Alexandra Burke not revealing baby gender is just attention seeking… don’t play fame game if you want to protect kids
SINGER, songwriter and actress, Alexandra Burke, announced in July she had given birth to her first child.
Huge congrats. We did SAS: Who Dares Wins together a couple of years ago and she has personal tenacity, physical strength and ambition.
But as much as we would all love to share in the joy, we’ve been told she will not be revealing the sex of the baby — or its name.
I just can’t get my head around it.
Burke has now joined a minority — albeit a growing one — of people, who for differing reasons decide not to announce whether their child is a boy or a girl.
Some make the decision because they want the child to grow up “gender-neutral” and not feel part of any kind of social construct, thereby having the freedom to be who and what they want.
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Alexandra’s reasoning is quite different.
There lies the rub
She has concluded that it would be unfair of her to announce the sex of the child because she, herself, has chosen the world of fame but her child and family have not.
Here we are once again, where the tightrope of fame is being walked by someone who feels they should be able to negotiate everything along the way.
We followed Burke’s first journey on The X Factor in 2005 when she wasn’t picked as one of the final four in her category despite an astounding voice and undeniable presence.
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We saw her return to the show in 2008, when she smashed it and walked away with the top prize.
Since then, she has sold millions of records, graced the West End and been in various reality shows.
Over the years, she has happily posed for pictures and done interviews.
She showed off her baby bump alongside her partner, West Ham’s Darren Randolph.
The public clearly have an interest in her and her private life.
That’s the deal we make with fame. And I’m pretty sure her partner and child have, and will continue to, enjoy the fruits of her celebrity labour.
I cannot understand how declaring whether she’s had a girl or a boy would in any way compromise her beloved child.
Besides, all those around her — people she bumps into at the supermarket — will find out and know. It’s inescapable.
And as for knowing its name, well, that’s just all of us being a bit nosey.
Her child can make an informed decision whether it wants to be famous, vegan, an astronaut or even non-binary. It’s neither here nor there for most people.
I entered the arena of fame 34 years ago and it took some adjusting to.
Initially I didn’t fully understand what it entailed because back then the world of “celebrity” was, perhaps, not as intense.
There was no social media but I knew I would give of myself not just because I had projects to promote but because people were fundamentally interested.
That’s the implicit give and take. It’s nothing new.
And therein lies the rub. Alexandra cannot — no matter how much she may want — choose when people should be interested in her or not.
I learnt very quickly that as much as I needed people to show an interest in the work I was engaged in, they would, in turn, take an interest in who and what I was about.
My happy personal times were not the only things that would garner attention — it would also be all my mistakes, mishaps and darker times, too.
I always had a healthy understanding that I did not have the power to turn off the tap of fame just because I felt uncomfortable about aspects of my life.
Announcing you’re pregnant and then shutting the door of access to your life for those who have hitherto cared about your journey, supported you or are just plain nosey, isn’t on.
For me, it attracts far more attention than leaving the door ajar and letting people know you’ve had a girl or a boy.
Maybe that was the point, says the cynic in me.
Whatever happens, she will always be Alexandra Burke who won X Factor and her child will always be the son or daughter of that Alexandra Burke.
So, giving away your baby’s name or sex won’t make an ounce of difference.
Anyway, congratulations on the birth.
And good luck keeping its sex secret while still showing a willingness to pose for pictures at every twist and turn.
Vivacious vixens still outsmart silver foxes
I WAS always told throughout my teens that the reason boys behaved immaturely was because they were, in fact, about two to four years behind us girls in their physical and mental development.
This sat well with me because I could use it as reasoning when they behaved childishly – giggling inappropriately or teasing me for having boobies etc.
So, I always took a fancy to slightly older boys. They seemed cooler, more developed and dare I say, sophisticated.
Now, experts tell us men actually age faster than women.
Apparently, by the time they are 50, they are biologically four years older than their female counterparts, researchers have found.
Basically, their cells age quicker.
Which begs the question why we have always, and still do, consider men to be like fine wines – that they get better as they age, like George Clooney, right.
We love a man with wrinkles and salt and pepper hair. We don’t even mind the odd bit of a “dad bod”.
But when it comes to women, we consider anyone aged over 40 to be positively over the hill and “past it”. Thankfully, women are ageing better nowadays.
Older women seem younger and definitely have a greater visual presence.
And as we all know, women are wiser, more knowledgeable and above all, we’re considerably more mature.
So, put that in your pipe and smoke it, you great big, ageing, male bananas.
Do not ignore wee woe
TUESDAY is World Menopause Day.
Many of you might be fed up of hearing about it but, for a huge proportion of women, every day is World Menopause Day.
Something TV host Davina McCall has helped spread the word about.
I thought, by now, I knew everything there was to know about the menopause – having written about it here for years and been involved in The Sun’s brilliant Menopause Matters Campaign.
But it’s only recently I have learned that up to 50 per cent of women experience bladder leaks during the change.
I’m lucky I don’t but I’m cross I didn’t know about it.
I guess it’s not the most fun thing to talk about – another one of those ghastly taboos us women endure for fear of shame and embarrassment.
Among ourselves, we women joke and laugh about it till we wet ourselves.
As it is such a surprising fact of life, we need to get everyone to talk about it.
There is no shame in it. It’s just one of them things.
Obviously, the more we do talk about it, the more we admit to it and share, the less awkward it will be when we jump on the trampoline with the kids and need a change of underwear.
Helen's poker face
YET another blow for the irrepressible Helen Skelton.
Not only did her hubby, Richie Myler, walk out on her and their three children – the youngest just four months old – but he hooked up with his boss’s daughter, Stephanie Thirkill, and they’ve just announced they’re having a baby of their own.
Regardless of the fortitude and backbone of presenter and Strictly star Helen, who is a proper little pocket rocket, the speed with which her ex has moved on must truly sting.
She has maintained her dignity and her poker face since they parted – refusing to be seen as the victim – when I know many women would have crumbled.
Who knows what the truth is behind their split, apart from the fact there appears to have been somewhat of an overlap between Helen and the new flame.
Maybe he found love somewhere else.
Maybe he got bored of the domesticity.
Maybe he felt neglected among three young children and a strong, focused woman with a thriving career.
But as Helen well and truly knows by now, the introduction of a baby into the mix massively changes the dynamics of a relationship.
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Sleepless nights and the constant demands of another human being can be enough to test even the strongest of love affairs.
So while I’m sure Helen has the maturity to wish her ex well in his new fatherhood, I bet there’s a part of her looking forward to his sleep deprivation and all the nappy changing and wondering how he’ll cope with no longer being the centre of attention in his new liaison.