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Telegraph
7 days ago
- General
- Telegraph
When you're 6ft 5in, everything is a concussion hazard. The world wasn't built for us
When Edi Rama, the 6ft 7in prime minister of Albania, was pictured next to Keir Starmer two weeks ago, the newspaper headlines used words such as 'towering' and 'dominant'. No one thought to ask Mr Rama how his lower back was or whether he'd had the misfortune of looking at the tops of other people's fridges that day. (Honestly, they're gross; get a little kitchen step, you'll see. Regular antibacterial spray won't cut it, either – you'll need a grease remover.) As a 6ft 5in man, I dread to think how Mr Rama, who presumably meets dozens of people every week, copes with meet-and-greets. I'm just a hermit freelance writer, two inches shorter than he is, and even I have to endure this exact conversation every few days with someone I don't know: 'How tall are you, then?' 'About 6ft 5in.' 'Gosh.' 'Yes, but I do have my heels on, ha ha.' 'Ha ha.' 'Ha ha haaa...' Even without the not-so-small talk, being vertically gifted isn't always the gift that shorter people assume it is. There are aches and awkwardness, bumps and badly designed clothes, and it all starts as soon as we wake up. Morning has broken Tall people begin our days unfolding our limbs and cracking our joints. We duck under nipple-height showerheads and dry off with miniskirt towels. Then we arch in front of mirrors that don't fit our full frame and check that none of the clothes we have on has shrunk in the wash. If I pick out a T-shirt that's lost even an inch in length, there's a real risk of belly hair exposure in the hours ahead. That can't be allowed to happen. Not again. Fashion in general is a minefield for vertical one-percenters like me. 'Ankle length' trousers strike mid-calf and cropped jackets tickle the ribcage. Off-the-peg tailoring is nigh-on impossible, and even so-called 'big and tall' ranges rarely measure up. And it's important to look good because, frankly, there's more competition than ever. Research suggests that big men may be getting bigger. In January, scientists published a paper in a journal called Biology Letters, which showed that men have grown twice as much over the past century as women. The paper's title is quite something: 'The sexy and formidable male body: men's height and weight are condition-dependent, sexually selected traits.' Its authors speculate that women's sexual preferences may have driven a trend for taller and more muscular men. In other words, the reason that I bang my head so often may be because 20th-century women found lanky men irresistible. In research terms, it makes a certain amount of sense. Height is associated with attraction and 'dominance' in social psychology. Previous research has found that heterosexual women have a preference for men who are taller than they are, while other work suggests that tall men earn more than short guys with the same qualifications. Facing the day How it all stacks up to the experience of men like me might be another thing. If I'm anything to go by, tall men are gangly, awkward and accident-prone, as the angular light fittings in my in-laws' living room will testify. I've hit my head on those more times than I remember and I do the same thing everywhere else. The handles on the bus, the neighbours' unkempt foliage, the gate to our local park, which is designed to keep out larger vehicles but is positioned low enough to present me with yet another concussion hazard. So forget dominance; the world wasn't built for us. Need some more examples? I have many. Cars are claustrophobic. Mirrors are hung too low. Airline seats are a nightmare. Shirts never stay tucked. Canal boat holidays? They're completely out of the question. Tall people also live in a state of constant hypervigilance, alert to the minute-by-minute threat of a rogue umbrella spoke or low-flying pigeon. I once had a bad experience with an out-of-control rotary washing line. A gust of wind caught a bedsheet and as the whole thing swung around, one of the arms squelched right into my eyeball. Short kings may have to crane their necks every once in a while but they're rarely troubled by this eye-level menace. Don't get me wrong, there are benefits of being tall. The one people often mention is the ability to reach stuff – but honestly, being able to grab things from the top shelf at B&Q doesn't feel like a particularly big win in the genetic lottery. People also assume you're athletic. I grew up in south Wales, where friends told me I'd make a good second row in the rugby team (never happened; too scrawny). When I moved to London, I worked at a fitness magazine, but never came close to whipping my top off for the front cover. Aside from being the GOAT at piggy in the middle, I'm more Stephen Merchant than Martin Johnson. High jinks I do always have a good view at gigs. I can usually spot my children in a crowd and they can spot me. Nobody's ever picked a fight with me, as far as I can remember, although I do get passive-aggressive tuts from the people sitting behind me at the theatre. (I am sorry, but if it's any consolation, I'm curled up like a prawn for the whole performance and my spine is dangerously compressed.) You do end up a little self-conscious about your height. Of course you do. I call it tall man syndrome. We all know that a vocal subsection of short men overcompensate for their pint-sized stature with bullish behaviour. Well, I do the opposite. My friends will tell you I'm the least aggressive person they know. I refuse to dance because every movement is exaggerated by my ridiculous wingspan. I won't ever push past you at a busy train station because there's a reasonable chance I'll knock you over. I would like to go unseen, but incognito mode isn't among my user settings. People always see you coming. The long goodnight Have you ever seen a 6ft 5in man in the foetal position? It's absurd, I promise you. There's just too much anatomy, and it's all squished together and grotesquely arranged, like a murder victim stuffed into a suitcase. I know this, reader, because I was that overgrown foetus – every night, in my own bed – for the first 15 years of my adult life. At 6ft 5in, I do not fit comfortably into many beds – and none in the various rental properties I lived in as a younger man. My feet either dangle over the end or I lie diagonally, much to the outrage of my wife. When there's no other option, I tuck my knees up pathetically and fall asleep looking like that weird Voldemort creature at the end of the last Harry Potter film. When we bought our house 10 years ago, I insisted on a super-king bed. The vast mattress, a full 2m (or 6ft 6in) in length, was a revelation. I've slept wonderfully ever since. And yes, once or twice in the intervening years, I may have referred to myself as a super king, but who could blame me? I am quite literally above average. There are also more serious consequences of being lanky. Researchers find that tall people have a greater risk of some cancers because, with more cells in our bodies, there are more chances of a dodgy mutation. There are also irregular heartbeats, bad backs, skin and bone infections. On the plus side, tall people are less likely to suffer coronary heart disease, high blood pressure or high cholesterol. And that's it. Being tall has its ups and downs, just like everyone else. Yes, there are times when I am forced to bow – again, literally – to the average-sized tyranny of the modern world. But I'm a big boy. I can take it.
South China Morning Post
10-05-2025
- Health
- South China Morning Post
Hong Kong artist's colon cancer diagnosis at 38 shows growing risk of it among the young
Hong Kong artist and freelance writer Helen Law was just 38 when she was diagnosed with stage-three colorectal cancer. Advertisement She had been feeling tired and weak in the months leading up to the diagnosis, but was unaware that these were symptoms of cancer. 'I thought I was just sleep deprived,' Law, now 49, says. 'One day, after rushing to cross the street during my lunch break, I felt so out of breath that I had to sit and rest before walking back to my office.' Law knew something was wrong when crossing the road left her breathless, but she never imagined it would be cancer. Photo: Jonathan Wong She saw a doctor, who ordered a blood test that confirmed she was anaemic – her red blood cell count was low. Follow-up tests including an endoscopy and colonoscopy revealed a malignant tumour in her colon. Advertisement
Irish Times
08-05-2025
- Automotive
- Irish Times
Now that I am a bus driver extraordinaire, I can pass my wisdom on to you
'You'd have passed your test with that.' The words, dear readers, of a veteran teacher of the good and great of Dublin's bus-driving community. Spoken to me, a mere mortal, after just half an hour of double-decker training after I reversed the behemoth into a bus parking space. I can die happy. I was invited along to learn how to manoeuvre one of Dublin Bus's driver-training vehicles – the big red ones with the colossal L plates – as part of the company's bid to attract more female drivers into the fold. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to embark on a career swerve. Between the praise about my parking and the financial perils of freelance writing, I could do a lot worse than taking my skills professional. I've always wanted to try driving a bus. Surely most people have? It's a job that many kids aspire to and an activity that appears both terrifying yet achievable at the same time. Because what is a bus if not an enormous car, except filled with precious cargo and larger than most other vehicles on the road? As my dear old dad said to me when I was first learning, 'If you can drive a car, you can drive anything.' In fairness, I think he meant that if you can drive a Nissan Almera you'd probably make a good fist of piloting a Ford Focus, but it was those words of encouragement ringing in my ears that propelled me behind the truly enormous steering wheel of a double-decker on Dublin's northside. READ MORE When I signed up for the challenge I assumed I might be allowed to move the bus forwards a few feet and that would be that. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd be sailing around the practice yard of Phibsborough's Dublin Bus Training Centre, managing not to hit anything and completing the aforementioned testworthy parking manoeuvre. Tina was my instructor on the day, a woman of immense patience and communication skills. She started me off with the big three: brake, mirrors, wheels. Now that I am a bus driver extraordinaire, I can pass Tina's wisdom on to you. I have been down on Dublin Bus in the past. I hope this won't affect my chances when I send in my application The brake pedal on a bus is huge. Three times the size of the one in your car (I may have exaggerated that in my head but it's large, okay?). When driving the bus you must cover the entire brake pedal with your foot in order to gain any purchase. There's no point in daintily pumping with your toes because next thing you'll be through the window of a Spar and your bus driving career will be over. The mirrors on the bus are also enormous. Tina was flat out reminding me to check them, and you really do have to swing your head from left to right to take them in because, as we've already covered, double-deckers are gargantuan. I've driven enough in Dublin city centre to know a cyclist can come out of nowhere, so I know as a bus driver I'd be a real mirror lickarse. What Tina taught me about the wheels was what separated the Emer who arrived in a Nissan Juke from the Emer who left considering a career in transport. When you're driving a bus, the front wheels are behind you. Forget everything you've ever known about positioning a car on the road because once you're in charge of one of these monsters you've got several feet of bus nose to contend with before you're even starting to pivot. Those impatient car drivers who insist on pulling way ahead of the white line at a red traffic light are a bus driver's nemesis. How are they supposed to make that swing if Fiachra's Merc is snouting way out? Stay in your lane, Fiachra, the bus driver's front wheels are behind them, for the love of God! You know nothing of the titans of the open road! I will admit that I have been down on Dublin Bus in the past, particularly when it comes to buses I've been waiting on that haven't shown up. I hope this won't affect my chances when I send in my application to join the ranks. There's an open day for any women who'd like to try being at the helm of a double decker on May 24th, and you can sign up at as long as you've held a full driving licence for two years. You can impress Tina and Co with your brake, mirrors, wheels knowledge. Tell them Emer sent you. They're probably still talking about my incredible reversing.
