Legs. Some people have 'em, some people don't. That's life.
Jessie J, pictured with legs
Legs. Some people have 'em, some people don't. That's life. It's cruel. It's unfair. But it also all makes sense in the end. Everything is connected. All you have to do is believe. Everyone is special. Et cetera.
Which doesn't mean we can't all do our part to empathise a bit more with the no-leg community, as Jessie J knows all too well. The throaty warbler, who broke a foot a few months back at a Capital FM show, spoke to Q Magazine this week and gave a shout-out to the ordinary folks who have to look down at two mangled stumps every time they take their pants off in one of those bathrooms with the big railings down the side. Here's what she had to say on the matter:
"I'm back in the swing, getting my cast off after nine weeks of this awful Smurf shoe. But it's put everything in perspective. I have a different respect now for people who don't have legs."
As anyone who has sprained an ankle or had a dead leg will know, no legs = no fun. Especially if they don't grow back. It's a lot like all those insights into Down's Syndrome we got from that really nasty hangover. Is this just another case of Jessie being quoted massively out-of-context by nasty press monsters eager to stitch her up? Perhaps. So let's give her another chance to not say stupid things:
"Just after I broke my foot, I was in my living room and I put on Beyonce's "Save The Hero", like, 'If I'm not around, who saves the hero?' and it made me realise, like, I need someone now."
Who saves the hero now that egomaniacal number one artist Jessie J has lost both her legs in a tragic accident and will be reduced to Disability Living Allowance in her newly-modified home within weeks, alone with her pressure ulcers and a Ghanaian nurse coming round to change her catheter bag every eight hours? It was the Roman poet Juvenal who first expressed her dilemma with his famous "quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" - "who guards the guardians?" – a number one hit in its day. But hang on—isn't Jessie just expressing her angst in a spectacularly ungainly way? And then being stitched up by shitbags in the media who don't give two tits about her sensitivities if it earns them tomorrow's Diamond White fund? Probably:
"You give so much as an artist, you give, you give, you give. I'll break my foot and I've got fans going, 'I've got a tummy ache, can I get a re-tweet.'”
Ungrateful shitcunts. They've only got stomach cancer, and they want a retweet? It's obvious that if Kurt Cobain had lived to see the age of Twitter he would've taken the Remington 20-gauge into the greenhouse a few years earlier under that sort of psychic pressure to emote. But wait—aren't we just over-egging some admittedly grumbly, but not really out-of-bounds words of hers, for the sake of comic effect? Let's give her one last chance:
“People think you go to a special hospital, get special casts and treatment. It's a lie – I'm the same as anyone else. And that was a moment when I had a proper good cry.”
Ah, there we go. Finally we can empathise with Jessie and her pain—she's the same as us. We cry all the time when we realize that we are ourselves. So we know how Ms. J must have felt as she sat in her polka-dotted nightie, sobbing on the amputees ward, as the doctor came over to her, closed the screen, and whispered in best bedside manner: “I'm sorry, we've done all we can to save it. But your career passed away peacefully in everyone else's sleep.”
- Vice Blog