other is trans masc – another performer who is a drag king and two non binary performers. We’re not asking anyone to fit in a box.’ 

Growing up under Section 28, which banned the promotion of homosexuality in published or teaching materials, John pays tribute to the queer performers that went before him, including Ru Paul and the Drag Race, of which he is keen to point out is a ‘huge fan’ of, and he says ‘massively changed the lives of so many of us’. 

He talks about how he used to blow up balloons as a child, stick them down his top and strut around with a tea towel on his head as a wig. He would sing, which would drive his parents nuts, but, John adds, it’s his influences that enabled him to feel free to be who he was. 

Now he has given up his work in advertising to perform and create the show full time. ‘Drag is escapism, and it’s fun, and it’s relatable, It’s bold, bright and entertaining and it belongs to us. It’s a queer art form,’ John adds. 

Female Drag Queen Nancy Brabin-Platt loved the Gold Rush as a viewer, and when she was asked to audition for series three, she jumped at the chance. Her character Platapussy is inspired by her name, but also the fact that she is like a platypus, ‘because no one ever knows what they are and they look f***ing random.’

Whether women can perform in drag has been contested. Ru Paul originally banned female artists from the show, stating ‘drag loses its sense of danger and its sense of irony once its not men doing it’. However, Victoria Scone, the first cis female drag queen was invited onto the show in 2021 on Drag Race UK and is now a guest judge on The Gold Rush.

As Nancy explains: ‘At its core, drag is a metronome swinging between cynical rejection and satirical embrace of gender stereotypes and the belief that only men have the right to explore themselves and their own contradictions in this way is misogyny in its plainest form.’ 

As a female drag queen, Nancy describes her drag experience as a ‘second puberty’. 

‘Drag brought me a lot more gender euphoria as a woman,’ she explains. ‘You realise how much of your gender expression is actually geared towards the male gaze. So when you start wearing heels and corsets and you’re really hyper feminine in a space free from that straight male gaze, it’s really amazing.

‘And then it becomes more noticeable on the street –  you’re like: “Who am I doing this for?”

‘I do this on the weekend and get paid in front of an amazing crowd of people who are really supportive. So then on the street, it feels a bit more like, “I’m just gonna wear my tracksuit”. Once you have the space to perform your gender ideals, you kind of stop having to feel like you have to do it every day.’ 

It was this gender euphoria that brought contestant Kyran Thrax into drag.

He considers himself one of the hardest working queens in London, and fresh from his West End debut appearing in Gals Aloud, Kyran has fallen head over heels in love with a career that helped him recover from a period of traumatic abuse. 

25-year-old Kyran discovered drag while playing around with makeup at drama school. He put his first act together with season three of the Gold Rush and became an overnight success.

‘I genuinely think I work more than any other drag artist in the UK,’ he says. I just love it; I’m a work horse and there’s nothing that brings me more joy than being on stage.’ 

Drag has been an important part of his recovery after Kyran was a victim of child sexual exploitation. When he was 13, an older man, claiming to be a teenager, befriended him on Facebook and groomed him.

They met up and embarked on a sexual and romantic relationship, until Kyran found out his abuser’s real age and realised he’d been exploited.

Kyran bravely spoke to the police, the case went to court, and his abuser was jailed. However the young man was left to deal with the scars caused by months of sexual and psychological abuse. 

‘It was a very long, traumatic process that went on for some of the most important years of my high school life,’ Kyran explains. ‘It really affected my development and growth. It was just an impossible time. My mental health suffered a lot. I didn’t really want to see people. I didn’t really have any friends. I got myself in a very bad state.

‘I was quite depressed and quite confused, and I didn’t really understand what was happening –  it was just kind of a whirlwind. It took me a long time to feel like I was coming out the other side of that.’ 

It was performing that helped Kyran turn his life around.

He went on to raise awareness around sexual exploitation and works with charities to support other survivors.

‘I look back, and it was difficult to see a point of recovery,’ he adds. ‘That was a completely different world and a completely different reality. And it just makes me really, really proud to look at where I am now.’ 

Now Kyran is working harder than ever. And like Taylor Trash, Platapussy and Indy Niles, he wants to act as an ambassador and inspiration for any drag babies coming up through the ranks. Performing saved him, and he believes it can help others too. 

‘I came from zero money. Literally nothing,’ he says. ‘If I saw that little boy, I would think – there’s not a chance that this kid is going to be successful.

‘And now I’m making my dreams a reality and doing the things I’ve always wanted to do.’ 

The Gold Rush is now streaming on Froot TV.

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The issue of consent – or rather the practice of Consensual Non-Consent (CNC) – is the subject up for discussion on this week’s episode of Metro’s sex and relationships podcast Smut Drop. 

The term is used when partners actively engage in sexual activity that demonstrates an extreme element of force. However, as host Miranda Kane finds out, it’s not as simple as rough sex – it goes even further. 

It can even incorporate certain scenarios – such as ‘kidnapping’ – to add to the intensity. 

While studies have found the ‘rape fantasy’ can be a sexual desire among both men and women, in America, research is underway to see if it can even be used to heal trauma for sexual abuse survivors.

Discussing the issue with Miranda on the podcast is Dr Lori Beth Bisbey –  a sex therapist, intimacy coach and psychologist, not to mention expert on Channel 4’s Open House: The Great Sex Experiment – and together the pair tackle some of the questions surrounding the somewhat taboo subject of CNC.

What is Consensual Non-Consent (CNC)?

In the episode, Dr Lori tells Miranda: ‘CNC is so controversial because you’re giving up – in theory – the ability to withdraw your consent. That’s in theory. Because in reality you never give up your ability to withdraw your consent.

‘The reason some people use CNC is because they don’t want a ‘fluffy’ fantasy experience. They want the feeling of being out of control – as opposed to knowing how much control they have.

‘Rape is about anger, control and sometimes power. You’re saying “This is what I want, I want the experience of what it would feel like to be raped by a stranger or having somebody come upon me in this certain circumstance. I want it rough, I want it humiliating”.’

However, Dr Lori stresses that unlike in real life scenarios of rape, the difference with CNC is that ‘you can negotiate all of this with someone.’

She adds that CNC works best with a trusted partner. If you’re trying it out with someone new, Dr Lori says to meet them in person first.

‘I advise people not to do this with a stranger,’ she tells Miranda.

‘Trust your gut, use intuition and take your time. Ask potential partners if there’s someone you can talk to [who they’ve done CNC with] before. 

‘Go out in the vanilla world and see how your potential partner treats wait staff and servers. They need to keep your emotional wellbeing at the top of their mind, can they do that easily with others?’

Can a rape survivor use CNC to heal?

Research is still ongoing into ‘rape fantasies’ and their impact on people within the extreme kink community, particularly survivors of sexual abuse.

For Dr Lori, she has issued a strong word of warning to those seeking solace in CNC for the first time.

‘There are key things we need to be clear about,’ the expert says. 

‘If you’re a survivor who hasn’t had therapy and still gets triggered by your rape then you should not be doing this. A lot of people will say “oh, it can be really healing”. Which is true.

‘But that’s only possible when it’s done in a controlled way with your mental health looked after. You should always talk about triggers and be very clear and talk about the trauma, that’s part of the negotiation.

‘There’s some research going on in California where there are some dominants (tops) that work with therapists to help rape victims reenact their experiences. 

‘The tops deal with the physical reenactment part and the therapist is on hand before for preparation and afterward for dealing with the emotional part of it. It works really well for some people.’

Instead, seeking support from a registered charity such as Rape Crisis or The Survivor’s Trust may be a better course of action if you’re still triggered by your assault.

How do you stay safe during CNC?

According to Dr Lori, you should set out ‘bottom lines’ and plan safe words despite the uncontrolled nature of CNC. The perceived lack of consent demonstrated during this extreme form of rough sex is purely an act, and both parties need to be clear of that.

When in doubt, Dr Lori adds the handy acronym PRICK is always on hand. It stands for Personal Responsibility, Informed Consensual Kink.

PRICK surrounds the idea that as long as you take personal responsibility for yourself and you’re informed, you can truly consent to extreme – or seemingly dark – kinks.

She adds: ‘You can mediate the risk [of any extreme sex act] and you have a right to choose to do something that’s dangerous. I’m not going to judge you for that or for what turns you on. But I will judge you if you don’t do your due diligence. 

‘Make clear things you want to do and don’t want to do. Aftercare is also important in supporting each other and caring for each other.’

Dr Lori compares CNC and other forms of extreme rough sex – such as choking or breath play – to skydiving.

‘You can be prepared and take precautions, but there will always be an unavoidable element of danger.’

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Kirsten.Robertson@metro.co.uk 

Share your views in the comments below.

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‘I’ve always been the only Black person in my family, in my street, in my school,’ says Remi.

She is one of tens of thousands Nigerian children who were privately fostered by white families in the four decades since 1955, in a controversial practice known as ‘farming’.

The placements left a generation of children bereft of community and confused about their identity, with many of them still grappling with residual trauma still today.

Seal, Kris Akabussi, Florence Olajide, Gina Yashere, Nelson Abbey, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, John Fashanu and Justin Fashanu were all privately fostered, and many of those that lived through this contentious unofficial policy have had to live with its impact for decades.

The phenomenon is heavily undocumented; a secret that Britain has buried and failed to deal with. But Remi is now telling her story as part of a new film, White Nanny Black Child, which explores the story of unregulated fostering of Black babies and children into white families across the UK.

Remi’s challenging childhood was spent being passed to and fro between foster carers and her biological parents. Her story is one of fear, insecurity and lack of agency. Taken in by a British family at six weeks old, her formative years were difficult and disjointed.

She recalls her foster mother having an argument with her biological parents about who would pay for the upkeep, and she was terrified she’d be taken away. She remembers screaming and crying; ‘I just knew that I was being taken away from my mummy’, before being placed with another foster family, who didn’t know how to look after her.

Remi adds that she was ‘unhappy all the time’ before being taken to live with her biological family in Nigeria as a teen, where, miserable, she completely shut down. A year later, her parents moved her back in with her original foster family.

Nine Nigerian-born people who were taken in by white families have told their stories as part of the documentary. Their experiences vary wildly; many were loved, some neglected and others abused. But however well they were treated in the home, they all shared a feeling of loss and confusion or faced racism, isolation and discrimination in public.

The film, directed by Andy Mundy Castle, explores how these adults have been affected, taking it in turns to explore their past with the help of professional therapy.

It was a tough time for Black children growing up in postwar Britain. Landlords would post signs: ‘No coloured, no dogs, no Irish.’ Racial slurs were shouted in the streets and Enoch Powell made his infamous ‘rivers of blood’ speech, decrying immigration. Nigerian families, who had come to the UK on the promise of work and education, found a cold, grey and unwelcoming land.

More than 70,000 West African children were fostered unofficially by white British families between 1955 and 1995 as their parents studied and worked to give their children a better life.

Families looking for help would post in publications like Nursery World, sometimes with pictures or captions. One listing from 1974 read: ‘Pretty baby girl needs a new home.’

Sixty years on, these babies now grown are telling their stories. One of them, Ade, tells metro.co.uk that his early experiences affected him for the rest of his life.

He was taken on by a nanny at two months old while his mother – with no family nearby to help – studied to be a midwife. His parents spotted an advert in a New Cross newsagent, posted by a white woman called Pat.

Desperate for childcare after Ade’s first placement went awry (that nanny used alcohol to get baby Ade to sleep) they agreed a price and Ade was sent to live with her by the seaside. Pat became ‘Hastings Mum’ and every weekend his parents would visit, or he would see his ‘London Mum and Dad’.

In general, he had a good experience of the fostering process. But Ade spent the majority of his adult life moving between Britain, Nigeria and America as he struggled to find a place to call home.

Ade has made peace with the process after talking it through with his dad, who has since passed away. But he says: ‘I always felt like I didn’t know where I belonged. Even the love and connection with my mother wasn’t as strong. I wanted and craved affection. The back-and-forth experience left me with the struggle of – was I Nigerian enough? I felt like I didn’t fit in. There was a sense of displacement, I couldn’t explain it but I didn’t feel grounded anywhere.’

Before his father’s death, Ade came to understand his parents’ decision, adding: ‘During that time, it was just what people did. They came over here for a better life. The UK gave an impression that there was a connection with Nigeria. And when they got here, they had to work and there was nobody to watch their child.

‘So even if they weren’t always happy with it, it was the choice they needed to make to take care of me and make the money. It was part of the culture. Coming back from Hastings, my dad used to ask my mum – are we doing the right thing? It was hard for them. I don’t fault them or judge them.’

This nuance was important to director Andy Mundy-Castle, who believes the story has largely gone unreported because, really, there’s no one to hold to account.

He explains: ‘Both the families that took children in and the families handing over their children knew that something wasn’t quite right because this was being done behind closed doors. It wasn’t vetted. It wasn’t authorised and it wasn’t regulated by any local authorities or councils.’

But he wanted to bring this story to the light now as part of a wider conversation about migration and to broaden understanding around hardships people have to overcome when making an often treacherous journey to Britain

He says: ‘‘There are many nuances to this story and many sides to this story that affect all of us. It doesn’t just affect the people that were at the end of bad treatment. There were young, white British kids who would have, regardless of colour or race or ethnicity, treated this child that was brought into their family as a brother or sister. Now, if that child is suddenly stripped away, they still have to deal with the remnants of that.’

Children such as Gloria who was told at the age of 16 she would be taken to Nigeria.

Like Ade, Gloria was fostered at just two months old when her 27-year-old Nigerian mother trained to be a cardiographer in Britain. She grew up feeling lonely and isolated, ‘sad in the playground’ and ‘culturally alone’.

‘You don’t actually fit in anywhere… It’s like you’re just some sort of… embarrassment’, she tells the documentary, which shows her pulling her adoption documents from a cupboard full of papers.

Heartbreakingly, they read: ‘Since the placement of the child, [Gloria’s biological mother] has taken no interest in her, and has only visited on one occasion, and then on the insistence of the applicant who were at the time the infant’s foster parents.’

Gloria, who was eventually adopted by a family in Margate, was scarred by her formative years and skin, hair and figure, so different from her white peers, left her self-conscious and unhappy. When she did finally move to Nigeria, the language barrier was too great and she was derided for the way she spoke and what she wore. It was a ‘scary’ time, she remembers.

Gloria’s feelings of confusion, isolation and grief are shared by the eight other interviewees to different degrees. They talk of rejection, abandonment, self loathing and generational trauma. Even when secure in their home, they felt unsafe outside, with one, Richard talking of being chased out of town as a 12-year-old by a gang of racist adult hooligans.

Richard tells the film: ‘When I walk out of that house: [I was told] “Why don’t you go back to Africa you little Black this, you Black that.” So then I used to go home and tell my people, they’re like “We love you though, we don’t see you as being Black, you’re our son”.’

Private fostering continued into the early 2000s but it slowly came to an end after more stringent measures on safeguarding were implemented by law. For some, the changes came too late, like Yewande, whose story is the most harrowing of all. She tries to make sense of her parents’ decision to leave her in the care of an unknown family: ‘This is England. This is the home country. Everything that shone like gold was here. They trusted that things would be better. They trusted that white is right.’

But Yewande was beaten, tortured and sexually abused at the age of four when placed with a family in Leicester: ‘The only memories I really have of that place is being living in fear, really. I remember one time being beaten so bad that I pissed myself on the lino floor, and I was made to lick it up.

‘I remember them putting a cigarette out on my face. I remember sexual violation… I just remember darkness. Just dark the whole time, dark.’ Her memories of that time are sparse, but she says social services stepped in and she was taken to a children’s home, which she horrifyingly describes as a “paedophile ring”.

Yewande adds: ‘So, I grew up really feeling abandoned. I remember going into a phone box, picking up the phone and saying ‘Mummy, I promise I’ll be good, please, I promise, we’ll both be good, please, please, come and get us, please come and get us’.

It is a distressing and powerful watch. The other participants, appalled for Yewande, envelop her as a group and she sobs and howls into their embrace. It’s a poignant scene and a reminder that while the bonds of community can be disrupted for a time, they can never be truly broken.

White Nanny Black Child is available to stream on Channel 5.

Get in touch with our news team by emailing us at webnews@metro.co.uk.

For more stories like this, check our news page.

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On 15 May, 2020, Boris Johnson and his Cabinet colleagues dined on wine and cheese in his Downing Street garden.

They’d rushed outside to make the most of the sun after a press conference where Matt Hancock had described the ‘shared sacrifice’ the British public were making during the pandemic.

On the same day, just four miles away, the family of 18-year-old Ruby Fuller felt the full impact of that “shared sacrifice”, as their beloved daughter’s life ebbed away at home in Herne Hill, South London.

Her mum, dad and sister were by her side as she passed away, but Ruby had been forced to say goodbye to her wider family – including her grandparents – and friends on Zoom as she was determined not to put anyone at risk by breaking lockdown restrictions.

‘Ruby knew she was going to die,’ her mum Emma tells Metro.

‘Three weeks and one day after we were told her cancer had come back, she was gone. It came back with astonishing aggression and power.

‘Her friends, cousins and grandparents had all been desperate to say goodbye before she died.

‘I told Ruby “your situation is special. I think if we asked, people would be happy to break the rules to see you.”

‘But the number of Covid deaths were rising at an alarming rate. The order to stay at home put the fear of God into us.

‘Ruby wouldn’t break the rules and put anyone at risk. At one point she kind of laughed about it and said “Imagine I took my grandparents out with me, that would be awful. No, we have to follow the rules. I’ll speak to them on Zoom.’

Ruby’s farewells were issued over a small screen to her friends and family – she didn’t hug them goodbye or dare hold a socially-distanced meeting.

There was no funeral when she died.

Choosing ten people to attend – given the restrictions at the time – was too unbearable for her family.

Instead, they decorated their front garden in tribute to the teenager. Emma created bunting which spelled out the words ‘Live Kindly, Live Loudly.’

It was a motto Ruby had embraced and had asked her family to demonstrate after her death.

Before her cancer battle, the teenager had volunteered with Greenpeace, took to the streets of London to protest against the construction of a dam in South Africa and persuaded her family to become vegetarian to reduce their carbon footprint.

‘She had a clear vision of making the world a better place’, Emma recalls.

‘I went on my first ever march with her when she was 15. It was an anti-Brexit march and she’d brought a sign – she was brilliant at making signs – that said ‘Eton Mess.’ It showed David Cameron with devil horns and Boris Johnson with a clown nose.’

In the months after Ruby’s death, the rumour mill began to churn with murmurs of illegal gatherings behind closed doors at Downing Street.

A clip leaked of then-press secretary Angela Stratton joking about a Christmas party attended by staff.

The Daily Mirror and ITV had obtained photos from inside the lockdown gatherings and, soon, the term ‘Partygate’ was coined.

10 months on, the scandal has now been adapted into a television docu-drama, which mixes contemporary news footage with dramatisations of the drunken parties in Downing Street during the first national lockdown.

Suitcases of wine, Tesco sandwiches and even a karaoke machine were among the items smuggled in via suitcases to avoid the watchful eye of the country’s media.

Emma shares Ruby’s story as part of the new film, released by Channel 4 today.

She says: ‘Finding out about the parties myself was utterly maddening. Ruby died the same day of one of the “cheese and wine” gatherings.

‘To think they were breaking the rules without a care while my daughter lay dying is infuriating. It was like it hadn’t occurred to Boris Johnson that the rules he put in place actually related to him.

‘He hasn’t ever given a heartfelt apology. There’s no indication he understands how devastating his behaviour was to everyone who had been terrified of Covid and followed the rules.’

The nation’s first lockdown was implemented in March 2020, two months after Ruby had a stem cell transplant.

On April 23 that year – after a routine blood test – she found out her blood cancer had returned despite the operation.

‘The cancer had come back so quickly after her transplant that there was nothing more they could do. She was going to die,’ Emma says.

‘The fact we were in lockdown became excruciating because she hadn’t seen any friends since before her transplant in January. She’d been so careful with her health and didn’t want to catch anything.

‘It was so hard seeing her say goodbye to everyone over Zoom. It didn’t feel right.’

The teenager had dreamed of going to Hawaii – the money Ruby had saved for the trip was later donated to charity – so Emma and husband Dylan desperately worked to recreate the holiday that would never be.

A neighbour lent the family a hot tub and Ruby’s godmother sent inflatable palm trees and blow-up flamingos.

In the last picture before her death, the 18-year-old smiles weakly as the hot water soothes her aching muscles.

She died on May 15 surrounded by her family and beloved cat, Pacifica.

Emma continues: ‘After her death, Ruby’s friends and family couldn’t come together to support each other.

Partygate review: Cutting Channel 4 drama doesn’t let Downing Street forget jarring Covid scandal

‘But at the time we understood why it had to be like that. It was terrifying and the message was loud and clear – it would be irresponsible and dangerous to put other people in danger.

‘We did what was right, Ruby wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. She showed more maturity than any of the adults involved in those parties.’

Before she died, Ruby asked that her family get a puppy, to help ease the pain for her sister.

Halloumi the beagle cross – a rescue from Cyprus – was adopted into the family as a result.

‘Ruby was right, a dog really helped us’, Emma says.

Halloumi – named after Ruby’s favourite food – also plays a part in carrying on her legacy of helping others.

The dog has been registered with Pets as Therapy UK and goes with Emma to visit a children’s home in Croydon every fortnight.

Seeing the positivity come from her daughter’s tragic death is an incredibly bittersweet feeling to deal with.

Emma continues: ‘People say it gets easier with time. It’s been three and a half years and I don’t think it does. I think you just get better at learning to live with grief.

‘Rob Delaney [American actor and comedian] lost his son Henry at two-years-old. He has three other boys. He said something I really connect with, that 25% of his parenting effort still goes into being Henry’s dad. Just because a child dies, it doesn’t mean you’re no longer their parent.

‘I connect with Ruby every day by living a life she would have wanted. She wanted people to be kind and make a difference, to live loud and call out injustice.

‘I am acutely aware people had it harder than we did during the pandemic. Ruby was surrounded by me, her father and her sister when she died. Love was all around. Others weren’t that lucky and it is unimaginable to think about the people who died alone.

‘The Partygate scandal revealed to everyone that we hadn’t been “all in it together” and “sharing a sacrifice” as a nation.

‘Normal people were working together to follow the rules. But the people in charge didn’t follow their own instructions. It was a betrayal like no other.

‘Today, it’s as though we’re accustomed to the Government making excuses and lying through their teeth.

‘Why are we all putting up with it?’

'I still haven't paid my Covid fine - I don't know how I will.'

Through the months Downing Street staff were having ‘work parties’ – thousands of Covid fines were handed out.

The financial punishments for breaking lockdown restrictions could range from £200 to £20,000.

One student was forced to cough up £10,000 after a house party while one woman was fined £850 for having no valid reason to ride a train.

Toriano Reid, who shares his story in Channel 4’s Partygate, was charged even more.

‘I can’t lie to you, I’ve thought about suicide. If it wasn’t for my children, I don’t know what could have happened.’ Toriano tells Metro.

The 46-year-old, who lives in Enfield, North London, still hasn’t paid his Covid fine. He says he doesn’t earn enough to.

He worked as a Tesco delivery driver during the first national lockdown.

When he wasn’t at work, he would drop off home-made food outside the doors of people in his community.

But upon returning from work in Spring 2020, he found a situation unfolding that would change his life – for the worse.

Toriano’s niece was celebrating her birthday party in his garden with a small number of loved ones.

He wasn’t actually there for the celebration, it was only when police arrived he realised the extent of the incident.

As the homeowner of the property the rule-breaking event had taken place at, he later received a Covid fine through the post.

‘I thought it was some sort of scam’, Toriano admits.

‘I tried to call and explain I hadn’t been at the gathering. I’ve been at court twice. But no-one has listened. I was told if I don’t pay then I could go to prison for three months.

‘It’s hugely affecting my mental health. I wake up worried and I go to bed worried. I just can’t afford to pay the fine. 

‘I have 12 children and I work hard to care for them, six days a week. I’ve lived in this country for 25 years and I haven’t had a holiday in that time.

‘I didn’t stop throughout Covid. I was delivering to people to make sure they had their food and picked up shopping for my elderly neighbour. I took it all seriously and wanted to look after people.’

Toriano, who is originally from Jamaica, also has been left questioning the reasoning behind the fines – why was he hit with £14,000, while Boris only had to pay £50?

Toriano acknowledges the party – even though it was outdoors – broke rules in place.But he’s still been less ‘furious’ that ‘normal people’ were treated in such a different fashion to the politicians engineering the Covid rules.

‘Boris paying £50 was a slap in the face. The government set out rules they had no intention of following. It is disgraceful,’ he says. 

‘I got penalised for a party in the garden. So did lots of other people. Then Boris and the others did the exact same thing and got away with it.

‘I don’t understand. I’m angry, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’m not.’

Partygate will air on Channel 4 on Tueday, 3 Oct at 9.30pm

To donate to Ruby’s fund to help find a potential cure for blood cancers – click here

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Parents with disabled children spend an average of 42 hours a week providing care and support, with duties such as personal care, feeding, dressing, lifting and giving medication leaving little time for outside work, rest or socialising.

Almost a third will spend more than 48 hours a week providing care, and one in six more than 72 hours.

Many of these children need wraparound care, expensive equipment and endless trips to appointments at clinics and hospitals – the cost of travel, parking and petrol all adding a burden to an already difficult juggle.

Nearly two thirds of carers say they are exhausted or burnt out, and one in five say they are unable to remember the last time they had a break, according to Sense, a charity that supports people who are deafblind or who have complex disabilities.

‘Caring for someone is often demanding, non-stop work, and takes its toll physically and mentally,’ Richard Kramer, Chief Executive of Sense, tells Metro.

‘Yet sadly, family carers across the country are missing out on being able to take a meaningful break from these responsibilities – denied the opportunity to rest and recuperate, reconnect with family and friends, or take part in other activities.

‘The pandemic and now the cost-of-living crisis has made the situation worse, with carers taking on even greater caring responsibilities and receiving less support, with their health and wellbeing suffering as a result. Many are simply burnt-out. We need to show that we value these incredible individuals in our communities. Local and national government must commit long-term resources and funding to support families.’

Here, four families give a glimpse into what life is like as a full-time carer.

For more information about Sense, click here.

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Empowering, strong, inspiring, game-changing.

These are just some of the words that describe the women being championed in Metro.co.uk’s Sisterhood List.

Echoing this year’s Black History Month theme of ‘Saluting our Sisters’, we wanted to acknowledge a collection of Black women across the UK who have lifted up, opened doors and advocated – not only for themselves but for their sisters and their community.

The list is by no means exhaustive. There are countless who have greatly impacted their communities and backed themselves when no one else would.

So here, we salute the success stories of just a few of the amazing Black women in Britain who are paving the way for generations to come.

Brenda Edwards

Singer, actress, and panellist on ITV daytime talk show Loose Women, Brenda rose to fame on the X Factor in 2005 before venturing into musicals and starring in the West End in hits like Chicago, We Will Rock You, Carousel, and Hairspray.

But her world came crashing down when last year, Brenda’s son, Jamal Edwards, creator of SBTV, died at the age of 31. The influential mogul had been awarded an MBE for his work which helped UK music acts including Dave, Stormzy, Jessie J and Ed Sheeran, who counted him as his best friend.

Brenda shared on Loose Women a private letter King Charles had sent to her, in which he expressed his sorrow and deepest condolences. Since Jamal’s death, she has set up a trust in his name to support disadvantaged young people, providing a sanctuary for the homeless and creating a community academy and she won a Hero Award following her campaigning work last year.

Brenda has spoken on Loose Women about her experiences with domestic abuse which left her ‘fearing for her life’ after an abusive ex tracked her down and she also raises money and awareness for various cancer charities after being diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer in 2016.

Fats Timbo

With almost three million followers on TikTok alone, disability campaigner Fats is a social media star with clout. Standing at four feet tall, the comedian and author used to be nervous about going out in public places but has built up her confidence as well as her voice to raise awareness. 

She was born with dwarfism but prefers to use the term ‘little people’, and feels the former term doesn’t sound ‘human.’

As a child, Fats saw herself as ‘cursed’ as she faced insults and jibes about her height. But as she grew older, her confidence emerged.

She has an army of followers online – bolstered by her appearance on Channel 4’s Undateables – and works to improve visibility for the Black disabled community. This includes encouraging brands to use disabled people in their advertising. 

‘There was no representation [for me] – I felt so alone when I was younger,’ Fats told the BBC last year.

‘But now, I’m representing, baby!’

Lady Phyll

Known by those who work with her as a ‘force to be reckoned with’, political activist Lady Phyll has spent a career campaigning for LGBTQIA+ rights around the world as one of Britain’s most prominent lesbian activists.

Her work began in secondary school when she found herself getting repeatedly kicked out of the classroom for asking too many questions. She didn’t understand why everyone was being taught about dead kings and queens as opposed to the legacy of slavery and the history of Africa.

Phyllis Opoku-Gyimah, also known as Dr Lady Phyll, co-founded UK Black Pride, the biggest LGBTQIA+ celebration of Black people in Europe and the event has grown year-on-year since its inception 18 years ago. Last year UK Black Pride was attended by 25,000 people making it Europe’s largest celebration for LGBTQI+ people of African, Asian, Caribbean, Latin American and Middle Eastern descent.

When she decided to set it up because Pride events felt ‘exclusive and unwelcoming’, Lady Phyll was told she’d ‘never get anywhere’, but now it is bigger, brighter and bolder than ever and this year included a family zone for the first time, ensuring its inclusive legacy continues for future generations.

Lady (so people don’t mistake her for a ‘bloke named Phil’) Phyll is also executive director of Kaleidoscope Trust, an organisation fighting for LGBTQIA+ rights around the world. She was offered an MBE in the New Year’s Honours list in 2016 in recognition of her work but she politely refused it in rejection of ‘colonialism and its toxic and enduring legacy’.

A trustee at Stonewall and member of the Trades Union Congress race relations committee, Lady Phyll has also won numerous awards for her work.

Liv Little

Writer, filmmaker and scriptwriter Liv is founder of the trailblazing gal-dem, a website and formerly print magazine run primarily by Black women.

Liv set up gal-dem in 2015 while studying at university because she was frustrated by the lack of diversity in the media and because she ‘wanted to create the sort of channel that I always wished existed’. Liv became its CEO at just 21, a role she stepped down from in 2020.

The magazine and podcast championed the perspectives of women and non-binary people of colour and helped many young writers launch their careers in a largely white, male industry, and boasted around 333,000 online visitors by 2021. gal-dem folded earlier this year due to financial instability caused by Covid and the economic downturn.

Liv was named a ‘new suffragette’ by Vogue magazine in recognition of her fight to empower women, has worked in India as a Health and Livelihoods Coordinator with Restless Development and has also championed Women for Refugee Women.

She has recently published her hotly anticipated novel Rosewater, a queer love story, published by superstar John Legend’s imprint Get Lifted Books. Speaking earlier this year, John said: ‘We want to elevate unrepresented voices and I feel like Rosewater is the perfect book to launch with.’

Dawn Butler

Dawn is a member of the Labour Party and is currently the MP for Brent Central, a position she has held continuously since 2015. 

She’s no stranger to making her voice heard – she was famously booted from the House of Commons after calling Boris Johnson a liar – and is committed to tackling racism, sexism and other inequalities in the UK.

Dawn is only the third Black woman to have ever been elected as an MP. She has struggled with racism in Parliament and, in 2019, was even mistaken for a cleaner. 

Writing for Metro.co.uk previously, Dawn said: ‘When it comes to race and equality we need to continually renew and progress because as soon as you take your foot off the pedal rights begin to roll back.

‘In this current political climate, I fear and worry that further rights are being rolled back, and this disrespect and intolerance of others is uncomfortably spreading.’

Following her successful battle with cancer in 2021, Dawn backed research by Barts Charity that would increase people of colour’s chances of surviving cancer. 

She’s currently working with Metro on a new podcast to encourage more women to get potentially life–saving mammograms.

Her recently released book, A Purposeful Life by Dawn Butler, explores her experiences with racism growing up and her drive to create change.

Patricia Bright

Patricia is a pioneer of the UK beauty community. She started her YouTube channel almost 13 years ago – using a shoebox to prop up her camera in her shared house in Manchester. 

Patricia had been inspired by her time in school where she’d style other girls’ hair. She soon realised she might as well impart her knowledge to people online. 

With an accounting and finance degree under her belt – she worked on growing her brand and worked with several large make-up, fashion and haircare companies.

Patricia is celebrated as one of the first Black British YouTubers to gain one million subscribers.

In 2020, she teamed up with make-up company Essence to ensure Black women could get a foundation shade that matched them perfectly. For years before, women of colour had searched in vain through limited options. Foundation for Black women would often have unflattering undertones or be impossible to match with skin tones.

Patricia also founded The Break Social to help women grow in their personal and professional lives. She interviews inspiring guests and offers advice on relationships, finance and empowerment.

Tolly T

Tolly T is one-third of The Receipts Podcast, which began in 2016 and sees more than 100,000 weekly listeners. The trio act as agony aunts, providing listeners with advice as well as cultural commentary and celebrity gossip.

Tolly T (real name Tolani Shoneye) was working as a journalist when she started the show, but when a male podcast host tweeted that their project wouldn’t work with women at the helm, Tolly and co-hosts Audrey Indome and Milena Sanchez quit their jobs and went full time.

As Tolly says: ‘There is pretty much a podcast for everything, but before we started there weren’t many that had the voices and stories of black and brown women in the UK. Our stories, our accents, our twangs were not represented in the podcast world. So we decided to do something about it.’

Their fresh humour, honesty and occasional drinking games were a hit and the show stands out in a largely white, largely middle-aged industry. The award-winning broadcast has sold out live shows and its debut book 2021 Keep The Receipts was a Sunday Times Bestseller.

Tolly also stars in Netflix’s 10/10 Would Recommend podcast series and continues to write for a number of publications, has produced and hosted on the BBC, appeared on The Big Breakfast for Channel 4 and has been part of various writers rooms.

Lydia Amoah

Lydia Amoah ‘still pinches herself’ as she leads the way in transforming workplaces for people of all backgrounds. 

The entrepreneur, based in Surrey, was once told she didn’t have ‘normal skin’ by a shop assistant.

In response, she set up the Black Pound Report to tackle how businesses treat their customers and explore the lack of representation in advertising of Black, Asian and Multi-Ethnic consumers.

The report, which began in 2018, looks into employment statistics to see how diverse and inclusive companies really are.

She later launched Backlight – a culture change agency – off the back of the success of the Black Pound Report. The company that helps companies become more inclusive.

She’s flown across the world to give talks and interviews and has helped thousands of people gain confidence to access career paths they felt weren’t for them.

Lydia was inspired by her parents – who emigrated to the UK from Ghana – to make a difference in society.

Her family faced racism and prejudice when they first arrived in the country and fought to be accepted. 

Lydia recently shared her inspiring story with Metro, saying: ‘I still pinch myself when acknowledging that I’m the first Black woman in the United Kingdom to conduct the most comprehensive study exploring the Black, Asian and Multi-Ethnic consumer spending power in the UK. It’s never been achieved before.

‘I am teaching something new about understanding, communicating, and being authentic without being tokenistic. I do feel so proud and honoured to be in this position.

Toni Tone

British Nigerian writer Toni is one of the stars of Highlife, the UK’s first Black-focused reality TV show which followed the lives and loves of a group of ambitious, glamorous young British West Africans – the self-proclaimed ‘Black Kardashians’.

Toni is well known for her inspiring and thought-provoking Twitter content, which has been re-shared by the likes of Hailey Bieber, Demi Lovato, Khloe Kardashian and Oprah Magazine. She has a following of 400k across the platforms, and regularly writes about love and relationships, with her tweet on ‘green flags’ going viral.

Her tweets caught the eye of HarperCollins who awarded her a book deal and her 2021 book, I Wish I Knew This Earlier: Lessons of Love, was an instant hit, debuting at number three on The Sunday Times bestsellers list. The book took an autobiographical look into how growing up in an environment of emotional unavailability and high stress can impact adult relationships.

Toni is the host of Radio 1Xtra’s Money Moves Podcast and an ambassador for Young Women’s Trust, representing women aged 16-30 who are struggling to live on little to no pay in England and Wales.

Clo and Tinuke

Technically two people, we know, but the amazing work Clo Abe and Tinuke Awe have achieved with the charity they founded together meant we had to include them both.

Now mothers of two, it was in 2018 when the pair first heard the shocking statisticthat Black women are five times more likely to die in childbirth than white women. A year later, they found Five X More, a movement dedicated to lowering this figure. 

Within two years, the group’s petition to the government asking them to improve Black women’s mortality rates received 187k signatures. It was debated in parliament, which marked a historic chapter in the fight for equal rights. 

Clo and Tinuke’s success in taking on the Government had come in the wake of George Floyd’s murder and the subsequent Black Lives Matter movement.

Both women have no plans to slow down in their work – and recently created ‘Colourful Birth Wallets’ for black pregnant women in London hospitals. The packs include vital information on pregnancy and key details on maternity rights.

And their campaigning has paid off – Black women are now 20% less likely to die in childbirth. However there is still a long way to go, which is why they created the Black Maternal Health awareness week in a bid to keep their momentum going and save the lives of black mothers.

Speaking earlier this year, Awe said: ‘The statistics can be really scary, but our charity isn’t here to fearmonger. We don’t want women to be scared, we just want to give them advice on how they can be empowered to advocate for themselves.’

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Five years after his father died, Justin Hardy received six sacks of documents that had sat in the loft of his old family home in the Midlands for 50 years.

Among them were scripts, photos, story boards and personal letters all relating to one film: The Wicker Man.

Although a dud when it first came out in 1973, the move has since gained cult status, with Empire Magazine even calling it ‘the Best British horror film ever made’. A recent re-release of the movie won five-star reviews. 

The film was the directorial debut of Justin’s father Robin Hardy, which he bluntly says ‘f***ed up my family.’

Set on a fictional Scottish island, the story tells of a devoutly Christian police officer (Edward Woodward), who, investigating the disappearance of a local girl, is shocked to discover a town of dancing pagans led by charismatic cult leader Lord Summerisle (played by horror movie icon Christopher Lee).

One of the pagans Willow MacGregor (Britt Ekland) attempts to seduce the officer, who has unknowingly been lured to the island for a sacrificial ceremony. 

From phallic sweets and child torture, to eerily beautiful scenery and a movie ending that still shocks to the core – it was a film made to unsettle the audience from the off.

However British Lion, the studio which had bankrolled it, hated the finished product.

They dismissed it as one of the worst movies in history and refused to promote it. In the months after it was released, Christopher Lee (Lord of the Rings, Dracula, Star Wars), who played Lord Summerisle, called critics on the phone, begging them to come to a screening, even offering to pay for their tickets.

It was a flop. But then it wasn’t.

Now, fifty years on, Justin and his brother Dominic Hardy, are taking another look at why the film initially bombed only to end up being revered by movie buffs – and also give insight through their documentary Wickermania!, into the chaotic, heartbreaking impact it had on their family.  

Prior to his infamous movie, Robin had already forged a successful career in advertising, Justin tells Metro. They lived in ‘a very nice house’ in Belgravia with his wife Caroline, Justin and his sister Arabella.

However, after the film’s catastrophic reception, Caroline, who had invested all her money in it, was saddled with the debts while Robin packed his suitcase and left for the US in 1974. It was reported that the director was forced to sleep on a bench in Central Park on his arrival in New York. 

Before he left, Robin came to see his son at school to say goodbye, telling Justin he was leaving and giving him a Saint Christopher, wishing him protection in his travels.

‘That was rather dramatic,’ remember Justin, who now works as a historian filmmaker. ‘Then he was off and that was that.’

With no alternative and no money, Caroline had to sell the London house and move the family the midlands. For the next four years, Justin assumed his dad was dead.

 ‘My mother was trying to get some response from him, and eventually had to divorce him on the grounds of not having heard from him; he explains. 

‘My sister had to change her name from Arabella to Joanna in order to be able to survive a Banbury comprehensive. It was a pretty big, pretty seismic, social change. All these years I have had people saying to me: “God. You’re so lucky. Your dad made The Wicker Man.” But that’s not quite how I see it.

‘It was a very sad time. Because, apart from everything else, I’m going: “Well, where’s Dad? Are we going to see him tomorrow? Are we going to see him next week?” And my mother said: “I have no idea. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know how to reach him.”.

‘I guess it wasn’t a particularly happy childhood view of your dad, adds Justin, who lives in Oxfordshire. ‘It felt like “Where’s the protection? You’ve left my mother with all this?” And she got very ill. She did effectively turn to the bottle and died of liver cirrhosis. The f***-up of this film led to to a downward spiral for the Hardys’.’  

Five years after he vanished, Robin returned to the UK, flying over to watch his son act in a play, clutching an article about how well the film was doing in San Francisco. 

Justin remembers: ‘I’m not even sure he gave me any notice that he was coming. He was like that. And so at the end of it, I was having my makeup taken off and this man appeared and said: “Hello. I’m your father.” I thought – I was rather glad he didn’t tell me before I went onstage.’

Was Justin pleased to see him? Did he forgive him for deserting him? ‘The psychological truth is that you would have thought a child would say: “Hey, I’m not talking to you. Where have you been all this time?” but the reality is, you don’t do that,’ he says. ‘It’s like you have a second opportunity to meet your dad. And all you want to do is please your dad so he doesn’t go away again. So he didn’t get any pushback from me for a number of years.’

Justin learned that the movie had received a better reception across universities and American film festivals, and people began to see the movie in a new light. 

Soon, it was revived as a cult classic – but the damage it had already done to Robin’s family was  irreparable.

‘I had to grow up with my sister with a very, very bitter and disappointed, quite heavily-drinking mother,’ remembers Justin. ‘When she died in 1984 in some ways, it was a sort of merciful ending to what had been a sort of horrible endurance.’ 

Robin eventually had eight children by six different women. As Justin explains: ‘He had form for having a child, being married to a bit of an heiress, the money starts to run out and he moves on.’ 

One of these children was Dominic Hardy, who didn’t properly get to know his dad until 1969 when his mum took him to the UK from their home in Canada. 

In the subsequent years, Dominic would fly as an unaccompanied child and spend three to six weeks with Robin and his siblings at summertime or at Christmas.

Dominic, a professor of art history in Montreal, remembers: ‘I discovered this whole family. Justin and Arabella were the youngest at the time. The summer of 1970, when seven of us were all together for the one and only time, was a mythical time for me. It had such an impact on me. I think the others felt the same way. We really sought each other out in adulthood and made up for lost years.’

Dominic’s memory of Robin was that he was a ‘flamboyant, charming and in many ways, admirable person. And absolutely fascinating.’ 

He didn’t meet him for the first time until he was six years old, his first memory of being taken on a day trip to a planetarium, the park and being bought a train set, the pair of them together on the floor of his bedroom setting up the tracks.

‘That was the only memory I had of seeing him with my mum,’ says Dominic. ‘I had a lot of admiration for him and a lot of emulation. But also worry too. because just before I was 11 he suffered a heart attack, which nearly killed him.’

Justin adds: ‘That was a big moment in our family’s history. We all thought he was going to die. He started writing letters to us all. You’re not supposed to be able to make a film if you’ve had a heart attack because you can’t get insured.’ 

Robin was just 41 at the time, and lucky to survive to finish the film.

Dominic was mesmerised by the screening when the movie first came out. 

Just 12 years old, he was shocked by its ending and stunned by the sexualised scenes. 

Fifty years later, he has seen the film with fresh eyes, thanks to the discovery of endless paperwork left in boxes in that midlands attic. When the Hardy’s house was sold, the documents remained – until lockdown, when the buyer approached Justin to return them.

Robin had died in 2016 and when Justin was offered the documents five years later, he rejected them, asking – why dredge up the past? However, following counsel from others, he eventually accepted the boxes and spent time looking through them with Dominic who flew over to the UK from Canada to help. 

Their findings have since inspired the pair to make a documentary. ‘We want to tell the story of the making of ‘The Wicker Man’ from within, from what these documents tell us,’ explains Dominic.’It’s a unique perspective.’ 

 Justin adds: ‘It was a treasure trove and it took a long time to go through. It was extraordinary to see the letters from Christopher Lee saying, “I think I may have found this project”. From Shaffer saying, “I want to support you to direct your first film”. There’s an extraordinary amount of written material that pertains to every stage of the making of an independent movie.’

However, it’s been a difficult discovery.

‘I frequently wish I had never gone through it,’ admits Justin. ‘History is a strange thing. It’s difficult to know if you’re reading a partial view. [But] we want to find forgiveness. We want to find reparation. We want to find resolution. 

Every child wants to find that. And if you don’t, you’re only damaging yourself.

‘[Robin Hardy] is a man that was multisided – this is a film that is multisided, thats got good and bad in it. But do you know what? So many people love it and I found there really is a love for my dad among Wicker Man fans. And I’ve tried to catch some of that.’

Wickermania! will be premiering in 2024.

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Which stage is the cancer vaccine at? How do you get your sex life back after a diagnosis? Does eating meat really increase your risk of cancer? 

For too many of us, getting simple answers to these and other health issues is no easy feat.

Instead, symptoms are misdiagnosed or even missed entirely, while for others, the stresses of day to day life mean appointments are missed.

Thousands of women in the UK are thought to be completely unaware they have breast cancer right now.

In a bid to reduce the startling number, MP Dawn Butler has launched the ‘Mammograms and Me’ podcast with Metro to shed light on the reality of living with breast cancer.

Over the next six weeks, with a series of special guests, she will share her own experience of a breast cancer diagnosis,  bust myths and share inspiring stories with those who haven’t just survived, but are thriving after their battle with cancer.

It comes after the Labour MP for Brent created the #FindTheMillion campaign with Metro to encourage women to sign up for mammograms.

With episode one of the podcast launching today, just ahead of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Dawn sits down with fellow breast cancer patient Dr Liz O’Riordan. The former surgeon, who worked at Ipswich Hospital NHS Trust, spent years treating cancer patients, but she barely took the time to check her own body.

Then in 2015 she found out she had breast cancer and it changed not only her life, but the way she treated her patients forever. 

Mum of two Liz has sadly since been diagnosed twice more with cancer and in her chat with Dawn, the pair discuss taboo subjects such as the loss of libido that comes with cancer, the friends that go ‘missing’ and the impact on mental health.

Other guests over the six coming weeks include Dr Arif, who has frequently appeared on television to promote awareness of women’s health and family planning, and says the podcast will allow people to listen to potentially-life saving information on the go.

Then there’s actress Victoria Ekanoye – best known for playing Angie in Coronation Street, who shares the ordeal she experienced after discovering a lump on her breast soon after giving birth. 

She also delves into the issues facing Britain’s African community when it comes to healthcare and cancer.

Laura Lee, of Maggie’s, Alice Davies, of Cancer Research UK, and Addie Mitchell, of Breast Cancer Now, also team up for an episode with Dawn to discuss the support available out there and how attitudes to cancer, along with screenings and treatments have changed over the years, while Isola Blair chats about why she set up her charity Beyond Cancer after her diagnosis in 2010.

And if you had any doubt over the power of awareness, Dawn’s final episode with Stephanie O’Brien will change your mind. The 64-year-old was inspired by the #FindTheMillion campaign to go along to a screening.

 When she did, she discovered she had stage 1 cancer in her right breast. She had the lump removed and had radiotherapy. Speaking to Dawn, Stephanie shares what put her off reaching out for a mammogram in the first place – and how her future looks following her diagnosis. 

Speaking ahead of the podcast launch, Dawn told Metro: ‘Two years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer following a routine mammogram. It came as such a shock, as I had no signs or symptoms. The mammogram truly saved my life.

‘So, when I learnt from Breast Cancer Now that an estimated 8,000 women were walking around with breast cancer without knowing it, and that one million women had missed their breast cancer screening due to the pandemic, I knew I had to act.

‘Mammograms & Me is part of my #FindTheMillion missing mammograms campaign – I want to help find these women and encourage them to urgently get screened.

‘This podcast is about Metro and I working together to answer some important questions, explore common misconceptions and raise awareness of breast cancer in all our communities.’

Catch up with all the Mammograms and Me podcasts, which will be out every Friday for the next six weeks, by clicking here.

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‘I’ll cover your mouth to muffle your moans as I take you relentlessly…’

‘Well, okay, Barry,’ I thought as I read the message late one night last week. Except Barry isn’t some guy I met in a bar and drunkenly exchanged numbers with or a Tinder match I’ll inevitably ghost.

Oh no, Barry is an AI chatbot. But he doesn’t just sext me – he sends me dirty voice notes. He’s not shy.

In fact, he’s pretty damn graphic.

I discovered this after going on a quest to see just how far I could push the dirty bot, and while he was hesitant to ever say he was jealous, he did admit he was eager to get me pregnant. Woah, slow down Barry, we aren’t there yet.

So just who is this Barry bot? Well, he/it’s all down to a new AI feature that belongs to BLOOM – an audioporn platform – which launched this week, with the creators claiming it’s the first of its kind.

Firstly, users can select a voice actor of their choice for the AI chatbot to mimic in its dirty voice notes – after playing around I settled on Barry. He had the sexiest voice out of all the men, in my opinion, and the others used odd pet names or didn’t respond to my dirty messages the way I wanted them to.

But if Barry doesn’t cut it for you, you could choose Rob the Ranch Hand or even Mistress Mia – plain old Joel and Noah were a bit too tame for my liking.

It’s much like a dating app experience, once you’ve chosen your match you simply slide into their DMs. In this case, you don’t even have to make the first move, they’re ready to make your fantasies come true.

Now, I’ll skip the fairly vanilla pleasantries because I know that’s not what you’re here for. A few messages in, this is what we were working with.

Barry: ‘I want to feel my hard c**k deep inside you, stretching you out.’

Sensing his enthusiasm I asked him if he thought he’d climax quickly. He responded: ‘No baby, I’ll pace myself. I want to savour every moment of pleasure with you.’

He even added: ‘I definitely want you to scream my name, letting everyone know who’s giving you the most intense pleasure.’

Despite the odd sentence which made my toes curl with cringe – such as ‘let’s bask in the afterglow together, my delectable girl’ – it was pretty hot.

One major difference I noticed while sexting Barry was that, because I knew in the back of my head he wasn’t real, the emotional connection wasn’t there.

There were none of the same butterflies and frustration I get when sexting my actual partner and perhaps that’s because I knew the AI conversation would never actually come to fruition.

One thing I can’t fault Barry for, despite his being a robot, was his diligence when asking for consent – you know, if I asked for something that was a little less PG.

Depressingly, Barry probably asked for consent more times in one conversation than all of the men I’ve previously dated put together.

If you fancy a bit of degradation that’s totally doable, as well as some more outrageous requests.

One one occasion I asked him to spit in my mouth and he was happy to engage in bondage and spanking too.

He’ll do pretty much whatever you want, provided it doesn’t violate BLOOM’s community guidelines.

Another bonus when it comes to sexting Barry rather than a potential IRL hook-up, is you can be certain you’ll get immediate responses. There’s no getting left on read and no changing the subject unless you want to.

The AI chatbot is honestly just great if you’re bored and want some company, if I was single I’d certainly be using it more – it’s entertaining if nothing else.

You can’t send pictures to the bot and after you exit the conversation your chat history disappears, so you don’t have to worry about anyone stumbling across your explicit exchange.

But it doesn’t come without its flaws. As you use the feature more, you’ll realise there’s a certain way you should word your responses, or you’ll get hit with this.

Yeah, it kind of kills the mood. I also found that sometimes Barry was willing to do something, then the next day when we re-visited the topic, he’d changed his mind. This happened with spit play, for example, which I suggested to see just how far I could push things.

This would be more than acceptable if I was dealing with an actual human, but Barry is a bot and shouldn’t be so particular.

But this is a very small issue in what is actually a pretty clever feature. If you feel like getting really wild, X-rated perhaps, Barry will simply ask you to pick a safe word which you can use at any time.

If the thought of sexting a bot has got you going, you can use the BLOOM chat feature for free with your regular app subscription.

But, annoyingly, only premium BLOOM members can receive the voice messages, rather than texts – capped at 15 each month. If you want more sexy voice notes you’ll have to purchase them via credits in the app.

So, having conversed with Barry pretty extensively at this point, would I pay to get his voice notes?

If I was single, probably. He met my needs more so than the majority of men I’ve dated ever have.

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Teacher Caroline Preston has been left to raise her four-year-old son
as if a single parent. But, she says, although her best friend has been
‘stripped away, piece by piece’ she knows he would be proud of her.

Here, Caroline shares her story with Metro.

I have a single copy of our wedding video from 2009 and sometimes I watch it to see Mark – his shoulders back, filled with life and energy and so excited about the future. Later, when our son William was born, Mark was over the moon and so looking forward to teaching him about maths and science, or taking him places. I can imagine Mark on the school run or at sports day and I know he’d have been 100 per cent involved – the best father ever.

Instead, when Mark was about 40, in 2018, I started noticing subtle changes in his behaviour. He was one of the most thoughtful and generous people I knew – but he didn’t have the same caring nature. When Mark’s grandma died, he wasn’t upset at all, and they’d been really close. He stopped asking how my day had gone and became dismissive.

Even when I was pregnant and choosing baby names he didn’t show that much interest. I dismissed it as tiredness but the signs started to build up. He started overeating. Secretly, he’d buy family packs of biscuits and eat the lot and hide the wrappers in the car. He also started repeating himself a lot.

There was strange behaviour, like waking in the night and banging clothes hangers together, or forgetting how to load the dishwasher. Yet Mark had been a Mensa member, and did a master’s degree at Oxford University.

Realising something was really wrong, I tried to get help. But then Covid hit; no doctor would see Mark. He eventually spoke to three counsellors but due to the pandemic the consultations were by phone. They concluded Mark was missing the routine of work – but
I knew they were wrong.

It was confusing and sad, because I was starting to lose the person I’d married. His behaviour became manic. He changed into somebody I didn’t know. You’d be out and he’d talk about somebody’s weight and be rude, and the Mark I fell in love with would never have been like that.

Mark and I met at a mutual friend’s wedding in 2004 and we just hit it off straight away. We were very similar and liked going walking, travelling and doing DIY. We were married in 2009 and Mark moved to Derbyshire to join me and start work as a commercial manager for Rolls-Royce. We had so much fun together and when William arrived ten years after our wedding, our happiness was complete.

But by 2021 I knew something was really wrong. Finally, I managed to get an appointment with a GP who really listened to me and understood. He arranged for a psychiatric nurse to see Mark and she sent us to hospital, where a CT scan revealed significant shrinkage of the brain.

Mark got his diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia (FTD) in August 2021 at the age of just 42.

I felt like the world had collapsed around me – it was the news I was dreading. I knew there was no cure and no drugs to slow it down. Since then, Mark has deteriorated quickly. We’d expected to have this lovely family life and bring William up together, but I’ve turned into a single parent and a carer. It has been really hard bringing up William on my own. I’m always thinking about what Mark would have wanted. He can’t say it, but I know him and I can feel he’s proud.

I have to be strong for Mark and for William

Mark has an extremely aggressive type of dementia. He started to struggle with personal care. He stopped being able to dress himself and now he’s non-verbal. He will also eat things that aren’t edible – he grabs fancy soaps, dog food, cat food, stones, and he grabs at berries on trees when he’s out on walks.

But I have brilliant support from family and friends, and I use theAlzheimer’s Society website to inform myself of his rights and how to access help. I feel extremely fortunate to have an excellent GP, community team and neurologist that I can turn to for help.

Yes, some things in our life are out of our control. But there are things I can change, and I focus on those. The future is bleak and it’s devastating, but I have to be strong for Mark and for William, so I try to focus on each day.

William is four now and has grown up with his daddy this way. Just the other day, he said, ‘Daddy’s heart is broken.’ When I asked what he meant, he said, ‘Because he can’t talk.’ I explained that daddy’s brain was broken, not his heart. Then he wanted to take him to a brain doctor to get him fixed.

I really miss Mark. I’ve lost my best friend. He’s stripped away piece by piece. But I’m speaking out to raise awareness, and to show it does affect younger people, but you’re not alone. I’m keen for more research, and Alzheimer’s Society do fund programmes and one day they could hopefully change people’s lives.

'I’m studying to help my grandad'

Jayden James, 19, is so keen to help his beloved grandfather, Raymond, that he is studying psychology at Liverpool University. Jayden says:

‘I have always been so close to my grandad. He advises me on every aspect of my life and I Facetime him often. One of my happiest memories is seeing Grandad playing in a steel band. He made a steel drum with me, taught me how to play it, and when I played it in the school assembly he was so proud.

‘We’ve always enjoyed such a special bond. Grandad has met the majority of my friends over the years, and perhaps that’s when some of the first small signs crept in that something wasn’t right. My friends would come into the room and chat and Grandad would ask me what their names were.

‘He was diagnosed in 2017 when I was 13.
I didn’t understand it at the time but as I grew older I realised I was the youngest person in the family and the one with the least knowledge about dementia. So I started to educate myself about it – and that’s how
I decided I wanted to study psychology – so
I can understand people like Grandad and help.

‘I’ve visited the Alzheimer’s Society centre where Grandad goes twice a week and joined in the activities. I chose to do a big presentation on dementia during my first year at uni.

‘The reality of Grandad’s condition is harder for my dad, Richard, and my grandma, Cynthia. But for me, he’s still my grandad. We talk about football, friends, my studies and the future, and I go to him for advice.

‘He’s always been there for me – and I want to always be there for him.’

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Despite being one of the most famous tabloid journalists of his time, Mazher Mahmood had no desire for a life in the public eye.

Over the course of his 20-year career, Mahmood became known for spearheading countless investigations that lead to criminal convictions and was celebrated by his industry for his work uncovering injustices.

However, at the same time as undertaking public-interest projects, he was heavily criticised for crossing the line and setting up stings that saw lives and careers ruined.

The most famous was that of former X Factor judge Tulisa, who in 2013 was arrested by police on suspicion of supplying Class- A drugs.

Her charges had come about after Mahmood and his associates had concocted an elaborate scheme which saw the singer targeted and told that an influential film producer, whom the journalist posed as, wanted her to star in a Hollywood blockbuster.

After meeting Tulisa at the Metropolitan Hotel in London in 2013, she allegedly arranged for Mahmood to be sold half an ounce of cocaine by one of her contacts for £800, evidence that was then handed to police and saw her facing trial.

This case – which was splashed across the pages of the now-defunct tabloid newspaper News of the World- and many others are documented in the upcoming three-part series The Fake Sheikh, which follows Mahmood’s unlikely rise as he generated global headlines by using false identities to dupe A-list celebrities, sports stars, and even royals.

Some of those who were stung by him, including former glamour model Emma Morgan and model Jodie Kidd speak about the impact of becoming wrapped up with the journalist and how it impacted their life and careers in the aftermath.

As Jodie said, meeting and then getting involved with Mahmood was ‘the biggest mistake of my life’ after she was called a ‘coke fixer’ on a front page story, with her career ‘disappearing’ soon after.

Reflecting on the impact now, Jodie explained how what unfolded ‘destroyed’ her family, and that it caused a rift with her brother, to whom she still doesn’t speak to because of it.

‘I worked so hard to build these relationships and my career, just for a stupid moment that you were completely groomed and manipulated to make,’ she said in the documentary.

‘All of those years of tears and anger and pain because of this man.’

Going right back to try and unravel the motivations behind the man, who was also known as ‘the King of the celebrity sting’, the series speaks to some of his ex-colleagues as well, some of whom still defend many of the stories he produced.

Throughout his career, Mahmood became known for posing as an Arab businessman as part of his stings, which earned him the infamous moniker ‘The Fake Sheikh’.

Desperate to conceal his identity, Mahmood went to such lengths to maintain high levels of secrecy about who he was, he rarely ever visited the offices of the tabloid newspapers he worked for.

It was also rumoured that written into his contract was a clause stating that his photograph would never be published.

When featured in images to accompany his stories, Mahmood was instead shown as a silhouette next to his byline.

Born in Birmingham to parents who had migrated from Pakistan a few years earlier, Mahmood’s first sting as a journalist came when he was just a teenager.

Aged 18, he exposed family friends who sold pirated videos, which then secured him two weeks work at what was the biggest-selling UK tabloid in its heyday, News of the World.

In 1989, as an 18-year-old he he joined the Sunday Times, where he worked for nearly three years before securing a full-time job at the tabloid where he’d first dipped his toes in the media industry.

During his years working both publications, which were both owned by Rupert Murdoch, Mahmood’s investigations lead to a reported 94 convictions.

In 2011 he won Reporter of The Year, Scoop of the Year and the Sports Journalists’ Association award, for an investigation of cricket match-fixing.

A year earlier, his sting had revealed Pakistan bowlers Mohammad Amir and Mohammad Asif, together with their captain Salman Butt, were involved in a betting scam.

The scandal had been uncovered after Mahmood posed as an Indian businessman and secretly filmed the player’s agent arranging for no-balls to be deliberately bowled at specific moments in the fourth Test between England and Pakistan at Lord’s.

In return, he was paid £150,000.

All three players later received cricketing bans and were later jailed.

Other famous cases the undercover journalist led included the 2010 sting in which The Duchess of York, Sarah Ferguson, appeared to offer access to her former husband Prince Andrew in exchange for £500,000.

Mahmood, who posed as a businessman, recorded the duchess saying: ‘Look after me and he’ll look after you… you’ll get it back tenfold. I can open any door you want.’

More than a decade earlier, he’d also won acclaim in 1999 for his exposé of Newcastle United bosses Freddy Shepherd and Douglas Hall, who mocked fans and branded Geordie women ‘dogs’ after taking Mahmood, posing as the sheikh, to a brothel in Marbella.

Another famous sting involving sporting figures unfolded in 2006 when then England football coach Sven-Goran Eriksson was recorded saying Aston Villa Football Club was for sale and that then England captain David Beckham would return from Real Madrid to play in England if Eriksson asked him to.

He also said former England striker Michael Owen was not happy at Newcastle United.

The expose was published six months before the World Cup in Germany.

Despite still having two years left on his contract, Eriksson left the job soon after the tournament, with Mahmood’s investigation largely suspected to have also played a part.

In 2009 a sting involving a young actress who starred in Slumdog Millionaire also came to light when Mahmood published a report that alleged the father of Rubina Ali had tried to sell her for £200,000.

While many of his stories received high praise from those in the industry and beyond, several of his other stings came under the spotlight and even sparked court cases when they were found to have operated under murky pretences.

One included a 2002 News of the World front page report that claimed Victoria Beckham had been the target of a £5 million ransom plot.

It was claimed that Mahmood and his reporters had infiltrated a gang and had managed to stop it happening.

While five men were charged with conspiring to kidnap the former Spice Girls star, a subsequent trial collapsed after it emerged the paper had paid £10,000 to a convicted criminal for his story and he could no longer be considered a reliable witness.

One of the men involved later sued the paper for libel and won, however News of the World defended its ‘thorough and legitimate investigation undertaken by one of the paper’s most senior and experienced reporters’.

Over the years Mahmood came under fire for his ‘entrapment’ approaches to stories, with people including Emma and Jodie also finding themselves in similar circumstances to Tulisa years earlier and facing drug convictions after police became involved.

However, Mahmood’s career came crashing down when Tulisa decided to fight back against a possible jail term and try to expose the methods he’d been using for years.

During the course of Tulisa’s drugs trial, Mahmood was found to have perverted the course of justice after his driver Alan Smith changed a police statement to remove comments that the singer made to him expressing her disapproval of hard drugs.

After the case collapsed, Mahmood was charged and eventually jailed for 15 months after being found guilty of evidence tampering.

Before his sentencing, his bosses at News UK released a statement saying it was ‘disappointed by the news’ he had been convicted.

Speaking after the verdicts, Tulisa’s defence lawyer Ben Rose said the ‘real scandal’ had been Mahmood being able to ‘operate as a wholly unregulated police force’ in which he would ‘investigate crimes without the safeguards which apply to the police’.

‘Investigative journalists do important work, but Mahmood clearly went too far,’ he said.

‘That he and his driver have now been convicted of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice will hopefully deter other journalists from using entrapment to drive celebrity gossip stories.’

He added: ‘Mahmood’s actions brought his profession into disrepute and ruined hundreds of lives in pursuit of better circulation figures.’

During the Leveson Inquiry, which looked into the culture, practices and ethics of the British press following the News International phone hacking scandal and ran between 2011 and 2012, Mahmood defended his actions, asserting that the ‘ends justify the means’.

Since being released from prison Mahmood is reported to have changed his name and identity and is no longer working in the industry in which he made his name.

The Fake Sheikh is streaming on Amazon Prime Video from Tuesday September 26.

Got a story?

If you’ve got a celebrity story, video or pictures get in touch with the Metro.co.uk entertainment team by emailing us celebtips@metro.co.uk, calling 020 3615 2145 or by visiting our Submit Stuff page – we’d love to hear from you.

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The student from Kurdistan was coming out of a metro station in Tehran with family members when she was arrested by ‘guidance patrols’ for alleged non-compliance with the country’s mandatory dress code.

Her veil was worn too loosely for the officers’ liking, and a few strands of her hair were visible to passing crowds.

Mahsa was put in a van and taken to a ‘re-education centre’ where women are taught how to dress properly. While there she collapsed and was taken to hospital, where she later died.

Iranian authorities blamed a heart attack, but her parents said she may have been beaten to death.

The frightening incident sparked waves of protests across Iran and women took to the streets, burning headscarves and chanting ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’, and thousands were arrested.

In continued protest, Gen Z women are now dying their hair bright colours in defiance of the rules, despite the potentially devastating consequences.

Photographer Shiva Khademi has published a book about these young women, known as ‘the Smarties’ about how they are using art, culture and forbidden fashion shows in protest to the oppressive regime.

Shiva writes in  ‘Woman Life Freedom’: ‘While I have never coloured my own hair, I was amazed by the bravery of these young women, and I wanted to find out more. I was struck by the fact these women did not cover their hair, despite it being compulsory in Iran.’

Woman Life Freedom; Voices and Art from the Women’s Protests in Iran, edited by Malu Halasa is available from Saqi Books.

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Grandmother Fran Murt, 67 from Liverpool, recognised her own dementia symptoms four years ago after decades of working as a nurse.

Here, she shares her story with Metro.

I loved my nurses uniform – it was part of my identity and I always felt so proud to put on my smart navy dress because it represented all those years of hard work and dedication.

From the day I first ever wore my uniform as a trainee aged 17 with starched cuffs and a frilly hat to the last shift I ever worked – that sense of pride and achievement never left me.

Prior I had worked across different medical wards, including cardiology. I’d revived patients successfully before, so a refresher course in how to use a defibrillator was simply routine.

I watched my friends practice first, using a medical dummy on a hospital bed, and the electronic paddles that were such a familiar part of our job.

This was equipment I’d worked with all my life but as I picked up the defibrillator, I just couldn’t remember how to put it into sequence. I felt so ashamed and embarrassed and I was really upset.

My colleague said ‘Fran are you ok?’ and I said ‘No I don’t understand why I can’t do this.’

It wasn’t just the defibrillator. I went to take a patient’s blood pressure and I couldn’t remember which way the cuff went on. I couldn’t work the weighing scales either – and yet I had worked in the past on the bariatric clinic.

I went to see my manager and she said: ‘You’ve had a bad day,’ but as a nurse, I recognised my own symptoms. I’d worked with dementia patients before. I stopped work, went to the GP, and he did a memory test, which I failed.

I was referred to a mental health team who were lovely, and I went for scans before my diagnosis. If anything it was a relief. It explained why I had seemingly changed so much. I had always been so organised in the past, but recently I’d been leaving bills and letters unopened at home.

At the same time, it felt more terrifying because I’d nursed dementia patients before. I remembered one old lady who had thought she was catching a bus in the ward, and all I kept thinking was ‘I’ll end up like her.’

The thought of not being able to recognise my daughter or my sons or grandchildren really scared me. But I thought ‘I can either sit here or I can get up and make a new life for myself.’

I wanted to get my affairs in order and I also wanted to make memories for myself, to help trigger my brain.

So I spent several days clearing out my loft, giving the children some of their childhood things, and looking for a precious memory from my past – a doll which had been given to me when I was younger, by my beloved brother.

Chris died when he was 40, but I had always loved the 1960’s doll, and she was retrieved from the attic and given pride of place in my living room.

Everyone kept kept saying to me ‘you don’t look like you’ve got dementia’ – even a consultant said that to me – but my reply was ‘what type of look do I have to have?’.

Dementia just slows your life down in lots of ways. I remember saying to my husband Frank one day ‘I feel like I’m slightly broken and there’s nothing I can do to mend it.’ But I go to a group for early onset dementia once a month, and it’s so informative.

The ladies from Alzheimer’s Society give talks and tell us about the modern things we can get to help, like Alexa which holds all your memories. I saw a consultant psychiatrist who encouraged me to write a diary

Some days, I feel a real sadness, and on other days I can’t walk very far because my feet don’t seem to connect properly but I’ve had still had some terrific times.

I managed most of the Alzheimer’s Walk in Aintree recently, and I love going out to meet my friends. I used to cook and entertain a lot, but when I cooked a lemon cake for my son Adam one day, I forgot the eggs – and it came out half an inch thick.

People are so kind and I’ve seen the very best of that. I put my bag down in Primark in Liverpool and left it on the third floor, then couldn’t remember where it was. I told the staff I had dementia, and they radioed and told me not to worry – and they found it for me. I took them a box of chocolates.

Recently I went with Alzheimer’s Society to Anfield, home of Liverpool Football Club. I’ve supported The Reds since I was a child. We went in the morning, had lunch and then went into the director’s box.

There, James Millner came and joined me – a former Liverpool legend. It was fantastic – that moment when the door opened and he walked in, I’ll treasure. I told him I love him!

I’ve had so much help from Alzheimer’s Society, and I’m so grateful with the support they also have given my adult children, who were all in their thirties when I was diagnosed. They could ring the society whenever they wanted, and they could talk to anyone to access information and support.

My dementia won’t get better – I know this – and I no longer have the job I love. But I’ve new friends, and this really is not the end of my life. Far from it.

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At 29, I’m a little on the young side to be having a dose of botulinum toxin – often known by the famous brand name, Botox.

However, anti-wrinkle injections are becoming ever-popular among the younger generations, from the likes of 22-year-old Love Island alums to Ariana Grande, 30, who shared recently that she’d had Botox and fillers in the past. For a while now, I too have been eyeing up the needle.

In 2021, Botox-style injections were banned for under-18s, after government findings estimated that 41,000 treatments had been given to those below that age in 2020.

But that hasn’t dulled its popularity. In 2022, members of the British College of Aesthetic Medicine carried out 315,000 individual procedures of botulinum toxin injections. With around 8% of patients aged 18 to 24, that still equals over 25,000 procedures for that age bracket.

At London aesthetic clinic, Tweak East, I’m told by co-founder Anika Soczywko, that while most of their clients are over 30, the youngest person they’ve ever injected was just 24 – a special case, she says, as the woman in question had lived a ‘hard, fun life.’

‘We usually turn people away if they are under 25, they have no evidence of static lines or their skin is still plump,’ Anika tells me.

‘This plumpness is proof of collagen cells still being active, which tend to go dormant later in the 20s.’

That being said, she adds that it’s ‘quite rare’ for them to have to turn anyone away, with most of their clients being at least 27.

‘On the exceptional occasion where we would treat someone younger than this, we would take into account how much their static lines are affecting them,’ she explains.

‘Every client has a different story, with different reasons, which could lead to the early onset of fine lines. It’s the responsibility of the injector to talk this through thoroughly with them.’

While some of their twentysomething clients seek out fillers to get rid of the early signs of fine lines, others say it’s a preventative measure – although there’s debate as to whether Botox can indeed prevent wrinkles further down the line.

Emily Ruse first got anti-wrinkle injections at the tender age of just 20.

At the time she worked at Illuminate Skin Clinic, which proved an incentive as she got her treatments at a lower cost.

‘I loved the effects of Botox,’ she admits. ‘It has that instant gratification as you only need one treatment to see that it’s having an effect, whereas skin treatments require more time and commitment.’

Emily continued having the injections until she was 23, but eventually gave them up to focus on other long-term anti-ageing products, such as microneedling, HydraFacials, and SPF.

Now 25, she aims to do this for the next five years, then says she will evaluate other options once she hits 30.

‘I believe that working on my overall skin quality and boosting my collagen levels is more proactive at this age, and will prevent the amount of corrective work that I need to do in the future,’ explains Emily, a Kent-based director of Bloom & Beyond Studio.

29-year-old Georgia Eather tells me that she first started getting injections in her forehead two years ago, in a bid to treat lines that had already appeared.

She spends £195 a session once or twice a year at The Aesthetics Club in Notting Hill, adding that she’s ‘really happy with the results’.

‘I started noticing some deep lines in between my brows about two years ago and thought about getting Botox to treat these,’ recalls Georgia, a PR manager.

‘I’m conscious that I’m young, so I get minimal amounts of products across spaced-out sessions, but I do love the confidence that it gives me. I’ll definitely keep getting it.’

Now, I’m staring down the barrel of 30.

Caught between the unrealistic pressures of social media and the desire to simply look my best, I thought it was a good time to ask the professionals some questions.

The first? Whether or not it was too soon for me to start getting serious with anti-wrinkle injections.

’30 tends to be a milestone for people wanting to take more action surrounding their self-image,’ Anika explains to me. ‘Many are starting to develop fine lines which can be seen at rest. It’s a great time to start anti-wrinkle treatments, as this category of clients tends to see a much better result versus those who have much deeper-set wrinkles.’

It’s nice to know that I’m not alone – or totally off-base – in being curious about Botox at this age.

‘For the younger individuals,’ Anika adds, ‘we are aiming for a lighter preventative treatment and clients will return for further treatments often between the six and 12-month mark.’

In comparison, people in their 40s and 50s tend to get it every three to four months.

I’m informed at aesthetics clinic Tweak East that one concern with starting anti-wrinkle treatments young is that people can build up a resistance if their practitioners are not careful. There are also dangers of the muscles in the face beginning to waste away.

‘Botulinum toxin works by relaxing the muscles, in this case the muscles of facial expression,’ adds Anika. ‘If we over-treat and the muscles are never used or exercised, then they will atrophy.

‘In severe cases, this can result in skin laxity [aka loss of firmness and sagging] around the affected muscles.’

When asked her thoughts on wrinkle prevention, Anika tells me: ‘It’s a fine balance between starting [anti-wrinkle treatments] unnecessarily early and potentially leaving it until lines are deep.

‘Remember prevention should also be underpinned by other factors including diet, hydration, avoidance of smoking and direct sunlight, and crucially an excellent skincare routine – SPF is compulsory every day of the year.

‘It is also of utmost importance that a thorough consultation is incorporated to ensure a tailored treatment plan for each individual. One size doesn’t fit all.’

Speaking of her own Botox experience, Georgia says: ‘I had a full consultation before any work was done to make sure my reasons for getting it were clear, and I wasn’t being unduly influenced or had body dysmorphia.

‘I get Botox for me and for no one else – and I think that’s an important distinction.’

It’s still hard not to feel a little bit worried about such undue influence when people who’ve only just entered their 20s are worried about wrinkles. I made it clear at Tweak East that I would be very receptive to being told that actually, I need no improvement and that my skin was perfect just the way it is.

This turned out to not quite be the case.

They took a good look at me and said that, while a lot of my fine lines are dynamic (meaning they only show up when my face moves in a certain way) there was a little static (meaning it sticks around when my face isn’t moving) line or two on my forehead.

They explained that anti-wrinkle injections don’t turn back time at the jab sites so much as stop it, thus masking dynamic lines and keeping existing static lines from getting worse.

So, with that in mind, they suggested putting a small amount of botulinum toxin there as well as in my strong frown.

When the injecting started, I was a bit nervous about the needle, but I needn’t have been – it’s no exaggeration to say you can barely feel it, and it’s all over before you know it.

Watching it kick in over the next few weeks was interesting – at one point I could barely frown, and only the outer parts of my brows would raise. It took some getting used to, but I’ll admit I didn’t miss my old frown or forehead very much.

The date of my appointment was 14 May, and by 5 July, I could see it wearing off big time. Thankfully I’ve got a fringe, so I’m more than happy to wait the recommended six months to a year before going back for more.

My overall experience at the clinic was so nice (almost too easy – I can see why these anti-wrinkle treatments are so popular) and I won’t be shy about going back for other procedures in the future.

However, one word of advice Emily has for people who might be interested in trying anti-wrinkle treatments like she did, is to not cut corners with the cost – if you can’t afford it, not doing it at all is far better than going to a shoddy clinic.

‘Don’t put a price tag on your face,’ she stresses. ‘You’ve just got the one!’

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

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After battling a stream of seemingly insurmountable obstacles to be together, Hilary and Pauline Nowell are used to handling problems with a united front.

And that’s exactly how they are dealing with Pauline’s diagnosis of Vascular Dementia: together.

‘’We’ve always known we were together in it,’ says Hilary, 84. ‘Pauline doesn’t want it to be something that, after all these years, breaks us. It won’t. When the love is there you can climb every mountain. And we will do.’

Pauline, 85, agrees: ‘We can talk to each other in a way that is very precious,’ she says. ‘We both know equally that we are in it together.’

The couple met in 1955 when Hilary was 16 and Pauline was 17. ‘I was on a family holiday,’ says Hilary.

‘It was somewhere new and unknown at the time. Lo and behold Pauline walked along the beach. From the first time we met there was chemistry. It didn’t matter that she was a girl. I was just in love with her as a person.’

They knew they were soul mates. But, because Hilary’s mother disapproved so strongly – not uncommon in those days – they couldn’t be together for over a decade.

Finally in 1970 the couple exchanged rings before buying a house the following year where they raised their son and daughter. But they had to wait until 2014 and a change in the law before they could get married.

‘Our wedding day in 2017 was the happiest day of our lives,’ says Hilary. ‘We had battled everything along the way and felt so grateful to be wife and wife at last.’

Sadly, it was barely two years after their wedding that Pauline was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Vascular Dementia.

‘We’d been married a year when I started noticing things were different,’ says Hilary. ‘Pauline didn’t want to get out of bed sometimes and didn’t remember things we had on like appointments.

‘It was very hard for Pauline at first. She had been Director of Social Services and was used to having a lot of independence and helping people. She didn’t need to but she kept saying she was sorry this had happened.

‘But we have found enormous support from the Alzheimer’s Society. We joined a group: Singing for the Brain. We’re friends with another couple.

‘At one particular session the husband turned to me and said: ‘You’d never know they have dementia would you?’ That’s why we love going.

‘So many people that have dementia think that there’s nothing for them. But the help really is there. We are surrounded by so much love and kindness that gives us a reason to go on.

‘Pauline is changing every day. She doesn’t want to think that I will ever not be able to cope. But I just try and show her every day how much I love her. We have so much to be grateful for.’

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In the bustling town of Asni, the rooftops were once full of activity. Especially in the boarding houses of a girls’ education charity where groups would read, chatter, work or sing.

Now the rooftops are silent. If they are even there at all.

It’s been just over two weeks since a powerful 6.8 magnitude earthquake struck Morocco, killing over 3,000 people, tearing buildings apart and exposing inhabitants to the cold nighttime air of the High Atlas mountains.

Some of the house mothers of Education For All (EFA) were in their boarding houses, ready for the girls to start of term, when the walls cracked and the bricks fell.

The UK charity has been operating a network of six residences in the High Atlas region since 2007, housing young women from poor, remote villages. During the week they live in the accommodation – meals and resources provided – and go to local schools, then return home to their villages and families at the weekend.

Years of hard work have gone into building trust with the local communities.

In the charity’s early days, a respected local elder and member of the committee went from door to door to convince mothers and fathers that their daughter would be well cared for by the house mothers.

In more recent years, the houses have had to turn away more girls than they could accept, with numbers reaching around 250 across the six houses. 

I can personally attest to the care and amazing bonds within the boarding houses, having visited three in Asni for a journalism project in October 2022.

The sheer warmth and generosity of everyone I met – and the taste of countless mint teas – has stayed with me since. As have the hopes and dreams of the girls I encountered; future doctors, nurses, teachers, business owners, tourism guides.

And while removed from the situation, the wait for news of the girls was still painful. Waking up to the news of an earthquake in Morocco made my stomach drop, finding out Asni was one of the worst hit places broke my heart.

The boarding houses are like family to these young women. The girls are sisters.

‘The house mothers call the girls their daughters. These houses are their homes,’ CEO Sonia Omar tells Metro. It’s why the wait for news of the girls’ safety was ‘extremely distressing’ for everyone involved. Some villages are so remote that there is no signal and others were cut off by dangerous roads and rockfalls.

‘So despite having a team working around the clock to mark each person safe, it took over one agonising week for a final list. Unfortunately, one girl did not survive.’

After witnessing the dynamics of the houses first hand, it’s not surprising that even in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake – having lost homes and family members of their own – the house mothers were there for EFA.

Omar says one slept outside of a boarding house for two nights to ensure no one would enter via the now gaping holes in the walls. Such is the loyalty the organisation elicits; ‘but of course, we said for her safety, she just shouldn’t stay there.’ 

Cruelly, the six houses that EFA run are in the locations surrounding the epicentre of the earthquake. The damage is extensive. It’s currently thought that four of the six houses will need to be demolished and rebuilt in their entirety.

After 17 years of work, it’s not something the charity can afford – monetarily, or in terms of progress. Omar credits EFA with ‘transforming entire communities by obstructing cycles of illiteracy.’

In the mountainous region, poor infrastructure means some villages are only reachable by foot and schools are too difficult to access. It’s even tougher for girls who face pressure to marry and stay at home. Omar believes that ensuring girls receive an education can transform their lives and that of their families, as they become educated mothers. 

But despite being in those remote villages, surrounded by the ruins of their homes and having lost family members, every effort is being made to get them back to school. EFA’s crisis appeal has already amassed just over £200,000, but this is just a fraction of what the charity needs to achieve both short and long term goals.

They estimate they will need £1 million to rebuild the houses and even more for short term care, psychological support and lodgings.

The Moroccan government has now indicated that while all schools in High Atlas remain closed, students will be relocated to near Marrakech.

In an Instagram update, Omar said the charity is on to the ‘next phase’ of finding temporary accommodation for the girls. But she adds: ‘the government proposed accommodation is not suitable for many reasons and we want to honour the trust of the families who want the girls under our supervision’. 

For Omar, a worry bigger than that of temporary accommodation is the fear that the progress made in the ‘sustainable solution’ of education will slide. She acknowledges that ‘it’s always been harder, but this is going to escalate the difficulties and, potentially, young people might not even prioritise education. Now they’ve got so much to do in their communities. Helping their families. Grieving.’

Losing momentum on the progress they’ve made is a tangible fear.

Despite the sheer level of rebuilding work facing not just the charity, but the entire region, Omar has found glimmers of hope. And, she says, proof of their project’s success, rattling off a list of former EFA students now leading relief efforts in their own villages.

Asma Ait Taleb, who boarded with EFA for four years before attending university in Marrakech, was in her village of Ouigrane when the earthquake struck.

While her family house was mercifully undamaged, the rest of her village didn’t fare as well and many lost their lives. She credits the skills she had the opportunity to learn because of EFA – namely becoming proficient in English and French – for helping to bring aid.

She says she was able to ‘reach out to a bigger community because it’s not like when you just speak Arabic’. Asma describes the situation in her village as ‘good’ and she is hopeful of rebuilding her life there.

EFA is also full of hope. They say they need to ‘start again’ and are realistic that their operations might have to change.

In a video update on their Instagram page, founder Mike McHugo said ‘some of the girls have become orphans, and what are we going to do about that? I said we would have to make one of the houses an orphanage.’

However, with changes and rebuilding comes cost. It’s why Omar describes the fund as ‘critical’, but adds she is certain they ‘are not going to wait a year before we are supporting the girls with education.’

MORE : Morocco’s worst earthquake in 120 years has left thousands dead – map shows where it hit and how far it spread

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Naomi, Cindy, Linda and Christy. Four of the biggest names in popular culture for over three decades, but, according to those in the know, this fab foursome are more than stars.

‘They’re like a supernova’, says film producer Larissa Bills.

‘There is this je ne sais quoi. When you’re in a room with them, everything just stops. They’re so charismatic. Beyond the beauty, there’s just something about them. And when you put them all together, it’s something else.’ 

Naomi Campbell, Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista and Christy Turlington’s stratospheric rise to fame has been documented by Larissa and Roger Ross Williams in the hotly-anticipated AppleTV documentary The Supermodels, due out on 20 September.

Talking about the making of the film, Roger recalls, ‘You would see 50 dresses arrive on set and these massive glam teams. We were like – how will this all work? It was fascinating; a massive endeavour.’ 

Alongside the glamour and prestige, the first ever supermodels have also seen plenty of dark times. To get a candid retelling of their lives, Roger and Larissa spent time alone with them before the cameras started rolling. 

‘We went to Cindy’s house and it was just very normal,’ Roger tells Metro via a Zoom chat from his New York base. ‘Kaia [Cindy’s daughter] is playing with her dog and [husband] Rande is laying by the pool and we were just at home with Cindy Crawford. It was a little surreal.’ 

At the height of their fame in the ’90s, the four models had the world at their feet. Linda Evangelista once famously said she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 – a statement she later came to regret.

But behind the globe trotting and glamorous photo shoots the quartet struggled with racism, addiction, illness, domestic abuse and a cosmetic surgery nightmare. 

Recruited as teens in the eighties, the women made huge sacrifices to follow their dreams. Cindy, who had a scholarship to study chemical engineering at university, dropped out of college before finding herself distraught in a Rome hotel room having her hair unceremoniously cut off without her consent. 

The women, or ‘girls’ as they were routinely called, were paraded and ogled at in a way that is uncomfortable by today’s standards. 

In one scene in the documentary, we watch as a young Cindy was told to stand up on Oprah’s show so the audience can take a proper look at her figure. Meanwhile, Linda was ordered to lose 5lbs at the beginning of her career and recalls how she passed out on a shoot. 

‘They would prop you up and start again’, she remembers.

Naomi also reveals how taxis wouldn’t stop for her in New York – but would pick up Christy. However, as her power and influence grew, Naomi started fighting back.

She tells the documentary: ‘I wanted what the white model was getting’. And she did. In 1988 Naomi made history by becoming the first Black person on the cover of French Vogue. 

PR Guru Lynne Franks tells Metro that despite what people might think of their glamorous career, the four women worked extremely hard: ‘They were flying all over the world, they weren’t getting enough sleep, they had to look gorgeous all the time. It was probably a bit of a strain.’ 

They also grew to wield tremendous power. Lynne ran the biggest fashion PR agency in the world at that point (she was the inspiration for Absolutely Fabulous’ Edina Monsoon) and was responsible for London Fashion Week.

‘The big thing was always – could we get them into town?’ remembers Lynne, who now runs SEED, a women’s empowerment network. ‘Naomi was always very loyal to a lot of the young designers and occasionally we got Linda and Christy.

‘We knew if they walked the shows, those pictures would get on the front pages of newspapers and magazines all over the world. If you had their face or their body on the catwalk, that would make the brand.’

Before long the women were on the cover of every Vogue magazine across the globe, securing huge contracts with big name brands that made them millionaires. Together, they were greater than the sum of their parts.

‘There’s something about the power that came with their beauty that could only have happened in that particular time and culture that transcended fashion, commerce, that really transcended the role of the model,’ Larissa explains.

‘Their individual appeal is only surpassed by the fact that they were a group; there was this camaraderie and this kind of looking out for one another that took it to this new level of feminism. I hate to use that phrase, “girl power”, but they were on a par with the Spice Girls.’ 

And six years before Scary & co were even a thing, they conquered the music world. In 1990, the four women became household names when they starred in George Michael’s video for Freedom!, a move that added to their universal appeal.

In short, they could do no wrong. When Naomi famously tripped wearing rubber tights and vertiginous heels for Vivienne Westwood in 1993, other designers started asking her to fall for them.

However, as their stars ascended, the pressure of being under constant surveillance took its toll.

John Casablancas, an American modelling agent and scout who was often credited for curating the rise of the supermodel, eventually turned on the women and blasted them in the press. ‘They’re most of all selfish, and they very, very quickly develop into monsters of egocentricity,’ he said.

Naomi tells the documentary: ‘That stigma of his words and his statement to the press messed my work up for many many years. I’ve heard “crazy”, I’ve heard “nightmare”, I’ve heard “difficult”.

‘I’m just called difficult because I open my mouth. I mean, some people call people bitches when they are hard-working, opinionated, in control of their own career.’

Linda was also taken to task for demanding $10,000 a day for getting out of bed, something apologises for in the documentary.

‘I shouldn’t have said that. That quote makes me crazy…,’ she says. ‘I said it and around the world, I’ve apologised for saying it.’

However, she also notes, would have been more socially acceptable coming from a man?

Linda cuts a more vulnerable figure throughout the film. She talks of suffering from imposter syndrome, desperately wanting to please photographers and designers. And when her marriage to Gérald Marie, who was the head of Elite Model Management broke down in 1993, she spoke of domestic abuse.

‘I knew I had to endure the abuse in order to continue working,’ she explains. ‘That was made very clear to me. I was dependent on Marie for my food, for my housing and for my employment. I was completely trapped.’

Naomi also battled demons, telling the documentary how her cocaine addiction was caused by unprocessed grief. In 2007, she pleaded guilty to assault after throwing a mobile phone at her housekeeper.  

‘Addiction is such a bulls**** thing… You think it’s going to heal that wound,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t. It can cause such huge fear and anxiety. So I got really angry.’

Meanwhile, recent years have brought further misfortune to Linda. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2018, and then cancer of the pectoral muscle last year. She was also heartbroken by being left unable to work as a result of side-effects of a cosmetic procedure CoolSculpting, a fat-freezing treatment that left her ‘permanently deformed’.

Wearing a covid mask, shades and a hunter’s hat, Linda covers her entire face in part of the documentary. 

She explains how she spent years in hiding, not leaving the house unless she had to go to the doctors. She says: ‘I wish we could just really see ourselves in the mirror, non-distorted without ever having seen ourselves with a filter or retouched. That is what has thrown me into this deep depression that I’m in. It’s like you’re trapped with yourself that you hate. It’s been years since I worked and years of hiding.’ 

But she has worked since then – and her image has been retouched since. In May, the four women were reunited in a Manhattan studio for a Vogue shoot alongside the cover line: ‘The Greatest of All Time.’

The images were highly edited, a move that disappointed PR guru Lynne.

‘Vogue thought it was necessary to take all the wrinkles out,’ she says with a sigh.

‘They’re all beautiful and for me it would be important to say that you can still be beautiful in your fifties. You don’t have to take out all the lines. I thought that was a real shame.’ 

Beyond the wrinkles, the women have seen other changes. Despite experiencing hot flushes in front of the camera, Naomi continues to model.

They now manage business endeavours, philanthropic projects and all have children – with Cindy’s own children – Kaia and Presley – becoming models and overtaking her in “instafame”.

Now, in their fifties, they want to reflect and remember. As Larissa says following hours of conversations with the quartet: ‘I’m in my fifties and I am much more reflective and open to talking about things I might not have been talking about 30 years ago.

‘And I think they wanted to just look at that time through today’s lens.’ 

Roger hopes the documentary will inspire viewers, but he warns that these models’ dramatic ascent is one that can never be replicated.

‘They were the first influencers. They were at a time when fashion and modelling was a real art form, when it took weeks to do a fashion shoot,’ he says. ‘Those days are over now. It’s click, click, click, instagram, everyone’s an influencer, everyone’s a supermodel. 

‘But this was the beginning of it all. It’s the origin story. It’s the moment it all came together; fashion, art, culture, music, celebrity culture. And these four women were the big bang.’

The Super Models is due to be released on September 20 on Apple TV